The Categorization of Spatial Entities in Language and Cognition (Human Cognitive Processing)

The Categorization of Spatial Entities in Language and Cognition human cognitive processing is a forum for interdis...

Author: Michel Aurnague | Laure Vieu | Maya Hickmann

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The Categorization of Spatial Entities in Language and Cognition

human cognitive processing is a forum for interdisciplinary research on the nature and organization of the cognitive systems and processes involved in speaking and understanding natural language (including sign language), and their relationship to other domains of human cognition, including general conceptual or knowledge systems and processes (the language and thought issue), and other perceptual or behavioral systems such as vision and nonverbal behavior (e.g. gesture). ‘Cognition’ should be taken broadly, not only including the domain of rationality, but also dimensions such as emotion and the unconscious. The series is open to any type of approach to the above questions (methodologically and theoretically) and to research from any discipline, including (but not restricted to) diﬀerent branches of psychology, artiﬁcial intelligence and computer science, cognitive anthropology, linguistics, philosophy and neuroscience. It takes a special interest in research crossing the boundaries of these disciplines.

Editors Marcelo Dascal, Tel Aviv University Raymond W. Gibbs, University of California at Santa Cruz Jan Nuyts, University of Antwerp Editorial address Jan Nuyts, University of Antwerp, Dept. of Linguistics, Universiteitsplein 1, B 2610 Wilrijk, Belgium. E-mail: [email protected] Editorial Advisory Board Melissa Bowerman, Nijmegen; Wallace Chafe, Santa Barbara, CA; Philip R. Cohen, Portland, OR; Antonio Damasio, Iowa City, IA; Morton Ann Gernsbacher, Madison, WI; David McNeill, Chicago, IL; Eric Pederson, Eugene, OR; François Recanati, Paris; Sally Rice, Edmonton, Alberta; Benny Shanon, Jerusalem; Lokendra Shastri, Berkeley, CA; Dan Slobin, Berkeley, CA; Paul Thagard, Waterloo, Ontario

Volume 20 The Categorization of Spatial Entities in Language and Cognition Edited by Michel Aurnague, Maya Hickmann and Laure Vieu

The Categorization of Spatial Entities in Language and Cognition Edited by

Michel Aurnague CNRS - Université de Toulouse-Le Mirail

Maya Hickmann CNRS - Université de Paris VIII

Laure Vieu CNRS - Université Paul Sabatier, Toulouse III

John Benjamins Publishing Company Amsterdam/Philadelphia

8

TM

The paper used in this publication meets the minimum requirements of American National Standard for Information Sciences – Permanence of Paper for Printed Library Materials, ansi z39.48-1984.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data The categorization of spatial entities in language and cognition / edited by Michel Aurnague, Maya Hickmann and Laure Vieu. p. cm. (Human Cognitive Processing, issn 1387–6724 ; v. 20) Includes bibliographical references and indexes. 1. Space and time in language. 2. Psycholinguistics. 3. Categorization (Linguistics). 4. Language acquisition. I. Aurnague, Michel. II. Hickmann, Maya. III. Vieu, Laure. P37.5.S65.C38 2007 401.9--dc22 isbn 978 90 272 2374 6 (Hb; alk. paper)

2006047943

© 2007 – John Benjamins B.V. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form, by print, photoprint, microﬁlm, or any other means, without written permission from the publisher. John Benjamins Publishing Co. · P.O. Box 36224 · 1020 me Amsterdam · The Netherlands John Benjamins North America · P.O. Box 27519 · Philadelphia pa 19118-0519 · usa

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Table of contents

Contributors Introduction: Searching for the categorization of spatial entities in language and cognition Michel Aurnague, Maya Hickmann and Laure Vieu

vii 1

Part I. Spatial entities and the structures of languages: Descriptive work A taxonomy of basic natural entities Claude Vandeloise

35

On the spatial meaning of contre in French: The role of entities and force dynamics Andrée Borillo

53

The prepositions par and à travers and the categorization of spatial entities in French Dejan Stosic

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The linguistic categorization of spatial entities: Classifiers and other nominal classification systems Colette Grinevald

93

The expression of semantic components and the nature of ground entity in orientation motion verbs: A cross-linguistic account based on French and Korean Injoo Choi-Jonin and Laure Sarda

123

Part II. Spatial categorization in language and cognition: Psycholinguistic and developmental studies Categorizing spatial entities with frontal orientation: The role of function, motion and saliency in the processing of the French Internal Localization Nouns avant/devant Michel Aurnague, Maud Champagne, Laure Vieu, Andrée Borillo, Philippe Muller, Jean-Luc Nespoulous and Laure Sarda

153

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Table of contents

Containment, support, and beyond: Constructing topological spatial categories in first Language Acquisition Melissa Bowerman

177

Static and dynamic location in French: Developmental and cross-linguistic perspectives Maya Hickmann

205

Precursors to spatial language: The case of containment Susan J. Hespos and Elizabeth S. Spelke

233

The sources of spatial cognition Roger Lécuyer, James Rivière and Karine Durand

247

Part III. Characterizing categories of spatial entities: Formal ontology From language to ontology: Beware of the traps Achille C. Varzi

269

The temporal essence of spatial objects Philippe Muller

285

Part-of relations, functionality and dependence Laure Vieu and Michel Aurnague

307

Objects, locations and complex types Nicholas Asher

337

Language index

363

Subject index

365

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Contributors

Nicholas Asher. University of Texas, Austin TX, USA; IRIT-UMR 5505, CNRS, Université Paul Sabatier, INPT & UT1, Toulouse, France – Email: [email protected] Michel Aurnague. ERSS-UMR 5610, CNRS & Université de Toulouse-Le Mirail, France – Email: [email protected] Andrée Borillo. ERSS-UMR 5610, CNRS & Université de Toulouse-Le Mirail, France – Email: [email protected] Melissa Bowerman. Max-Planck Institute for Psycholinguistics, Nijmegen, The Netherlands – Email: [email protected] Maud Champagne. Laboratoire Jacques Lordat-EA 1941 & INSERM U455, Université de Toulouse-Le Mirail, France; Centre de Recherche de l’Hôpital du Sacré-Cœur & Université du Québec, Montréal – Email: [email protected] Injoo Choi-Jonin. ERSS-UMR 5610, CNRS & Université de Toulouse-Le Mirail, France – Email: [email protected] Karine Durand. Centre Européen des Sciences du Goût-UMR 5170, CNRS & Université de Bourgogne, Dijon, France – Email: [email protected] Colette Grinevald. Laboratoire Dynamique du Langage-UMR 5596, CNRS & Université Lyon 2, France – Email: [email protected] Susan J. Hespos. Northwestern University, Evanston IL, USA – Email: [email protected] Maya Hickmann. Laboratoire Structures Formelles du Langage-UMR 7023, CNRS & Université de Paris 8, France – Email: [email protected] Roger Lécuyer. Laboratoire Cognition et Comportement-FRE 2987, CNRS & Université de Paris 5, France – Email: [email protected] Philippe Muller. IRIT-UMR 5505, CNRS, Université Paul Sabatier, INPT & UT1, Toulouse, France – Email: [email protected] Jean-Luc Nespoulous. Laboratoire Jacques Lordat-EA 1941 & INSERM U455, Université de Toulouse-Le Mirail, France – Email: [email protected] James Rivière. Laboratoire Cognition et Comportement-FRE 2987, CNRS & Université de Paris 5, France – Email: james.riviè[email protected] Laure Sarda. LaTTICe-UMR 8094, CNRS, Ecole Normale Supérieure & Université de Paris 7, France – Email: [email protected] Elizabeth S. Spelke. Harvard University, Cambridge MA, USA – Email: [email protected]

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 Contributors

Dejan Stosic. ERSS-UMR 5610, CNRS & Université de Toulouse-Le Mirail; Université d’Artois, Arras, France – Email: [email protected] Claude Vandeloise. Louisiana State University, Bâton Rouge LA, USA – Email: [email protected] Achille C. Varzi. Columbia University, New York, USA – Email: [email protected] Laure Vieu. IRIT-UMR 5505, CNRS, Université Paul Sabatier, INPT & UT1, Toulouse, France; LOA-ISTC-CNR, Trento, Italy – Email: [email protected]

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Introduction Searching for the categorization of spatial entities in language and cognition* Michel Aurnague,i Maya Hickmannii and Laure Vieuiii,iv i

Equipe de Recherche en Syntaxe et Sémantique (ERSS–UMR 5610) CNRS & Université de Toulouse-Le Mirail ii Laboratoire Structures Formelles du Language (UMR 7023) CNRS & Université de Paris 5 iii Institut de Recherche en Informatique de Toulouse (IRIT–UMR 5505) CNRS, Université Paul Sabatier, INPT & UT1 iv Laboratory of Applied Ontology (LOA) ISTC–CNR, Trento (Italy)

.

The categorization of spatial entities in different research fields

. Categorization Any research field needs to classify entities and phenomena into categories. Indeed, categories and “kinds” have been the center of much attention at least since Aristotle. Studying “what there is” is even the main objective of ontology, a branch of metaphysics in philosophy, which strives at providing evidence for how the world is organized into categories of entities and at formally characterizing these categories. Linguistics and cognitive psychology are also centrally concerned with

* This book is the result of a conference organized in Toulouse in January 2002 by members of the project “Spatial entities and their categorization in language and cognition” (COG135; 1999–2001) that was financially supported by the Program “Cognitique” of the French Ministry of Research. We wish to thank the two anonymous reviewers for their thorough reading and their very helpful comments on a previous version of the manuscript that allowed us to significantly improve the overall coherence of the book.

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categorizing phenomena, when observing linguistic structures and regularities in the former case and traces of cognitive processing in the latter case. Artificial intelligence has recently focused on the need to develop knowledge representations that are based on well-founded generic categories in order to better guarantee knowledge reusability and interoperability. In these cognitive sciences an abundant literature shows that the importance of the spatial domain is nowadays largely established. Nevertheless, the basic issue of how to categorize spatial entities has not been sufficiently stressed and thorough discussions of this topic are still missing. This book is an attempt to fill in this gap. We should add a word concerning our use of the term “spatial entity” in this volume. We view these entities as having a spatial extension, that is to say as occupying a certain portion of space at a given point in time and as potentially serving to locate other individuals in space. Thus, “spatial embodiment” constitutes an important property of spatial entities that differentiates them from individuals that are more tightly related to other domains such as time, thoughts, or emotions. . Previous work In linguistics the descriptive research that has been carried out about the spatial lexicon during the last decades has mainly focused on spatial “relations”, that is to say on the markers (e.g., verbs, prepositions, cases) that specify the static or dynamic relationships among (spatial) entities in order to localize them (Herskovits 1986; Leech 1969; Talmy 2000; Vandeloise 1986). Scholars have shown comparatively little interest in determining the precise nature of the entities that underlie the configurations involved. This is all the more surprising that in the somewhat related domain of tense and aspect much more effort has been devoted to grasp the differences among various kinds of temporal “eventualities” and other temporal entities (see for instance Comrie 1976; Moens & Steedman 1988; Vendler 1957; Vet 1994). This trend in research on space is reflected in the fact that syntactic categories which refer more “directly” to spatial entities (e.g., nouns, adjectives, determiners) have been less studied by scholars searching for the expression of space in language. Moreover, those languages which syntactically emphasize structure/shape, position, function or other spatial properties of entities have long remained on the fringe or have even been ignored (Brown 1994; Craig 1986; Levinson 1994; see also Grinevald’s paper in this volume), in contrast to the most widely used “western” languages, that have been the basis of most studies. Apart from some particular notions, such as the mass/count or singular/collective distinctions, which have given rise to an abundant linguistic literature (see for instance Link 1983; Parsons 1970, 1975), many oppositions have been taken for granted (e.g., animate/inanimate, natural/artifact, alienable/inalienable, mobile/immobile). These oppositions have not been deeply described nor formally defined and their use

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Introduction

in the literature reveals important divergences. This is the case of the alienability/inalienability distinction which, as noticed by Heine in his study of possession (1997), applies to very different situations depending on the author, e.g., a component part of an entity (leg), a spatial part (top), an element usually associated with an entity (bag), a property (whiteness). The same goes for other less frequently used concepts, whether they are borrowed from mathematics (e.g., dimensions of a figure in a geometrical space), metaphysics (e.g., object, place, location, matter, concrete/abstract, material/immaterial) or from other domains (e.g., path, trajectory). By way of example, the concepts of “place” and “path”, which have appeared in the linguistic literature on space (for instance Jackendoff 1983, 1990; Talmy 2000), seem to be mostly handled in a rather intuitive way that does not allow us to provide precise (and perhaps unified) definitions. From a neuropsychological and cognitive point of view, the debates concerning the processing of “what” and “where” information, as well as their expansion to language, should have resulted in a discussion about the properties of spatial entities in language and in cognition. However, the strong claim that localizing descriptions should mostly be based on the “where” system, rather than on the “what” system, has led researchers to neglect new debates concerning the nature of spatial entities. In psycholinguistic and developmental research, the explosion of comparative approaches founded on a new version of the linguistic relativity hypothesis constitute another way to explore how language distinguishes entities and to examine the implications of such distinctions for the relation between language and cognition. Although this research has shown the existence of important ontological properties that had not emerged on the basis of western languages (for example, the shape and position of entities), this finding is still quite recent and has up to now essentially focused on the study of spatial relations. Current developmental research on spatial language and cognition addresses a number of related questions that are at the forefront of vivid debates: What is the relative impact of universal cognitive determinants and of language-specific and/or culture-specific factors on how children represent space? Are there some prelinguistic (perceptual, sensori-motor, conceptual) prerequisites to the development of subsequent linguistic and cognitive categories? Are prelinguistic categories part of the child’s innate biological endowment or are they learned – more or less rapidly – through perceptual and cognitive development after birth? How can current models of human development articulate the precocious ontological categories that are displayed by young infants during the prelinguistic period (from a few months of life onwards) and subsequent categorization patterns that appear after the emergence of language (at around two years of age)? The research on formal ontology that has originally emerged within philosophy (metaphysics), but that is now being also carried out in artificial intelligence



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and formal semantics, is first and foremost concerned with the links among categories (of entities) or domains, on the one hand, and general concepts, on the other hand. The study of the nature of spatial entities and spatial concepts has long drawn the attention of philosophers among which Descartes, Newton and Leibniz. In Husserl’s program, formal ontology aims at determining how the latter (the concepts) allow us to define or to provide a foundation for the former (the entities). Contemporary formal ontology accordingly founds its research on spatial entities on Mereology, the theory of the part-of relation introduced by Lesniewski, often extended to topological concepts (Casati & Varzi 1999). Relevant and actually richer theories of categories of spatial entities are also found in formal semantics, for example, theories of the mass/count reference (Pelletier 1979; Quine 1960) or of singular and plural entities (Link 1997). It is only when applying ontology to artificial intelligence that the need for formal systems encompassing all categories – obviously including spatial entities, has become pressing, producing the so-called “top-level” ontologies (Masolo et al. 2003). The methods and results of research in formal ontology can be quite different depending on whether the adopted perspective is “realistic”, “cognitive”, or “linguistic”. Nevertheless, it seems to become clear that a precise analysis of the classes of spatial entities that are found in language and in cognition cannot do without formal tools that support and complement descriptive and psycholinguistic studies. More generally, the complex questions addressed here require a real interdisciplinary approach in which the results and perspectives within different fields can be integrated: descriptive linguistics, (neuro)psycholinguistics, cognitive and developmental psychology, the philosophy of language, metaphysics or artificial intelligence. . Open issues The first question to be addressed by researchers concerned with the categorization of spatial entities is to determine whether language and cognition do or do not resort to such a classification. This question immediately requires that we consider the means that are available within each discipline to pinpoint clues for categorization: the thorough study of the relationships among forms/structures and meanings (descriptive and formal linguistics), the designing of tasks intended to detect processes of categorization ((neuro)psycholinguistics and cognitive psychology), the observation of (ir)regularities in inferential behavior, and the search for generality and coherence in the construction of models formalizing properties and concepts (formal ontology, i.e., philosophy and artificial intelligence). The scope of the domains that are studied within each discipline is also likely to vary: language and cognition in the case of descriptive and formal linguistics; language, vision, proprioception and other cognitive faculties for (neuro)psycholinguistics

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and cognitive psychology; cognition and reasoning for philosophy and artificial intelligence. If the existence of categorization clues can be shown, many other points need to be further clarified concerning the status of the highlighted concepts and properties (unary predicates) and their organization. One central question here is to wonder whether these concepts/properties contribute to “structuring” language and cognition or whether they merely give “content” to a structure that has an independent existence. From a linguistic point of view, this issue corresponds to the opposition between grammatical/closed-class and lexical/open-class elements, the former determining structure and the latter contributing content (Talmy 2000). Moreover, are the concepts involved primitive or rather reducible to more basic notions? Are they really “essential”/“real” or do they result from a change in viewpoint concerning the same referent? Do these concepts have a universal status or do they depend on individual and cultural factors which would make them more relative? Finally, can they be restricted to the sphere of language or must they systematically have an extralinguistic, cognitive or metaphysical dimension? For instance, one may well ask if the mass/count or singular/collective distinctions that are made in language always have a counterpart in cognition or even in “reality”. This list of points aims at illustrating the range and complexity of the questions raised by the possible categorization of spatial entities in language and cognition, and obviously does not intend to be exhaustive. It is also important to note that these points are interrelated in many respects. For example, the possible essential status of concepts is not unrelated to their primitive or complex nature and these two aspects themselves bear on the relation between language and cognition, as well as on the universal or relative nature of the studied concepts. In addition to examining distinctions among spatial entities in language/cognition and the concepts underlying them, it is also necessary to determine which theories and models are best suited to account for these phenomena and structures. Among other issues, this entails (1) modeling how the concepts and the categories to which they give rise are organized, (2) integrating the distinctions thus defined within a theory of meaning and reference, as well as (3) clarifying the interactions between language and cognition, and the processes that take place at each of these levels. These different theoretical planes and related disciplines are likely to introduce more or less formal models determined by varied constraints (e.g., coherence, minimalism, calculability, cognitive validity). Beyond possible differences among them, however, these various models and formalisms will be subjected to some adequacy requirement: descriptive and formal linguistics, together with the philosophy of language, must make sure that the obtained results accurately mirror acceptable linguistic descriptions; (neuro)psycholinguistics and cognitive psychology must endeavor to bring together theoretical predictions and experimental findings; finally, philosophy and artificial intelligence must check



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that the proposed models are logically coherent and really correspond to intuitions as far as inferential behavior is concerned. Therefore, it can be seen that human activity will serve as an important reference point and will provide an empirical basis for our models and theories.

. Towards new directions: An overview of the contents of this volume This volume is organized in three parts tackling the many questions raised by the categorization of spatial entities from various perspectives that emerge across disciplines: descriptive linguistics (Section 2.1), psycholinguistics and developmental psychology (Section 2.2), artificial intelligence, philosophy and the philosophy of language (Section 2.3). As will become clear throughout the volume, a distinction is consistently made between spatial entities that are “material” vs. “immaterial”. Immaterial entities are often considered as closely related to material entities, whether they are occupied by such material entities or more generally defined in relation to them (e.g., a crack, a hole).1 Immaterial individuals will receive different designations throughout the chapters: space portions, spatial referents (of entities), “spatial” entities2 . . . In addition to this basic distinction, many other properties of spatial entities emerge from the different contributions, for instance distinctions between count vs. mass, singular vs. collective, natural vs. created, mobile vs. immobile, intrinsically oriented vs. non oriented and containing vs. non containing. Beyond the importance of precisely determining and defining these properties – a task which still remains to be done (see above), an important goal of this volume is to find out which among them are likely to entail a linguistic and cognitive categorization of spatial entities. Some of these features (e.g., fixedness, orientation, containment) illustrate the close interactions between spatial entities and their properties, on the one hand, and spatial relations/localization, on the other hand. Thus, although the term “semantic categorization” often applies here to the classification of spatial entities, it will also occasionally refer to the categorization of spatial relations that are implied . However, while some scholars assume that immaterial entities always depend on material ones (for instance, in the following chapters: Stosic, Choi-Jonin & Sarda, Aurnague, Champagne, Vieu et al., Vieu & Aurnague), other researchers seem to endow them with an autonomous existence (even acknowledging their strong relation with material entities; cf. Vandeloise and Muller’s contributions). . In Vandeloise’s chapter, the generic term “spatial entity” is used in a more restrictive sense and refers to immaterial individuals only.

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by the properties of spatial entities (mainly in the second part of the volume). This is a further illustration of the complex interactions between spatial entities and relations. . Spatial entities and the structures of languages: Descriptive work The first descriptive paper by Vandeloise introduces a taxonomy of basic natural entities that is illustrated with data from French and from English, but meant to have a more general linguistic and cognitive validity. The study is concerned with “material” entities (defined as “anything we can perceive independently”) and mostly considers elements that are situated at the “basic” level of the taxonomy, as opposed to the level of super-entities (among which collections) and sub-entities (parts of basic entities). Vandeloise draws a first distinction between material entities and the places they occupy, also called “spatial entities”, showing the very close relations that these two categories of entities often display in language. Second, he considers the opposition between count entities (e.g., table, dog) and masses (e.g., water, wine). In addition to the well-known properties of cumulativity and divisibility that are characteristic of masses (Pelletier 1979; Quine 1960), he discusses the different ways (specific or not) in which these two kinds of entities “delimit” other entities (Langacker 1991). Vandeloise also points out the similarities between masses and “aggregates” (e.g., salt, sand), as well as their differences with respect to “homogeneity”, which is defined as the size/grain of the elements they are made of and the possibility of individually identifying these elements (from this point of view masses would be 0homogeneous and aggregates d-homogeneous). It is argued that in each language a bordeline D exists such that every d-homogeneous aggregate with d>D can be designated by a plural noun (e.g., épinards (‘spinach’)). After analyzing super-entities characterized as collections (and their relationships with aggregates), Vandeloise looks into the category of “mixtures” made up of more than one ingredient (contrary to masses and aggregates). He makes a distinction between “physical” mixtures (also called “assortments”; e.g., barley in wheat), “chemical” 0-homogeneous mixtures (“blends”; e.g. water in wine), and “fusions” whose components are inseparable by physical processes (e.g., hydrogen in water). He shows that the notion of “containment” – in particular the control exerted by the container on the content and the motion of the content towards the container – better accounts for some uses of the preposition dans (‘in’) involving mixtures than the concept of topological inclusion (e.g., contrast between Le lait est dans le café (‘The milk is in the coffee’) and Le café est dans le lait (‘The coffee is in the milk’)).

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In her contribution Borillo analyzes the spatial meaning of the French preposition contre (‘against’), with particular attention to how entities and force dynamics contribute to determine its semantic content. Unlike other studies which distinguish a unique spatial use of contre (together with other non spatial uses), her claim is that this marker denotes different spatial relations among concrete physical entities. Several of these configurations involve the notions of “tension” and of “force”/ “counterforce” which are included in the more general system of “force dynamics” (Talmy 2000). In a first series of situations, the force originates in the figure – thus playing the role of “agonist” – which can be a material solid entity subjected to the force of gravity, e.g., L’échelle est appuyée contre le mur (‘The ladder is leaning up against the wall’), a living being endowed with intentionality and exerting a more or less intense force; e.g., Il plaqua son oreille contre la cloison (‘He stuck his ear against the wall’) or any agonist generating a force in a “dynamic” way. In this last case, the dynamic force can result in a strong impact, e.g., Le fauve se précipita contre le grillage (‘The wild beast rushed against the wire fence’), a violent clash, e.g., Les balles ont ricoché contre le grillage (‘The bullets bounced against the wire fence’), or a physical deterioration of the ground, e.g., Le vase est allé se fracasser contre le mur (‘The vase went and shattered against the wall’). A second class of configurations groups together cases where the force is exerted by the ground entity (agonist) which is usually a “natural” dynamic element (e.g., flowing water, rain, waves, wind, fire, thunderstorm, tempest). The counterforce opposed by the figure (“antagonist”) can remain passive or defensive, e.g., La digue est une protection contre les vagues (‘The sea-wall is a protection against the waves’), Il s’abrita contre le vent (‘He sheltered against the wind’) or can work in a more dynamic fashion, e.g., Le saumon nage contre le courant (‘The salmon swims against the stream’). The third kind of spatial uses of contre calls for the concept of force/counterforce and corresponds to cases in which entities of the same class simultaneously exert opposite forces. This type of situation is often expressed by means of reciprocal constructions such as les uns contre les autres, e.g., Les verres cliquetaient les uns contre les autres (‘The glasses clinked against each other’), Elle frotta ses mains l’une contre l’autre (‘She rubbed her hands one against the other’). Finally, three spatial uses of contre seem not to be directly associated with the concept of force dynamics (perspective effect of contact and proximity, visual contrast, direction and facing position). In the following paper, Stosic considers two other French prepositions, par (‘by’) and à travers (‘through’), that are closely related to the expression of dynamic space. The paper aims at grasping the semantic constraints that are imposed by these markers on the nouns with which they are combined (ground entities). It takes as a starting point the classification of spatial entities that is used in other

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contributions of this volume (see, for instance, Choi-Jonin & Sarda as well as Aurnague, Champagne, Vieu et al.’s papers) and that was initially proposed for the analysis of static space. An analysis of corpora focusing on uses of par describing “paths”, as in Il est passé par le jardin (‘He came through/by the garden’), shows that this preposition can be mainly combined with nouns of two types: nouns denoting particular kinds of space portions called “apertures” (contingent apertures, e.g., trou (‘hole’), fente (‘crack, split’) and functional apertures, e.g., porte (‘door’), fenêtre (‘window’)); nouns referring to various types of “locations”, such as geographical locations (e.g., le jardin (‘the garden’), Bruxelles (‘Brussels’)), roads (e.g., rue (‘street’), chemin (‘path’)), or entities designated by Internal Localization Nouns (ILNs; e.g., fond (‘bottom’/‘back’), côté (‘side’)). The association of par with nouns identifying “objects” (e.g., table (‘table’), tasse (‘cup’)) is much more problematic – except for those objects characterized as “pipes” (e.g., tuyau/conduit (‘pipe’), paille (‘straw’)) – and it is excluded for nouns of substances. On the basis of these various observations, the author concludes that in its path-type uses par selects (as grounds) entities which define a space portion and are able to establish a “connection” between some other entities of the motion event (the considered grounds are often stable elements). Just like par, à travers (‘through’) accepts to be combined with nouns of apertures. However, in contrast to par, this preposition does not require the presence of a space portion, since the aperture can be closed up by a material entity. Even with an opened aperture, the preposition seems to highlight the fact that the figure passes between the (material) boundaries delimiting the space portion, rather than its motion through this space portion. A travers can also be associated with nouns of locations, but in this case it focuses on the motion of the figure within the location/ground (the figure may remain there all the time there) and does not imply any connection of the ground with other entities belonging to a possible path (moreover connecting entities belonging to the category of roads usually do not occur with à travers). Finally (and contrary to par), nouns of material objects and substances can perfectly play the role of ground when combined with à travers. The author concludes that the preposition à travers neither needs the presence of a space portion in the ground, nor implies that this entity must establish connections with other entities involved in the motion event. Rather he proposes to capture the semantics of à travers by means of the concept of “guidance” calling for the two notions of “force dynamics” (Talmy 2000) and of “lateral orientation” (Vandeloise 1986). Without questioning the classification of spatial entities proposed in other static studies, this analysis completes the panorama of the spatial entities that are differentiated in language, in particular by introducing the categories of “roads” (subclass of locations) and of “pipes” (subclass of objects). The significance of

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the former category is confirmed by other observations in Choi-Jonin and Sarda’s work (see below). The fourth paper by Grinevald gives an overview of some non Indo-European languages that overtly categorize spatial entities by using classifiers and, more generally, nominal classification systems. The lexical origin of classifiers is first emphasized together with their more or less grammaticalized behavior: a consequence of this bivalent status is that classifiers seem to stand midway between lexicogenesis and morpho-syntax. Four main subtypes of classifiers are then distinguished – noun, numeral, genitive and verbal classifiers – which can be related to predominant “semantic profiles”, e.g., noun classifiers → material/essence of entities, numeral classifiers → physical dimensions, genitive classifiers → use/function. Classifiers can be also characterized according to their degree of specificity, which can range from cases of unique classifiers (only one element in the class) or repeaters (homophonous with a noun) to general de-semanticized systems (large heterogeneous classes), through the most common type of specific classifiers (classes built around prototypical exemplars). The author underlines additional factors that might differentiate classifiers (degree of grammaticalization, age, productivity, areal status) and mentions other classification systems which also call for properties of spatial entities (e.g., posture verbs known in Amerindian and (some) European languages, positionals of Tzeltal). As a conclusion of this first typological presentation, it is claimed that classifier systems have to be studied through a multidimensional approach and fieldwork methodology associating semantics, morpho-syntax and discourse. A sample is then provided to the reader. Numeral classifiers are illustrated by means of selected data from both large size/discourse use systems (Burmese, Tzotzil) and very grammaticalized ones (Chibchan languages). Noun classifiers whose semantic motivation is closely related to the material nature or essence of entities are illustrated by the case of Jakaltek Popti’. Concerning genitive classifiers, inventories from Oceanic languages and from Panare reveal important similarities about the functional distinctions that these systems operate among entities. Finally, it is showed that, in several languages (Haida, Ika, Kwakwala), verbal classifiers point to physical/spatial characteristics of entities which are very similar to the properties identified by numeral classifiers. In the third part of her paper, Grinevald reviews the main parameters that seem to condition the way in which information on spatial entities are expressed in language. She indicates that this kind of information can be overt, covert or unspecified and may be distributed through various elements of the clause: class terms, numeral, noun or genitive classifiers, verbal classifiers, posture satellites, body part locatives, relational nouns. . . The conveyed properties can focus on different aspects of entities – shape/dimension/orientation (color is never encoded), function, material/essence – and seem to mainly call for visual and tactile percep-

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tion modes (olfactory and auditory modes appear not to be involved). Moreover some kind of convergence and overlapping often emerges between different types of information (e.g., shape and function) or different categories of markers (e.g., numeral and verbal classifiers). In conclusion, it is indicated that some languages of the world (in particular, Amerindian and Australian ones) really “obsess” about spatial information and spatial entities. The last contribution of the descriptive part focuses on “orientation” motion verbs of Korean and French. Choi-Jonin and Sarda analyze the semantic content of these verbs and their interaction with “functional” suffixes (locative, ablative, directional, accusative in Korean) and prepositions (à, de, vers in French), as well as their behavior in other specific constructions (e.g., direct constructions). They first show that Korean dynamic descriptions often consist of a motion verb denoting “Motion” and “Path” (according to the terminology proposed by Talmy 2000) and a deictic (motion) verb expressing “Motion” and “Deixis”. At first sight, Korean orientation verbs can occur with all functional suffixes. The situation seems to be more complex in French, where (apart from the preposition à ‘at’) not all orientation verbs can combine with all prepositions. However, it is necessary to go beyond verbs and suffixes/prepositions and to consider the nature of the entity (“object entity”) that is identified by their associated grammatical object. Three important outcomes of this analysis can be highlighted. First, both in Korean and in French, lexical units designating objects and locations behave in different (and often opposite) ways. Moreover, Internal Localization Nouns (or “relational nouns”; e.g., Ci/haut (‘top’), aph /avant (‘front’)) appear to be much closer to nouns of (specified) locations than to nouns of objects. This strengthens the opposition between objects and locations (and the close link of ILNs with the latter category) that results from analyses of the prepositions par (cf. Stosic’s work) and à (cf. Aurnague, Champagne, Vieu et al.’s paper). Second, direct constructions of French calling for vertical orientation verbs, e.g., Paul monte/descend l’escalier (‘Paul is moving up/down the stairs’) (as well as accusative constructions of Korean deictic motion verbs ka-ta ‘go’ and o-ta ‘come’), confirm that spatial entities classified as roads can give rise to a specific type of linguistic processing (corresponding to some extent to Stosic’s conclusions). Third, it is possible to explain many mismatches in the kinds of nouns that are selected by Korean or French verbs and suffixes/prepositions by virtue of the presence of a deictic motion verb in the Korean constructions. This point nicely illustrates the complex interaction between aspectual-temporal properties, on the one hand, and properties of spatial entities, on the other hand. However, the central outcome of this paper is the proposal that the Path component of dynamic descriptions (Talmy 2000) should be split up into three notions: “Path of motion” (motion towards the interior/exterior, the top/bottom: Korean and French motion verbs), “Path of localization” (final or initial position

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of the figure: Korean locative and ablative, French prepositions à and de) and “Path of trajectory” which can be itself broken down into “Path of total trajectory” (Path and Ground conflated: Korean accusative, French direct object) and “Path of partial trajectory” (Path and Ground not conflated: Korean directional, French preposition vers). In short, the descriptive work presented in the first part of this volume seems to indicate that language does not handle spatial entities indiscriminately, but rather makes some significant distinctions among them. At the same time, partial answers are provided to the questions raised in Section 1.3. Thus, while nouns of entities probably convey important categorizing properties in their semantic content, these features usually come to light when these nouns are combined with appropriate grammatical elements. For example, quantifiers and determiners lead to distinctions between count entities and masses (possibility/impossibility of using a numeral quantifier) or between plural and singular aggregates (possibility/impossibility of using a plural; see Vandeloise’s paper). Such “direct” or “overt” markings of categories can also be found in classifiers and more generally in nominal classification systems across many languages over the world (see Grinevald’s paper). However, an important outcome of the present descriptive analyses is to show the existence of a more “indirect” or “covert” – but nonetheless real – classification of spatial entities on the basis of the selectional restrictions of some spatial expressions (most of which denote spatial relations), whether they are lexical elements (e.g., motion verbs) or more grammaticalized units (e.g., spatial prepositions, cases). For instance, as already mentioned above, the analysis of the French preposition par (Stosic’s paper) and the comparative study of Korean and French utterances combining motion verbs with suffixes or prepositions (Choi-Jonin and Sarda’s paper) show that entities characterized as objects or locations cannot be equally used as grounds. The same markers and constructions also indicate that Internal Localization Nouns behave very much like nouns of locations (see also Aurnague, Champagne, Vieu and colleagues’ paper in Part II). If we now also take into account data from Basque genitives (Aurnague 2004) or from Longgu locatives (Hill 1996), a general notion of location (as opposed to the notion of object) emerges on the basis of properties such as the (relative) stability/fixity of an entity, the presence of a space portion, knowledge about the localization of the entity in question (for specified locations). . . Although they are less directly encoded because of their covert nature, notice that these properties and distinctions are often related to grammatical markers (e.g., prepositions, cases) or to constructions containing closed-class elements (e.g., verb + preposition/suffix) and that they are therefore likely to play a structuring role in language and cognition. Now are these properties real/essential characteristics of entities? Are they objectively present in the reality out there in a such a way that speakers would be

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always compelled to grasp them? Although the studies presented in this first part of the volume adopt a referential approach, most of them presuppose a state of affairs that is subjected to perception and conceptualization, that is to say a “perceived reality” (as opposed to an objective one). Such a “reality” is usually grasped in a quite stable way by speakers due to their common perceptive and cognitive endowment (Kleiber 1997). This makes collective actions and particularly linguistic communication possible. According to this approach, the distinctions among spatial entities that are (overtly or covertly) made by some linguistic markers will lead speakers to apply the corresponding constraints to entities as represented in the perceived reality. But inasmuch as different markers and constructions can highlight different properties of entities, a referent fulfilling several of those sets of conditions can be classified in more than one category. So, linguistic distinctions among spatial entities seem to operate as “filters” allowing different points of view on the same entity rather than as rigid and unchanging categorizations in the reality out there. As suggested in Vandeloise’s paper, a forest includes a space portion and can be viewed as a location where it is possible to move (e.g., Le bourdon vole dans la forêt (‘The bumblebee is flying in the forest’)) but an appropriate expression can also emphasize its pure material facet (e.g., une haute forêt (‘a high forest’)). In the same way, Stosic shows that entities which have the properties of apertures can often be associated either with the preposition par (e.g., L’air froid entrait par le trou de la serrure (‘Cold air was coming in through the keyhole’)) or with the preposition à travers (e.g., Un rai de soleil filtrait à travers les fentes du volet (‘A ray of sunshine filtered through the slits of the shutter’)). However, whereas the former marker (par) focuses on the presence of a space portion and on the possibility for the ground to establish connections with other entities (the ground is thus really conceived as an aperture), the latter (à travers) underlines the material limits of the ground (via the concept of “guidance”) and regards it as any kind of (material) object. A last (classic) example from Burmese quoted in Grinevald’s paper indicates that the numeral classifiers of this language can describe the very same spatial entity (e.g., a river) in a variety of ways (e.g., a line on a map, an arc/path to the sea, a connection between villages, a thing), the choice of a particular point of view being often conditioned by pragmatic factors such as situational context. Of course the descriptive papers of this first part do not pretend to answer complex questions such as whether the distinctions among spatial entities are universal versus culture-dependent or whether they necessarily depend on language or involve a more general extra linguistic or cognitive dimension. However, these analyses bring some light to these questions. For instance, the cross-linguistic observations about the opposition between locations and objects (see above) and the recurrent finding that Internal Localization Nouns behave as nouns of locations suggest that this distinction and the properties it calls for (stability/fixity, existence

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of a space portion. . .) may have a universal cognitive status. The same thing could be probably said of the category of apertures which plays a role not only in the use of the French preposition par (by), but also in the semantics of numeral (physical) classifiers in Burmese (cf. Grinevald’s paper). Nevertheless, several other data found in this volume remind us that linguistic and cultural factors are likely to condition the distinctions among entities that are made in a given language, as well as the relative “saliency” or “weight” attributed to them. In this way, we pointed out that in French nouns of apertures can be selected by both par and à travers, still highlighting different properties of these entities (space portion/aperture versus material limits; see above). In comparison, the same nouns systematically combine with the Serbian preposition kroz (‘through’): its semantic content is similar to that of à travers (Stosic 2002) and thus focuses on the material nature of the ground entity (via the notion of “guidance”), rather that on its aperture-like properties (e.g., existence of a space portion, “connector” entity). Other examples are provided by the variable borderlines (related to the size/grain of elements) that languages set for distinguishing between singular and plural aggregates (e.g., épinards/spinach) (see Vandeloise’s paper) or by the presence of a deictic component (deictic motion verb) in many dynamic descriptions of space in Korean (see Choi-Jonin and Sarda’s paper). To sum up, the descriptive studies presented in the first part of this volume show that a careful semantic analysis of markers is all the more necessary that the linguistic distinctions among spatial entities are not always overt and can often be more covert. This kind of analysis also leads us to specify the content of the underlying concepts and distinctions (for instance, the fact that the notion of location is grounded on properties such as fixity and the existence of a space portion), partially answering the question of their complex or primitive nature mentioned in Section 1.3. However, it is clear that a more comprehensive definition of the conceptual structures underlying the linguistic categorization of spatial entities implies a close coordination with formal research in artificial intelligence, philosophy and the philosophy of language (see Section 2.3).3 Indeed, such collaborations have already proven to be successful for the study of spatial markers (see for instance Asher & Sablayrolles 1996; Aurnague, Vieu, & Borillo 1997). Among other things, they showed that functional concepts such as support or containment are governed by complex common-sense theories and they also made it possible to specify the relationships between functional and geometrical aspects of spatial relations. . Note that a better understanding of the ways in which concepts are structured and organized should have implications for questions concerning, among other things, their universal versus culture-dependent and linguistic versus extralinguistic/cognitive nature.

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. Spatial categorization in language and cognition: Psycholinguistic and developmental studies The papers in Part II present the results of psycholinguistic studies examining the relation between linguistic and cognitive categories. A first paper by Aurnague, Champagne, Vieu et al. focuses on the different factors that may influence the intrinsic or deictic interpretations of spatial markers, with particular attention to the French Internal Localization Nouns (hereafter ILN) avant/devant (‘front’) (also see Aurnague 1996; Borillo 1988, 1999). An experiment examines how French adults interpret these markers in two tasks. In the first subjects had to point to the part of the entity that corresponded to an ILN on a tactile screen. In the second they had to judge whether or not an ILN corresponded to the portion of an entity that had been highlighted on the screen. Spatial entities varied along several dimensions, including geometrical properties (an aerodynamic shape, a salient side) and static/dynamic functional properties (e.g., “letting in” through the door, motion). The results show that all of these dimensions affect subjects’ interpretations, but to different extents, according to the following hierarchy: static function > aerodynamicity; static function > saliency; dynamic function > aerodynamicity or saliency. Some differences in subjects’ interpretations of French avant and devant also suggest that they associate avant with dynamic functions and devant with static functions. Aurnague et al. conclude that ILNs refer to space portions and denote stable parts, unlike component nouns that also denote stable entities but cannot refer to space portions. They put forth the hypothesis that ILNs and component nouns should be placed on a synchronic and diachronic continuum, and that the former derives from the latter through a process of grammaticalization. Furthermore, they compare the different factors that may or may not systematically lead to the emergence of classes of spatial entities. First, context-dependent factors (aerodynamicity, geometrical saliency) are less likely to result in such a categorization than factors involving the intrinsic properties of entities (static or dynamic functions). In addition, ILNs and component nouns differ with respect to their status as grammatical and lexical elements. Component nouns constitute an open class of lexical units selecting functional properties that apply to a relatively narrow range of entities. In contrast, ILNs constitute a semi-closed class of markers that enter into larger grammatical constructions and involve a limited number of internal properties applying to a large range of entities. ILNs are therefore better candidates as powerful vectors of semantic and cognitive categorization, since grammaticalization is tied to a process of abstraction that shows a preference for a restricted set of general properties over a wide range of specific parameters (also see Heine, Claudi, & Hünnemeyer 1991; Talmy 2000).

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The remaining papers in this part all address questions that are vividly debated by theories of child development: What is the nature of children’s knowledge of spatial entities? By what mechanisms do their spatial categories emerge and/or change during development? What is the relation between linguistic and prelinguistic knowledge during this process? According to some views (Carey & Spelke 1994; Hespos & Spelke this volume; Leslie 1994; Spelke 2003; Spelke et al. 1992), children are born with a set of concepts that constitutes the basic core knowledge upon which spatial categories are founded. Through language children then establish connections among knowledge components and discover which conceptual distinctions are most relevant in their particular environment. In contrast, Piagetian theory posits that general underlying cognitive mechanisms drive children to construct concepts following a universal sequence of stages that is based on sensori-motor development. Yet other models (e.g., Lécuyer, Rivière, & Durand this volume; Mandler 1988, 1992, 1998) view early concept learning as resulting from active perceptual processes that lead children to extract regularities from their environment. Finally, relativistic views (Bowerman 1996a, 1996b, this volume; Bowerman & Choi 2001, 2003; Hickmann 2003a, this volume; Slobin 1996, 2003, 2006) propose that language-specific properties deeply affect how children construct categories. Despite universal cognitive determinants, languages provide filters that channel incoming information, thus making different aspects of reality more salient and accessible. In discussing these different theoretical frameworks, the chapters examine a large age span, focusing on two fundamental aspects of children’s knowledge of spatial entities. The first one concerns the emergence of the very concept of an object, which implies knowledge of basic properties such as spatio-temporal stability (“object permanence”). This crucial landmark in cognitive development has been well-studied, but the mechanisms underlying its emergence are still debated. Second, several chapters examine children’s understanding of topological spatial relations, which have been at the center of most debates concerning the relation between pre-linguistic and (general or specific) linguistic categories in development. As noted above, such spatial relations are highly relevant to the present volume because they involve implicit classifications of spatial entities. For example, notions such as contact, support, containment, attachment, or joining imply an understanding of various entity properties and dimensions characterizing their use and behaviors, all of which contribute to concepts and classes of spatial entities (geometrical and functional properties of entities that can be containers, material vs. immaterial entities, volumes, surfaces, intrinsic orientation, animacy, cause, force, motion, gravity. . .). Overviews of relevant research throughout Part II show some evidence for universal cognitive mechanisms. Recurrent developmental progressions and errors during the acquisition of spatial markers suggest that children rely on their

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own concepts to talk about entities or their locations before they acquire the conventional means to do so. In contrast, Bowerman reports evidence for the impact of language particulars on children’s categorization of spatial entities. For example, English and Korean differ in the particular entity properties they highlight when expressing spatial relations: “tight” vs. “loose” fit is salient in Korean (e.g., the tight-fit verb kkita), containment and contact/support in English (e.g., in vs. on). Accordingly, as soon as children use spatial markers (before two years) and even in earlier comprehension, they distinguish containment vs. support in English (ignoring the tight/loose distinction) and tight vs. loose fit in Korean (ignoring containment/support) (but see divergent results in Hespos & Spelke this volume). Finally, some evidence (Casasola 2005; Casasola & Cohen 1992; Choi, McDonough, Bowerman, & Mandler 1999) shows that prelinguistic English learners are sensitive to tight vs. loose containment, but do not spontaneously extract abstract “support” or “tight-fit” properties. Nonetheless, they can learn these dimensions if they are exposed to words in relevant contexts. Thus, some spatial categories are learned by direct mapping to pre-existing concepts, but others by a linguistically mediated construction process. Following Gentner (2003), Bowerman argues that language is a special tool for prompting comparisons between exemplars in the extraction of abstractions. Further evidence from children’s errors shows different types of overextensions across languages. For example, children use the verbs open in English and open[-maken] (‘open[make]’) in Dutch to denote canonical situations (actions on doors, boxes, etc.), but they overextend these verbs to a variety of other situations to express separation as a means of making something accessible (turning on a light, taking the stem off an apple, a piece out of a jigsaw puzzle, a shoe off a foot, etc.). In contrast, Korean learners rarely produce such overextensions, using a large variety of distinct verbs to denote different types of separation depending on particular types of entities (e.g., ppellita ‘separate two parts symmetrically, phyelchita ‘spread out a flat thing’, ttutta ‘tear away from base’, ppayta ‘remove from tight fit’). Similarly, from about two years on English learners use out vs. off to distinguish removal from containers and from surfaces (taking toys out of a bag vs. a lid off a pan). Dutch makes a similar distinction (uit vs. af ), with the major exception of clothing items (uit in Dutch, off in English). Dutch learners accordingly abstract a general “removal” meaning, massively overgeneralizing uit. Bowerman attributes these differences to the breadth and composition of categories across languages. Whereas Korean children must critically recognize entity properties to talk about “opening”, English invites children to generalize broadly to many acts of separation, prompting them to ignore different entity properties. Similarly, Dutch children overgeneralize the same marker to all types of removal situations, whereas English learners do not do so. Learning spatial words and constructing underlying categories of spatial entities involves a process of comparison.

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Languages lead children to proceed in one of two directions (abstraction or differentiation), thereby influencing how they organize categories of entities and events by extracting from adult use the common properties of situations. Within a similar framework Hickmann summarizes the results of several experiments focusing on how French and English speakers (adults and children of three to seven years) express spatial information when locating entities, describing object displacements, and narrating spontaneous motion. The results from the first two tasks show that French speakers of all ages heavily rely on the verb to express spatial information and focus on particular types of information, such as the specific manner whereby figures are attached (e.g., accrocher ‘to hook’) or the general spatial and/or functional “disposition” of figures in relation to grounds (e.g., couvrir ‘to cover’). French children first use relatively neutral verbs (e.g., mettre ‘to put’, être ‘to be’) and progressively more specific verbs. Young French children also overextend the preposition sur (‘on’) to vertical relations in the absence of contact (where adults use other prepositions: au-dessus ‘above’, en-dessous ‘under’) and to non-prototypical contact/support (where adults use neutral à ‘at/to’ or no preposition at all). In contrast, in all situations English speakers heavily rely on verbal satellites and their specific verbs focus on other types of information, such as posture (to sit, to lie on/in) or manner of causing location changes (to push together/into). Qualitative results further show the impact of entity properties on speakers’ responses. In both languages some dynamic situations elicit the greatest reliance on verbs expressing manner of attachment, as well as figure/ground properties, particularly in French (recapuchonner ‘to put the cap (on a pen)’; emboîter, encastrer, imbriquer, all variants of the meaning ‘to in-fit’). In addition, some situations present particular problems to French speakers, for example those that involve immaterial entities and part-whole relations (English a crack in/on a cup, a handle on a door). In these cases French subjects do not localize the figure but rather identify it and they have difficulty determining the figure (e.g., une tasse fêlée ‘a cracked cup’, la poignée d’une porte ‘the handle of a door’). Such results further suggest that particular ontological properties affect the ways in which speakers perceive entities and therefore express relations among them. They deserve attention in further cross-linguistic research, since they may be related to a greater concern with some entity properties in French as compared to English. Finally, when English speakers describe spontaneous motion, they systematically encode manner and path information at all ages (e.g., to run up/down, across). In contrast, French children typically use verbs to encode path (monter/descendre ‘to go up/down’, traverser ‘to cross’) and occasionally manner (courir ‘to run’), sometimes providing information separately across clauses (il court . . . il traverse ‘he is running. . . he is crossing’). Results also show an increase with age in the joint expression of manner and path in both languages, suggesting a growing capacity

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to encode multiple information components. Nonetheless, language differences are quite striking at all ages. In line with partially relativistic hypotheses (Berman & Slobin 1994; Bowerman 1996a, b, this volume; Bowerman & Choi 2001, 2003; Slobin 1996, 2003, 2006), these studies show the impact of typological constraints on the locus of spatial information and on the focus of subjects’ attention. In sharp contrast to these two papers, Hespos and Spelke summarize a series of experiments testing the hypothesis that infants possess a rich set of conceptual distinctions independently of language. These experiments are based on two paradigms, classically used in research with prelinguistic infants. In the first (“habituation” and “reaction to novelty”) children are shown different exemplars belonging to a class A until they lose interest for these stimuli (familiarization phase, decrease in exploration time). When they are then shown stimuli of class A or of another class B (test phase), interest for B-stimuli (increase in exploration time) shows a categorical distinction. In the second paradigm (“preferential looking”), children are first familiarized with stimuli of type A, then presented with pairs of stimuli B and C, only one of which is coherent with A. Interest for the incoherent stimulus indicates a surprise reaction that is based on knowledge of underlying categories. A first series of experiments tested whether five-month-old English learners have some knowledge of the distinction between “tight” vs. “loose” fit. Infants were presented with object displacements (e.g., placing an object into a wide vs. narrow container or onto a support) that involved loosely- vs. tightly-fitting entities in containment vs. support situations. Results show that they were sensitive to the tight/loose distinction, even though it cross-cuts the category boundaries that are available in their surrounding language. Additional experiments test five-monthold infants’ expectations about motion in situations involving two tightly- or loosely-fitting entities (one placed within another, constituting a wide or narrow container) that were made to move horizontally either together (coherent motion for tight fit) or separately (coherent motion for loose fit). Infants expected entities to move together in tightly-fitting situations, but separately in loosely-fitting situations, a result which is in line with previous findings showing that five-month-old infants have knowledge of mechanical entity properties (e.g., Spelke et al. 1992). A final set of experiments examined similarity judgments produced by Englishspeaking adults. When rating the similarity of two events, subjects differentiated containment vs. support situations, but not tight vs. loose fit. However, they were able to make the latter distinction in a forced-choice task (choosing which of two events is more similar to a third one) that invited them to pay more attention to this distinction. Hespos and Spelke conclude that systems of core knowledge give rise to a set of spatial and mechanical concepts that is much larger than the one encoded by any one language. Infants come equipped with such core knowledge at birth and their

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task is then to select those particular concepts that are relevant to their language, a process that results in language-specific categories during subsequent stages of development (also see Spelke 2003). Nonetheless, sensitivity to other concepts can be recovered easily, even in adulthood, but only if these concepts are relevant in particular situations. Finally, Lécuyer et al. propose to test empirically the predictions of three approaches to infants’ early representations of objects: Piagetian theory, perceptual theories, and nativism. Two types of evidence are particularly relevant to this debate. The first concerns “object permanence”, which is a fundamental milestone in human cognitive development, showing the child’s discovery that objects display some inherent and independent stability in space and time. This achievement constitutes the foundation for all further concepts concerning entities. Children’s “A-not-B” errors constitute the classical evidence indicating that they do not understand object permanence. Children see an object disappear at one location A, then reappear and disappear again at another location B. When asked to locate the object, they look for it at location A, where it disappeared the first time, rather than at location B, where it disappeared the second time. According to Piagetian theory, object permanence emerges towards the end of the first year of life and it reflects the underlying development of sensori-motor activity. In this view, the child gradually realizes that objects have their own existence independently of his/her own activity. However, recent findings emerging from both perceptual and nativist models (see reviews in Lécuyer, Streri, & Pêcheux 1996; Hickmann 2003b) show that infants understand object permanence much earlier (from about three to four months of age onwards). More generally, this research shows that infants have an extraordinarily complex knowledge about the physical world that surrounds them (numerosity, temporality, spatial relations, motion, causality, agentivity, animacy, etc.). Such evidence does not support the Piagetian approach and has given rise to a tremendous debate. Lécuyer et al. discuss a second type of evidence concerning the spatial capacities of young children with motor deficits (30-month-olds with spinal muscular atrophy) in nonverbal tasks (A-not-B searching tasks) and in verbal tasks testing children’s production and comprehension of spatial prepositions (static location). In both tasks, these children show no cognitive and/or linguistic deficits and they even display a better performance than control children. These results, then, provide two (linguistic and non-linguistic) measures of children’s spatial capacities in different populations, both of which suggest that motor development is not a necessary condition for the development of spatial cognition. Lécuyer et al. propose that this evidence can be accounted for in terms of a perceptual model in which precocious perceptual development actively modifies children’s representations along three levels (also see Durand & Lécuyer 2002). Representations are first a mere copy of the external stimulus. Infants then become

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able to represent variations of the stimulus in a more abstract form that gives rise to categories. At the last (language-based) level the relation between their representation and the external stimulus is arbitrary. Such representations constitute the basis for the emergence of classes of entities. In summary, then, the papers in Part II make a substantial contribution towards an account of the relation between cognitive and linguistic spatial categories, but they also raise a number of questions that must be further addressed. Aurnague et al. provide evidence for the psychological reality of linguistic analyses that take into account several dimensions of French ILNs. Convergent results from two tasks (tapping unconscious and metalinguistic processes) capture speakers’ underlying spatial representations, showing a hierarchy of effects and differences across markers. New materials are necessary to determine more precisely the hierarchical relation between two crucial dimensions (aerodynamicity and saliency) that were partially confounded. Most importantly, the hypothesis that grammaticalization is a central mechanism for the emergence of semantic and cognitive categorization should be tested within a more general psycholinguistic framework, given the assumption that the use of open vs. closed or semi-closed classes should have implications for psychological processing. For example, Talmy (2000) proposes that different open-class and closed-class markers can be ranked along a hierarchy that characterizes the degree to which the encoded information is automaticized or backgrounded – and therefore less costly for cognitive processing – vs. salient or foregrounded. As noted by the authors, cross-linguistic research is also necessary to support further generalizations of their claims, for example by comparing languages that are similar or different with respect to their lexicalization vs. grammaticalization patterns. Further questions concern child development. Some results (Bowerman, Hickmann) suggest that children construct spatial categories partly relying on their surrounding language. Note that the Korean and French data that are separately discussed in these two papers are strikingly similar in some ways. Both show a strong reliance on verbs (rather than on satellites) to encode spatial information and an implicit classification of spatial entities that reflects a concern for finely differentiating entity properties, that is not found in English or in Dutch. In sharp contrast, other results (Hespos & Spelke) suggest that children come equipped with a large set of distinctions that is independent of language. Given many recent findings concerning infancy, it is now necessary to circumscribe the types of distinctions that can or should be attributed to children at birth. Sophisticated experimental methodologies have provided much evidence showing surprisingly precocious capacities and further discoveries are likely to add to this stock of capacities. Models that reject the assumption of a general perceptual and cognitive propensity to learn distinctions are confronted with one of two tasks: they must either provide a principled basis (independent of linguistic, cognitive,

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or perceptual learning constraints) for determining which distinctions are necessarily part of children’s innate core knowledge; or show that biological endowment provides children with the stock of all distinctions that can be found across all languages in the world. Finally, Lécuyer et al.’s propose evidence for a perceptual model of conceptual development that argues against the predictions of Piagetian theory, convincingly suggesting that motricity is not the basis for all of spatial cognition and that children construct objects and object properties by rapidly extracting invariant perceptual patterns from their environment. However, further research must disentangle which capacities are innate vs. learned among all those that are necessary for the discovery of basic object properties. In addition, like Bowerman or Hickmann, they assume an active perceptual process of construction, enabling children to grasp general properties of entities (e.g., the spatio-temporal stability of objects). However, it does not address the question of language-specific effects on the particular invariant patterns that must be discovered by children when they learn object properties, including object permanence but also further distinctions beyond this initial basic concept. Confronting these different views highlights the question of a possible linguistic mediation for spatial cognition. The linguistic structuring of cognition may result from the joint impact of general language properties and of languagespecific properties. Although these two possibilities are compatible, they differ in their theoretical focus and in their methodologies: the first view assumes that general cognitive capacities are inherently dependent on language, regardless of (and notwithstanding) linguistic particulars, but cross-linguistic comparisons are necessary to show specific language effects. In addition, a major question concerns the impact of language on both linguistic and non-linguistic representations (see discussions in Gentner & Goldin-Meadow 2003). One possibility is that language has far-reaching implications for all of spatial cognition, affecting speakers’ behaviors in a large variety of situations from the earliest age on. Another possibility is that language has no deep impact on cognition above and beyond our use of language itself. Many related controversial points remain open, concerning for example the timing of language effects on children’s representations, the nature of non-linguistic representations, or the nature of language effects on these representations. . Characterizing categories of spatial entities: Formal ontology and formal semantics The third part of this volume is devoted to the characterization in logical formalisms of the categories of spatial entities that play a role in language and cognition. A fundamental issue regards the relationship between linguistics, especially

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formal semantics whose purpose is to analyze how linguistic expressions refer to entities and states of affairs, and formal ontology, a main objective of which is to give a logical account of the basic categories of what there is in the world. Analytical philosophy takes its roots in the philosophy of language (Frege 1892; Quine 1960), and accordingly, a widely used practice in contemporary formal ontology is to base its arguments on linguistic evidence. Even when the arguments are not based on observations and analyses of a truly linguistic flavor, they are nevertheless expressed in some natural language, and are thus somewhat dependent on linguistic structures. On the other hand, formal semantics necessarily makes use of ontological assumptions in expressing the denotations of the linguistic expressions it analyses, be they more or less explicitly stated. In fact, such assumptions are often taken for granted, that is, the categories of referents and their formal properties are not discussed at all, neither for their linguistic or cognitive appropriateness nor for their realism. For instance, even in the largely explored domain of temporal reference, some analyses make use of a time reduced to the category of instants, others use time intervals, but these choices remain too often unjustified and the properties of the chosen time (e.g., regarding linearity or density) are usually not fully described. It is therefore not always clear in both disciplines, formal ontology and formal semantics, how to untangle the dependencies between linguistic analysis and ontological analysis: which one comes first? As a result, it is legitimate to ask whether the project of formally characterizing the categories of spatial entities underlying language belongs to formal ontology and whether such a task is at all feasible. These questions constitute the topic of the first paper of Part III by Varzi. Varzi examines the possibility of founding ontological analysis on linguistic analysis. He focuses on two traps in trying to establish what categories of entities there are on the basis of what is said in language. The “surface grammar trap” is to take at face value all the quantifications made in linguistic statements, and in particular, to consider that all nominal phrases refer to existing sorts of things. Varzi argues that, for instance, Russell’s analysis of negative existential sentences involving definite descriptions (Russell 1905) shows that this approach is a trap. Perfectly acceptable sentences like The winged horse does not exist cannot be interpreted by the paradoxical assertion that some existing thing does not exist. Linguistic analysis should thus reveal what is the deep structure of a sentence before examining what are its ontological assumptions. For instance, Russell’s analysis of definite descriptions gives the previous example the reading of its paraphrase It is not the case that there exists one and only one winged horse, which is arguably ontologically more “transparent”. Varzi then goes on tackling the more subtle point of showing that such a strategy brings us into the “deep structure trap”. The argument is based on the fact that for any questionable category of entities (in particular non-material entities like events and cracks) to which some linguistic expressions

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apparently refer, one can find a paraphrase eliminating this category. For instance, events, as apparently denoted by the NP a kiss in John gave Mary a kiss, can be eliminated in paraphrases such as John kissed Mary. However, as Davidson argued (Davidson 1980), the linguistic analysis of verb-phrase modifiers shows that on the contrary, the deep structure of John kissed Mary amounts to there is a kiss that John gave to Mary, i.e., it introduces the category of events. Varzi claims that if both the eliminativist and the introductionist strategies can be supported, then there is no definite methodology in determining what is the “right” deep structure, and the choice is eventually based on each linguist’s prior ontological assumptions. He thus concludes that linguistic analysis cannot contribute to ontological analysis. Varzi’s negative analysis judges the enterprise of finding a coherent account of the ontological categories underlying language and cognition unfeasible, and as a result, restricts formal ontology to its realist trend, which tries to eliminate any linguistic and cognitive “bias” in establishing the structure of “what there is” (Chisholm 1996; Smith 2004). There is nevertheless a different trend in formal ontology, thriving in applications to knowledge representation (Masolo et al. 2003), as well as formal semantics as the next three papers of this part show. This cognitivist and relativistic view assumes that different coherent ontological accounts of reality, as it is perceived, conceived or described, are possible; the choice of one or another account is a matter of adequacy to some objective, e.g., adequacy to a body of cognitive evidence or to some observed linguistic structures. With this view, the logical tools of formal ontology are essential to build coherent ontological systems, but cognitive or semantic studies may provide decisive input for exploring the relevant categorical and conceptual distinctions. Of course, regarding language, this approach is valid only under the hypothesis that the linguistic study of (a given) language provides a coherent body of data against which to assess the adequacy of some ontological system, which clearly contradicts Varzi’s conclusions. Descriptive and formal semantics studies are certainly not a trivial matter, and results are obviously subject to discussion among scholars, but the hypothesis that language systematically – overtly or covertly – encodes in its structures a number of ontological assumptions appears to be validated by the papers of Part I. The authors of the next three papers do adopt this heavily debated hypothesis, and yet their research, situated at the intersection of formal ontology and formal semantics, yields interesting results. Muller’s paper studies the nature of spatial entities focusing on their temporal dimension and explicitly explores the adequacy of “four-dimensionalist”, or spatio-temporal, ontological theory to account for a number of well-known semantic phenomena. Muller first posits his research within the ontology-language relationship debate just mentioned and describes his ontological departure points: on the one hand, mereology (Lesniewski 1927–31) and other accounts of the part-whole relations (cf. Vieu and Aurnague’s next paper), and on the other, the

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four-dimensionalist position (Sider 2003) with respect to the widely discussed endurant-perdurant, continuant-occurrent or object-event distinction, i.e., the position for which all concrete entities are taken to have both spatial and temporal dimensions. Muller then examines three classical linguistic distinctions or “categories of reference” (the mass/count, the singular/plural and the object/eventuality ones) and associated linguistic phenomena, in the light of the unifying fourdimensionalist ontological assumption. For instance, the distinction between objects and eventualities apparently blocks a valid reading of the sentence A thousand boats passed under the bridge in which there are less than a thousand boats if the same boat passed several times under the bridge. Here, we are not really counting boats, as in the standard reading, but events or “temporal slices” (“stages”) of boats. The main lines of a spatio-temporal theory providing a formal account of this four-dimensionalist ontology is then presented. Within this theory, the author shows how the three examined linguistic distinctions can be accounted for. The unique domain of the theory being a set of spatio-temporal regions, instead of focusing on entities of a different nature, Muller shows that it is enough to assume different categories of predicates, with different inferential behavior. For instance, the mass predicate “gold” and the count predicate “ring” may apply to the same entity, but while “gold” is spatio-temporally dissective (any spatio-temporal part of an amount of gold is an amount of gold), “ring” is only temporally dissective (“ring” applies to any temporal slice of a ring). Lastly, Muller shows how his analyses of plural reference and of the object/event distinction can be combined into an account of plural events that yields a unified representation for all the readings of the above passing-under-boats example. The strength of Muller’s proposal lies in the combination of the elegance and minimality of the ontological framework and the adequacy to rendering a fair amount of linguistic data. In fact, no previous account of the passing-under-boats quantification case that gathered all its readings had been published. The next paper by Vieu and Aurnague focuses on the role of categories in the expression of part-whole relations in French. It shows first that the classical hypothesis of the multiplicity of part-whole relations (Winston et al. 1987) is in a large part explained by the different ontological nature of the arguments. A theory formalizing the singular/plural and the mass/count distinctions is briefly mentioned; it deals with the same kind of data examined by Muller in a more classical way, that is, it is based on several ontological categories of entities: “amount of a substance”, “substance” and “material object”. This theory suffices to account for the “Member-collection”, “Subcollection-collection”, “Portion-whole” and “Substance-whole” relations, respecting their inferential behavior regarding the property of transitivity, much discussed about part-whole relations. Vieu and Aurnague then focus on the “Component-integral whole” (CIW) relation between material objects that involves the elusive notion of functionality. Only few previous

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formal accounts of this arguably predominant part-whole relation (e.g., handbody, handle-door) were available, leaving its varied (in)transitivity patterns largely unexplained. On the basis of a review of the literature on function, the authors show first that the normativity of function requires to take into account other “categories”, the lexical types used to describe the entities, distinguishing, e.g., lit (‘bed’) and meuble (‘piece of furniture’); indeed, the expression of CIW relations is sensitive to the object descriptions used. Then, a logical theory of function is proposed using the primitive property of “being functioning as a X at time t” and defining several notions of “functional dependence”: generic functional dependence between lexical types and individual functional dependence between specific entities under a description. An entity x described as a X is individually functionally dependent on a y described as a Y if, generically, any X functioning as a X requires the existence of a Y functioning as a Y, and in addition, x functioning as a X requires y functioning as a Y. The direction of the dependence, from the part to the whole or from the whole to the part, and the fact that the lexical type is directly or not the one with which the generic functional dependence is encoded in the lexicon, enable Vieu and Aurnague to distinguish and define four CIW relations. The distinction between these four relations is then proved to be linguistically relevant, on the basis of data involving determinative compound nouns. Lastly, they show that their formal model is able to explain a large number of puzzles regarding the (in)transitivity of CIW, as only some combinations of the four relations yield transitivity theorems. This paper provides an example of an ontological study driven by linguistic motivations in that it shows the need to take into account in the domain a further category of entities, the (reified) lexical types, and gives an original, although quite simple, account of the notion of functional dependence. Conversely, it becomes obvious here that considering ontological notions such as dependence in a systematic way helps the linguist in enriching his/her descriptive work: linguistic studies on part-whole relations had previously considered only the dependence of the part with respect to the whole. The last paper by Asher focuses on “types” – in fact, ontological categories – involved in the lexicon referring to the spatial domain. Building on the well-known work on the “generative lexicon” by Pustejovsky (Pustejovsky 1995), Asher gives a highly developed logical theory of complex or “dotted” types. Lexical semantic studies on copredication data have shown the need to refer to objects that are apparently ontologically incoherent, as belonging to two incompatible types. For instance, the referent for the book in The book is a great piece of literature and 800pp long appears to be an entity both abstract and concrete since the two conjunct predicates select arguments of those two types; stipulating the existence of the “dot object” of complex type information•physical, Pustejovsky’s approach is able to give a referent to the book in this example. Asher proposes to apply this notion of complex type to the spatial domain, for which (Aurnague 2004) has shown

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that in addition to the two categories of geographical locations (called places by Asher) and objects, there is a need to refer to “mixed entities” such as buildings, alternatively behaving as objects and as locations, for instance in Basque. After linguistically motivating in detail the need to use an ontological domain including dot objects, Asher shows how in order to be used in formal semantics, a theory of complex ontological types is to be integrated into compositional semantics, which is traditionally only governed by “functional types” (corresponding to syntactic types), and constructed by combining only the very generic type e for entities and t for truth value with the functional application operator. Asher thus allows for a number of sub-types of the general type e, such as place and object, and uses the dot type operator • in addition to the functional application operator. The theory of complex types and the composition logic that Asher then fully develops within the lambda-calculus framework are illustrated with a number of examples of composition. Lastly, the author shows that some patterns of transitivity of the relation denoted by the preposition dans (‘in’) could be more simply handled with complex types than as has been previously proposed. Asher’s paper shows how ontology, through categories (types) and constraints on how these can combine into complex types, is reflected in lexical and compositional semantics in a very rich manner. It also offers a very promising starting point to better understand the relationship between ontological categories and “lexical types” as used in (Vieu & Aurnague this volume). The work presented in the last part of this volume, lying at the intersection between formal ontology and formal semantics, shows that, even though the very possibility of such an interdisciplinary research is still questioned (see Varzi’s paper) and its methods are not yet fully established by the literature, models of how ontological theories of spatial entities integrate within a theory of meaning to account for linguistic phenomena such as those described in Part I can indeed be achieved (see the papers by Muller, Vieu and Aurnague, and Asher). But just as the papers in Part II attested to several approaches to the relationship between cognitive and linguistic spatial categories, this part reveals that the debate on what ontology is about, the “real” world or (linguistic) conceptions of the world, is still open. Varzi’s results tend to conclude that a linguistic ontology is not feasible. The three other papers contrast with Varzi’s in assuming that it makes sense to look for an ontology that is adequate to account for linguistic phenomena, but Muller’s still does not really take issue regarding the realist – cognitivist divide. In fact, the spatio-temporal ontology developed there relies on a unique category, and has been defended by philosophers adopting a realist approach. The last two papers definitely adopt language-relativistic views, as they show the need to introduce purely linguistically motivated categories such as lexical types (Vieu and Aurnague) and “dot types” (Asher). Nevertheless, both these papers still distinguish two layers in their theories: a basic ontological layer and a lexical layer that

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builds on the first. And the exact status of the basic ontological layer remains to be established: it has to be compatible with, and even ideally highly adequate to, the deep structures of a language, but does this compatibility vary according to the specific language at hand? As Muller shows, surprisingly parsimonious ontologies may prove adequate. Thus, there may be room for a universalist cognitivist approach to ontology, for which no methodology has yet been proposed, apart from a few attempts at proving that the same ontology may be adequate for different languages, e.g. for French and Basque in (Aurnague 2004). We believe that the work presented in this book as a whole lays the foundations for a truly interdisciplinary study of formal systems of cognitive spatial categories, between philosophers and linguists, as well as cognitive psychologists.

. Conclusion and prospects Although this volume does not exhaust the questions related to the categorization of spatial entities in language and cognition, it provides a first entry into this new research domain along three main dimensions. First, the volume evaluates previous work that directly or indirectly deals with the categorization of spatial entities in a general overview of this field (see Section 1.2 above), as well as in relation to specific points within different chapters and parts. Second, some of the main questions that arise when tackling this complex topic (Section 1.3 above) are discussed in depth throughout the contributions. Third, some answers to these questions emerge from the chapters and through the interrelations that can be found across them, for instance the fact that most languages operate an overt and/or covert categorization of spatial entities and that such a categorization seems to involve both a universal basis and a significant level of variability (cf. Stosic, Grinevald, ChoiJonin & Sarda’s chapters in Part I or Bowerman, Hickmann in Part II). On the whole, then, the volume opens a new research area, providing minimal grounds for its future developments. Furthermore, this volume contributes to the development of new approaches and methodologies in the study of the categorization of spatial entities. It shows the need to bring together a variety of data bases and methods through an approach that is both cross-linguistic and multidisciplinary (descriptive linguistics, (neuro)psycholinguistics, cognitive and developmental psychology, philosophy, artificial intelligence. . .). In addition to describing and comparing different languages, experimental and formal approaches provide some insights into the cognitive processes and concepts that underlie the ways in which we categorize spatial entities. As a consequence, the many questions that arise concerning the nature of this categorization (e.g., structuring vs. content-giving, primitive vs. complex, real vs. conceptual, universal vs. relative, linguistic and cognitive. . ., cf. Section

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1.3) benefit from multiple and complementary insights that can together bridge theoretical and empirical gaps, thereby allowing us to address new questions that would not have emerged otherwise. Finally, ongoing studies in this volume and future research about the categorization of spatial entities in language and cognition are likely to provide data and hypotheses that can contribute in significant ways to other general questions and discussions. Thus, they at least touch on the role and functioning of referential processes in language, on the universal vs. relative nature of semantic concepts, and on the properties and structure of ontologies (whether spatial or not) in human cognition.

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Bowerman, Melissa & Soonja Choi (2003). Space under construction: Language-specific categorization in first language acquistion. In D. Gentner & S. Goldin-Meadow (Eds.), Language in mind: Advances in the study of language and thought (pp. 387–427). Cambridge, MA & London: MIT Press. Brown, Penelope (1994). The INs and ONs of Tzeltal locative expressions: The semantics of static descriptions of location. Linguistics, 32, 743–790. Carey, Susan & Elizabeth S. Spelke (1994). Domain-specific knowledge and conceptual change. In L. A. Hirschfeld & S. A. Gelman (Eds.), Mapping the mind: Domain specificity in cognition and culture (pp. 169–200). New York: Cambridge University Press. Casasola, Marianella (2005). Can language do the driving? The effect of linguistic input on infants’ categorization of support spatial relations. Developmental Psychology, 4, 183–192. Casasola, Marianella & Leslie B. Cohen (2002). Infant categorization of containment, support and tight-fit relationships. Developmental Science, 5, 247–264. Casati, Roberto & Achille Varzi (1999). Parts and places – The structures of spatial representation. Cambridge, MA: MIT Press. Chisholm, Roderick (1996). A realistic theory of categories: An essay in ontology. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Choi, Soonja, Laraine McDonough, Melissa Bowerman, & Jean Mandler (1999). Early sensitivity to language-specific spatial categories in English and Korean. Child Development, 14, 241– 268. Comrie, Bernard (1976). Aspect: An introduction to the study of verbal aspect related problems. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Craig, Colette (Ed.). (1986). Noun classes and categorization. Amsterdam: John Benjamins. Davidson, Donald (1980). Essays on action and events. Oxford: Clarendon Press. Durand, Karine & Roger Lécuyer (2002). Object permanence observed in four month-old infants with a 2D display. Infant Behavior and Development, 25(3), 269–278. Frege, Gottlob (1892). Über Sinn und Bedeutung. Zeitschrift für Philosophie und philosophische Kritik, 100, 25–50. Translated as “On sense and reference”. In P. Geach & M. Black (Eds.), Translations from the philosophical writings of Gottlob Frege (pp. 56–78). Oxford: Blackwell. Gentner, Dedre (2003). Why we’re so smart. In D. Gentner & S. Goldin-Meadow (Eds.), Language in mind: Advances in the study of language and thought (pp. 195–235). Cambridge, MA & London: MIT Press. Gentner, Dedre & Susan Goldin-Meadow (Eds.). (2003). Language in mind: Advances in the study of language and thought. Cambridge, MA & London: MIT Press. Heine, Bernd (1997). Possession: Cognitive sources, forces and grammaticalization. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Heine, Bernd, Ulrike Claudi, & Friederike Hünnemeyer (1991). Grammaticalization: A conceptual framework. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Herskovits, Annette (1986). Language and spatial cognition: An interdisciplinary study of the prepositions in English. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Hickmann, Maya (2003a). Children’s discourse: Person, space and time across languages. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Hickmann, Maya (2003b). Pensée verbale et pensée prélinguistique: Le problème de la relativité linguistique. In C. Vandeloise (Ed.), Langues et cognition (pp. 133–159). Paris: Hermès. Hill, Deborah (1996). Distinguishing the notion “place” in an Oceanic language. In M. Pütz & R. Dirven (Eds.), The construal of space in language and thought (pp. 307–328). Berlin: Mouton de Gruyter. Jackendoff, Ray (1983). Semantics and cognition. Cambridge, MA: MIT Press.

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Jackendoff, Ray (1990). Semantic structures. Cambridge, MA: MIT Press. Kleiber, Georges (1997). Sens, référence et existence: Que faire de l’extra-linguistique? Langages, 127, 9–37. Langacker, Ronald (1991). Foundations of cognitive grammar. Stanford: Stanford University Press. Lécuyer, Roger, Arlette Streri, & Marie-Germaine Pêcheux (1996). Le développement cognitif du nourrisson. Paris: Nathan. Leech, Geoffrey N. (1969). Towards a semantic description of English. London: Longman. Leslie, Alan M. (1994). ToMM, ToBy, and Agency: Core architecture and domain specificity. In L. A. Hirschfeld & S. A. Gelman (Eds.), Mapping the mind: Domain specificity in cognition and culture (pp. 119–148). New York: Cambridge University Press. Lesniewski, Stanislaw (1927–1931). O podstawach matematyki [On the foundations of mathematics]. Przeglad Filosoficzny [Philosophical Review] 30–34. English translation in: Topoi, 2, 7–52. Levinson, Stephen C. (1994). Vision, shape, and linguistic description: Tzeltal body-part terminology and object description. Linguistics, 32, 791–855. Link, Godehard (1983). The logical analysis of plurals and mass terms: A lattice theoretical approach. In R. Bäuerle, C. Schwarze & A. V. Stechow (Eds), Meaning, use and interpretation of language (pp. 302–323). Berlin: de Gruyter. Link, Godehart (1997). Algebraic semantics in language and philosophy. CSLI, Lecture Notes. Mandler, Jean M. (1988). How to build a baby: On the development of an accessible representational system. Cognitive Development, 3, 113–136. Mandler, Jean M. (1992). How to build a baby: II. Conceptual primitives. Psychological Review, Vol. 99, N◦ 4, 587–604. Mandler, Jean M. (1998). Representation. In W. Damon, D. Kuhn & R. S. Siegler (Eds.), Handbook of child psychology, Vol. 2 (pp. 255–308). New York: Wiley. Masolo, Claudio, Stefano Borgo, Aldo Gangemi, Nicola Guarino, & Alessandro Oltramari (2003). The WonderWeb Library of Foundational Ontologies and the DOLCE ontology. WonderWeb (EU IST Project 2001–33052) Deliverable D18. Moens, Marc & Mark Steedman (1988). Temporal ontology and temporal reference. Computational Linguistics, 14, 15–28. Parsons, Terence (1970). An analysis of mass terms and amount terms. Foundations of language, 6, 363–388. Parsons, Terence (1975). Afterthougths on mass terms. Synthese, 31, 517–521. Pelletier, François (Ed.). (1979). Mass terms: Some philosophical problems. Dordrecht: D. Reidel. Quine, Willard V. (1960). Words and objects. New York & London: John Wiley & Sons. Pustejovsky, James (1955). The generative lexicon. Cambridge, MA: The MIT Press. Russell, Bertrand (1905). On denoting. Mind, 14, 479–493. Sider, Theodore (2003). Four-dimensionalim – An ontology of persistence and time. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Slobin, Dan I. (1996). From ‘thought to language’ to ‘thinking for speaking’. In J. J. Gumperz & S. C. Levinson (Eds.), Rethinking linguistic relativity (pp. 70–96). Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Slobin, Dan I. (2003). Language and thought online: Cognitive consequences of linguistic relativity. In D. Gentner & S. Goldin-Meadow (Eds.), Language in mind: Advances in the study of language and thought (pp. 157–191). Cambridge, MA & London: MIT Press.

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Slobin, Dan I. (2006). What makes manner of motion salient? Explorations in linguistic typology, discourse, and cognition. In M. Hickmann & S. Robert (Eds.), Space in languages: Linguistic systems and cognitive categories (pp. 59–81). Amsterdam: John Benjamins. Smith, Barry (2004). Beyond concepts: Ontology as reality representation. In A. Varzi & L. Vieu (Eds.), Formal Ontology in Information Systems, Proceedings of the Third International Conference (pp. 73–84). Amsterdam: IOS Press. Spelke, Elizabeth S. (2003). What makes us smart? Core knowledge and natural language. In D. Gentner & S. Goldin-Meadow (Eds.), Language in mind: Advances in the study of language and thought (pp. 277–311). Cambridge, MA & London: MIT Press. Spelke, Elizabeth S., Karen Breinlinger, Janet Macomber, & Kristen Jacobson (1992). Origins of knowledge. Psychological Review, Vol. 99, N◦ 4, 605–632. Stosic, Dejan (2002). Par et à travers dans l’expression des relations spatiales: Comparaison entre le français et le serbo-croate. Doctoral dissertation. Toulouse: Université de Toulouse-Le Mirail. Talmy, Leonard (2000). Toward a cognitive semantics (Vol. 1 & 2). Cambridge, MA: MIT Press. Vandeloise, Claude (1986). L’espace en français: sémantique des prépositions spatiales. Paris: Seuil. Vendler, Zeno (1957). Verbs and times. Philosophical Review, 66, 143–160. Vet, Co (1994). Petite grammaire de l’Aktionsart et de l’aspect. Cahiers de Grammaire, 19, 1–18. Winston, Morton, Roger Chaffin, & Douglas Herrmann (1987). A taxonomy of part-whole relations. Cognitive Science, 11, 417–444.

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Spatial entities and the structures of languages: Descriptive work

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A taxonomy of basic natural entities Claude Vandeloise Louisiana State University

The taxonomy set out in this chapter explores the connection between the ontology of concrete entities and their representation by nouns in languages like French and English. Basic entities are compared with super-entities, composed of several basic entities, and sub-entities that are parts of basic entities. A distinction is established between material entities and the spatial entities they occupy. Some criteria are also provided to distinguish between masses versus entities represented by count nouns, and masses versus aggregates. It is claimed that collections, like forests, are super-entities that share similarities with aggregates. Finally, three types of mixtures – assortments, blends and fusions – are distinguished and an analysis of the way we refer to them is proposed.

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This article proposes a classification of the concrete entities represented by nouns in languages like French or English. In Section 1, basic entities are compared to super-entities (composed of basic entities) and sub-entities (that are parts of basic entities). At the extra-linguistic level, Section 2 establishes a first distinction between material entities and the spatial entities they occupy. In Section 3, criteria are proposed to distinguish between masses and the entities represented by count nouns. The commonalities and discrepancies between masses and aggregates like sugar and sand, composed of tiny identical entities, are presented in Section 4. Masses are homeomerous (or 0-homogeneous) whereas aggregates are d-homogeneous, with d related to the size of their components. Even though collections, like forests and herds, are super-entities, composed of many similar connected basic entities, they share similarities with aggregates that are examined in Section 5. Three types of mixtures – assortments, blends and fusions – are presented in Section 6 with their different physical and chemical properties. The purpose of the taxonomy proposed in this article is to better understand the connection between the ontology of entities and their representation by language. There is a frequent relationship of metonymy between material entities and the places they occupy. Therefore, many nouns, like forest or country, can desig-

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nate material entities as well as spatial entities. In the last section of the article, I try to establish a relationship between the different types of mixtures and their linguistic representation. Some mixtures bear a name different from the name of their ingredients whereas some mixtures can only be described by the name of their ingredients connected by the preposition in. This section investigates the relationship of this preposition with the different types of mixtures.

. Basic material entities I call material entity anything we can perceive independently. By this definition, scents and noises might be material entities as well as objects, but colors and shapes are not because they cannot be perceived independently of the object they belong to. Air may be considered as a minimally perceptible entity. According to an old principle, each material entity occupies a place, which I will call a spatial entity (cf. Vieu 1991; Vandeloise 1999 for a discussion of these entities).1 Material entities range from the whole wide world to its minimal parts. We are notably ignorant about these maximal and minimal entities. Between these two extremes, deciding which entities are basic for linguistic encoding is a matter of conceptualization or construal (Langacker 1991) rather than a matter of ontology. Depending on our purpose, humanity, a single man, or his heart may be chosen as basic entities. However, as demonstrated by Rosch and her colleagues (1975, 1976), human categorization often follows the same optimal paths. Entities are put together more easily at the level of basic categories, like sparrows, because members in these categories share more attributes with the other members in the categories and less attributes with members in the other categories. Furthermore, the ratio of information provided by the name of a basic category about its members relative to the difficulty of categorizing these members is particularly satisfying. Categorization in super-categories, like birds, do not require to check as many attributes, but has the disadvantage of supplying less information, whereas categorization in subcategories, like coal tits, furnishes plenty of information, but deciding membership in these subcategories may require the help of an ornithologist. Parallel to super-categories, basic categories and subcategories, I will speak of super-entities, basic entities and sub-entities. In normal human conceptualization, basic entities are delimited by a connected boundary and all the matter inside this boundary is usually moving together. A super-entity consists of two or . Note of the Editors: in this paper, the term “spatial entities” has to be understood in a more specific way than in the rest of the book. It applies to entities or individuals that other authors call “spatial referents” (of entities), “immaterial entities” or “space portions”.

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more basic entities. Among super-entities, I will be incidentally interested in this article in collections like packs and forests. To speak about sub-entities, we have to enter the field of meronymy. Basic entities may be homogeneous like masses or heterogeneous like most countable entities (cf. Section 3). Heterogeneous entities are assemblies composed of different recognizable parts. Homogeneous entities have no independently recognizable intrinsic parts but, as well as for heterogeneous entities, internal localization nouns (Aurnague 1991, 1996; Borillo 1988) may refer to different parts of these entities such as their interior, top, left and so forth (for an analysis of the French internal localization nouns denoting frontal orientation, see Aurnague, Champagne, Vieu and colleagues’ paper in this volume). This partition depends on the position of the entity in space relative to the speaker. These non-intrinsic parts are called portions. In French, a portion like the top of a table fait partie de la table (‘is part of the table’) but cannot be said to be une partie de la table (‘a part of the table’). Le pied de la table (‘the leg of the table’) or le tiroir (‘the drawer’), on the other hand, are intrinsic parts of the table. Some more complex entities may be constituted of many super-entities whereas other entities may be parts of a part. In the remainder of this article, I will be mainly interested in the classification of basic material entities.

. Spatial and material entities Material entities are concrete entities in opposition to abstract notions such as thoughts, qualities and relationships. Spatial entities stand midway between concrete and abstract notions: one cannot touch space, but one can observe that it stretches as far as the eye can see. Depending on the point of view, countries and cities may be considered as spatial entities or material entities, composed of the inhabitants and buildings occupying them. Philosophers may be interested in sorting out spatial and material entities but, very often, languages are not. Is a forest a spatial or a material entity? If it were a material entity, we could not walk into it but if it were a spatial entity, we could not speak in French of a haute forêt (‘a high forest’) , with reference to the height of the trees. If there is only one word to designate a collection of trees and the space they occupy, this is because, for the practical purposes of hunters, walkers and lovers, both have the same function. Language, thus, is not interested in needless ontological distinctions. Fixed material entities and the place they occupy are closely related and, by a metonymy fundamental in human languages, the same word can designate one or the other. For mobile material entities, languages often construe a material entity as a stable subject occupying different places at different times. In this way, the world might be completely described by providing a list of all its material entities and the places they occupy at each moment (see Muller’s paper for an approach

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that associates every “concrete object” with its spatio-temporal extension). Subsisting material entities are designated by substantives whereas the scanning of their changing places is conveyed by verbs, as in sentence (1): (1) The rabbit is running. (2) This place is “rabbitting”.

The incorrect sentence (2), however, suggests a different perspective on the same situation. Instead of choosing the material entity as a fixed entity running from places to places, a place is chosen as a fixed spatial entity hosting different occupiers at different moments. After a while, then, the place that was “rabbiting” might be “birding” or “dogging” if a bird or a dog happens to occupy the place of the rabbit. Thus, if spatial entities were designated by substantives and the scanning of changing material occupiers by verbs, one might provide a perfectly accurate description of the world. For this further reason, I feel that places may be considered as entities together with material entities rather than as abstract notions, together with thoughts and feelings. In sentences (1) and (2), one may clearly distinguish the entity designated by the subject from the event conveyed by the verbal predicate. Such is not the case for the expression of meteorological phenomena, often conveyed in English by a dummy subject it and a predicate: (3) It’s raining.

In this sentence, the material entity is difficult to distinguish from the event in which it participates. The rabbit in sentence (1) can be the agent of different events (walking, eating, etc.) and an event like running may have different agents (dogs, cats, etc.). But only rain can rain and the only thing that rain can do is rain. Furthermore, once it reaches the ground, rain is no longer called rain but water. Water is clearly a material entity but rain may be considered together as an entity and as an event. Compelled by their grammar to distinguish a subject and a predicate to construct a sentence, languages resort to different constructions (Ruwet 1991). Representing the subject by an expletive pronoun it is the solution chosen by English. Strawson (1959) presents localized features reminiscent of meteorological phenomenon as the most primitive form of predication.

. Count entities and masses We are now ready to provide a classification of basic material entities. A first distinction will be established between count entities, designated by count nouns that may be preceded by a number as in three tables or six dogs and masses, desig-

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nated by nouns that, under normal circumstances, cannot accept such a number (*three waters). An important characteristic of masses is that all their portions can be designated by the same noun. Air is a prototypical mass in this respect. Entities designated by count nouns, on the other hand, cannot be divided without losing their identity. You may look at the ocean, the river or a glass of water, the only mass you see is water in English or de l’eau in French. But a part of a human being, as a hand or an ear, is not a human being. Like the pieces of a car, they are the components of an assembly and are designated by different count nouns (a formal account of the relations between components and assemblies is proposed in Vieu & Aurnague’s paper, this volume). If you add a count entity like a chair to another chair, on the other hand, the result is not one chair but two chairs. Unions of portions of the same mass are also designated by the same name. For this reason, masses are collective (Pelletier 1979: 3) or cumulative (Quine 1960: 104). In some circumstances, however, as we will see in Section 5, by adding a tree to a tree, you may eventually get a forest! An important distinction between count entities and masses concerns the way in which they delimit other entities. Langacker (1991: 117) proposes a definition of count nouns and mass nouns, schematic enough to cover both concrete and abstract entities. Because I am only concerned here with physical entities, I propose a simplified version of these definitions: A count noun designates an entity that delimits (a) in its basic domain and (b) in the zone of attention of the speaker. A mass noun designates an entity that does not delimit specifically (a) in its basic domain nor (b) in the zone of attention of the speaker.

In his formulation, Langacker uses the passive voice is delimited instead of the active voice delimits. I prefer the active voice because active delimitation helps to get rid of the very vexing topological concept of limit, conceived as a part of an entity (Vandeloise 2001: Chapter 2). Any count entity (like a chair) delimits a mass (like air) and any mass (like water) delimits a mass (like air) that is more fluid than it is. Any concrete entity, be it a count entity or a mass, delimits space. Delimitation is a dynamic action of the whole entity and not the work of a mysterious topological limit. In the definition of mass nouns, specifically has an important role since a mass like water delimits horizontally the air around it. However, this delimitation is not specific because water is divisible and cumulative: take some water out or add some water and the place of delimitation will change. But, in both cases, you are left with water all the same. A count entity, on the other hand, delimits in a specific way. A chair does not delimit the air around it in the same way as a table does. If the

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specific modes of delimitation of these objects are violated, either we are dealing with another object or a damaged object. The basic domain of physical entities is space. Different basic domains help to explain the contrast between sentences (4) and (5): (4) Ronald likes wine. (5) Ronald’s two favourite wines are Bordeaux and Burgundy.

In sentence (4), space is the basic domain and wine cannot be preceded by an article or a number. Indeed, the quantity of wine drunk by Ronald is not specifically delimited in the spatial domain. In sentence (5), in contrast, the basic domain is not space but the places of origin of wines. Because Bordeaux and Burgundy are specifically delimited in this domain, wine can be preceded by two in sentence (5). In French, a mass noun in subject position can sometimes be preceded by a definite article: (6) Le vin est la boisson préférée de Ronald. the wine is the drink preferred of Ronald ‘Wine is Ronald’s favorite drink.’

In sentence (6), some philosophers consider le vin (‘wine’) as a proper name for a scattered entity composed of all the portions of wine existing in the world. In object position, as in sentence (4), le vin would rather be a general noun like cat or dog, referring to all the members in these categories (Quine 1960, 1973). This approach has the inconvenience of erasing the specificity of masses that are now assimilated to scattered count entities and to their parts. On the other hand, this explanation is inadequate for sentence (7) in which, I hope, le vin does not refer to all the world’s wine: (7) Le vin est gâché. ‘The wine is spoiled.’

Conceptualization has an important role in the distinction between count entities and masses. Indeed, we have the possibility to focus our attention on a more or less extended portion of our visual field. Furthermore, our position determines the portion of the world that we can perceive. Depending on the extension of our zone of attention and on our position, the limits of an entity can appear or disappear. For example, we may see the circumference of a red circle on a wall if we are far enough away from it but as we walk closer to the spot, its boundaries disappear. In this case, we only see a red wall or simply red and a count entity becomes a mass without specific limits.

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. Masses and aggregates If portions of water in glasses are transferred to different glasses, one cannot recognize the different portions. In contrast, recognition is usually possible when one shuffles count entities, like books or chairs. Recognition, then, establishes an important distinction between count entities and masses. However, some count entities, like billiard balls, cannot be recognized if one does not follow their trajectory. This is even more true for similar tiny entities like grains of salt or sand. Whereas billiard balls are designated by count nouns, salt and sand cannot, in normal circumstances, be preceded by a number (*three salts, *three sands). If sand refers to two different kinds of sand, however, one may speak of two sands, as it was the case for wine in Section 3. I will call these nouns, that share some similarities with mass nouns, aggregate nouns. They apply to entities that, like spinach leaves or grains of flour, are perceptually and functionally identical, meaning that one element can be substituted for another without changing the identity of the aggregate. In the usual form of an aggregate, its elements are in contact. One element of an aggregate taken in isolation cannot fulfil the function of the whole aggregate. Such is the case for a spinach leaf that cannot nourish a rabbit or for a grain of sand that is only significant if it lies in the eye. Like masses, aggregates are divisible (a portion of sand is called sand) and cumulative (two portions of sand are also called sand). Like masses, they do not specifically delimit: one may refer to a heap of sand by sand irrespective of its shape. In French, whereas some aggregate nouns like farine (‘flour’) and sable (‘sand’) can only be preceded by the singular definite article la or le (sometimes preceded by de), other aggregate nouns like épinards (‘spinach’) are preceded by the plural definite article les. Size is determinant in this choice since the singular is used for aggregates like sand or flour whose elements are very difficult to distinguish whereas the plural is used for spinach as it is composed of larger elements. This difference may motivate the contrast between the singular wheat and the plural oats, a famous example chosen by Bloomfield in order to demonstrate the arbitrariness of the grammatical categories singular and plural. However, wheat and oats are aggregate nouns since ears are heaps of grains and, if anything, grains of oats are easier to discriminate than grains of wheat. This may be the reason why the first noun is plural and the second singular. Different languages can fix the borderline between plural and singular aggregate nouns at different points on the scale. For example, du riz (‘rice’) is singular in French but the word for rice is plural in Russian (Wierzbicka 1985). However, one may expect that most aggregates with components larger than the components of the borderline aggregate are conveyed by plural nouns and those with smaller components are designated by singular nouns.

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Like masses, aggregates are divisible and cumulative. Hence, like masses, they do not have specific boundaries. However, they differ from masses because they are composed of an indeterminate number of tiny components that cannot be individually re-identified. Masses and aggregates are characterized by two different types of homogeneity: masses are homeomerous or 0-homogeneous whereas aggregates are d-homogeneous. An aggregate is d-homogeneous if any sphere with a diameter larger than d contains at least one internal boundary of a component.

Since masses do not have internal limits, they are 0-homogeneous. This absolute homogeneity contrasts with the structural homogeneity of d-homogeneous entities like sand and flower that are characterized by the homogeneous repetition of non-homogeneous components. Among aggregates, we still have to make a distinction between those like sand that are designated by a singular noun and those like épinards (‘spinach’) in French, conveyed by a plural noun. In each language, there is a borderline D at which most aggregates begin to be conveyed by a plural noun if they are d-homogeneous and that d>D. If d
Material entities

Count entities

~ Count entities

0-homogeneous Masses

d-homogeneous

dD Singular aggregate Plural aggregate

. Aggregates and collections Among super-entities, we will distinguish categories, classes and collections. Categories like dogs and cats are defined in intension, by the characteristics of their members. Therefore, members can appear and disappear and the extension of categories is variable. Classes, on the other hand, are exclusively defined by their extension. As disparate as they may be, all the objects on my desk constitute a class. When I replace one pencil on my desk with a similar pencil from a drawer, a new class has been constituted. With collections, there are further conditions of func-

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tion and of proximity between members. Therefore, a collection like a forest is not only a group of trees but they must be spatially close. If there are two disconnected groups of trees, there may be two forests instead of one. In the same way, cows in a herd must graze in the same meadow or belong to the same farmer. Among collections, we can also point out furniture and outillage (‘set of tools’) in French. In this language, outillage, like mobilier (‘furniture’) are collections that correspond interestingly to two super-categories, outils (‘tools’) and meubles (‘pieces of furniture’). In order to constitute an outillage, a set of tools does not suffice but they must also be in the same workshop or fulfil the same function. Mobilier, on the other hand, designates pieces of furniture in the same room or in the same house. This word can also be used if the pieces of furniture belong to a same region or to a same century. There is an interesting connection between collections and aggregates since the latter might be considered as a collection whose components have lost their individuality. As the members in a collection, the elements of an aggregate must be spatially close. Thus, there is a contrast between sentences (8) and (9): (8) There is gravel in the garden. (9) There are little pebbles in the garden.

If the pebbles in (9) are close enough to cover the ground, this sentence may describe the same situation as sentence (8). But the speaker of sentence (9) does not need to make such a commitment since there might be only a few pebbles scattered in the garden. When they are homogeneous, collections are close to aggregates.

. Mixtures In the preceding sections, masses and aggregates were constituted of only one ingredient. In this section, I investigate mixtures composed of more than one ingredient. In French, they may be designated by a noun (grenadine, a mixture of syrup and water), a nominal phrase (café au lait ‘coffee with milk’) or with the preposition dans (du lait dans le café ‘milk in the coffee’). Three different types of mixtures are illustrated by sentences (10)–(12): (10) There is barley in this wheat. (11) There is water in this wine. (12) ?There is hydrogen in water.

Sentence (10) describes a physical mixture between two aggregates whereas sentence (11) describes a chemical mixture between two masses. At the atomic level, the differences between these two mixtures are essentially dynamic. In the physi-

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cal mixture, grains of wheat and grains of barley interact only by contact, whereas ionic forces are at stake in the interaction of molecules of water and wine. As wheat and barley, water and wine can be dissociated by physical means. Such is not the case for hydrogen in a molecule of water, a situation described by sentence (12). I will call physical mixtures assortments. I use blends for 0-homogeneous mixtures that can be dissociated and fusions for mixtures whose components are inseparable by physical processes. Languages are more concerned by the apparent structure of mixtures than by their chemical composition. Grain, the size of the components in the mixture, has an important role. As you remember, the grain of aggregates conveyed by plural nouns like lentils or beans is larger than the grain of aggregates designated by singular nouns like sand or flour. Another important characteristic, homogeneity, depends not only on the grain of the ingredients but also on their distribution. If pepper and salt are carefully mixed in a pot, the mixture will be more homogeneous than if you have one layer of salt and one layer of pepper one above the other. D-homogeneity, defined in the preceding section for simple aggregates, is also useful to characterize mixtures: they are d-homogeneous if any sphere with a diameter larger than d contains at least one constituent of each ingredient. The homogeneity of the mixture is inversely proportional to d. If two ingredients that have the same grain are as uniformly distributed as possible, the d-parameter for the mixture is slightly superior to the sum of the diameters of the components. If, on the other hand, there is only one grain of wheat for nine grains of oats, the parameter d will be slightly superior to ten times the diameter of the components. The size of the molecules of water and wine that constitute the mixture described by sentence (11) are negligible at the level of perception. These mixtures, then, are 0-homogeneous or homeomerous. In chemistry textbooks, a mixture of water and wine is called a solution but the definitions of this term vary considerably and are often questionable. According to one textbook (quoted by Sharvy 1983: 439), a solution is “uniformly distributed in a continuous medium”. This is difficult to believe since, as a matter of fact, the dissolution of salt in water breaks the continuity of the medium.

. Mixtures and the use of the preposition in To conclude this article, I will deal with the use of the French preposition dans in the description of mixtures. Like its close equivalents, the English and German prepositions in, this preposition has been extensively studied. These prepositions are sometimes described in terms of inclusion (Wunderlich 1985), sometimes in terms of containment (Vandeloise 1986, 1993).

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According to the first analysis, x is in y if y includes x. Depending on the approach, inclusion is understood in a more or less technical way. In some cases, the analysts refer to topological inclusion. If this concept is properly used, this means that x is in y if each element of x is an element of y. In other words, x is in y if x is a subset of y. This description may work for spatial entities: Paris is in France and each part of Paris is part of France. But it obviously fails for material entities. Even though the jewels are in the box, jewels are not a subset of the box. To deal with this problem, proponents of topological inclusion claim that x is in y if the place of x is included in the place of y. But this important ontological shift from material entities to the spatial entities they occupy is not sufficient. Indeed, water is in a glass but even the place of water is not a subset of the place of the stuff constituting the glass. non-convex sets like glasses, that can be cut in more than two borderline points by a secant, must be replaced by their convex closure, the smallest convex set including them. But even this replacement runs into trouble with such open containers as glasses of wine (for details, see Vandeloise 1986; Vieu 1991; Varzi & Casati 1999). Because of these problems, some analysts use, whether explicitly (Herweg 1989) or not (Bowerman 1996), a concept of natural inclusion that can be roughly compared to the meaning of enclosure in natural languages. Rather than spatial inclusion, the second type of analysis of dans and in (Vandeloise 1986; Garrod & Sanford 1988) uses the concept of containment in the definition of these prepositions. Whereas the relationship of inclusion holds only between spatial entities, containment is a property of material entities. An important aspect of this relation is the force exerted by a container on its content. When the content is a liquid or a gas, this force is evidently more noticeable than with a solid. Containment, then, is a dynamic relation that has an important functional value. Configurational surrounding is a usual component of containment since the container must exert its control on the content in more than one direction. Horizontal planes, on the other hand, fit particularly well the relation of support. In this case, the function of the bearer is to control the weight of the burden that would fall without the counterforce of the bearer. This relationship is conveyed by on in English and by sur in French. The connection between inclusion and the use of dans in the description of mixtures requires a better understanding of the topological relations between the ingredients of a mixture. They depend on their nature (assortments, blends and fusions) as well as on the interpretation of these mixtures. Topological relationships between ingredients are the most straightforward for assortments. In a salt aggregate, all the grains, except those located at the edge of the container, are on every side in contact with other grains of salt. The surface joining those external grains delimits the convex closure of the aggregate. If the aggregate is an assortment of salt and pepper, the borderline constituents are those that are not

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surrounded on each side by a grain of salt or a grain of pepper. The convex closure of the assortment topologically includes the places occupied by the grains of each ingredient. The place of the grains of salt, in contrast, constitutes a non-convex set that is not included in the set of the grains of pepper. Assortments are aggregates in which the ingredients may be recognized if their grain is large enough. Blends, on the other hand, are 0-homogeneous masses in which the ingredients seem to disappear. In their description, languages are more sensitive to naive physics than to the wisdom of chemistry. If one mixes a yellow liquid with a green one, the color of the blend depends on the quantity of each liquid. Therefore, we know that the ingredients play a role in the creation of the blend. But what happens when the mixture is realized? According to some, including Aristotle, the ingredients die and are replaced by a new-born mass. Language conveys this belief when the blend receives a new name as in the case of the mixture of spices called curry. But in the case of milk in the coffee or sugar-water, the two ingredients remain clearly alive in the linguistic expression of the homogeneous mass. Two further interpretations corresponding to this case have been proposed in Greek Antiquity: coincidence (Stoics) and juxtaposition (Atomists) of the ingredients. If coincidence were true, the topological configuration would be improper inclusion, meaning that, in the case of coincidence, each ingredient is included in the mixture and vice-versa. Of course, with coincidence, a mixture would not be larger than its ingredients which is obviously wrong. But naive beliefs are not always rational and if you believe “rationally”, as I did for a long time, that mixtures are equal to the sum of their ingredients, as it is implied by the juxtaposition interpretation of the Atomists, you are simply wrong in the case of chemical blends in which reduction may occur. Nevertheless, juxtaposition, built on the model of physical assortments, is certainly a more plausible interpretation than coincidence. Topologically, the configuration of blends conceived as juxtapositions is close to the configuration of assortments except for one thing: assortments are d-homogeneous and blends are 0-homogeneous. To establish a bridge with assortments, one might attempt to consider the ingredients in a blend as sets of points without extension. Topologically, then, whisky with water would degenerate into a set of whisky-points and a set of water-points whose convex closures occupy the same place. According to this interpretation, in the case of juxtaposition as well as in the case of coincidence, there is improper inclusion of each ingredient in the blend. Setting aside the volume of the elements in assortments, one might also say that there is improper inclusion of the places of each of the ingredients. When the grain of assortments diminishes, they look more and more like blends. Among mixtures, the relationship between the place of one ingredient and the place of the assortment is the one that better respects topological inclusion. As illustrated by sentence (13), in which pepper is an ingredient of curry, this configuration may be described by in:

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(13) There is pepper in curry.

However, topological inclusion is far from being a necessary condition for the use of this preposition when it describes mixtures. Indeed, even though there is only improper inclusion between wine and water, in is acceptable in sentence (11), repeated here: (11) There is water in this wine.

Furthermore, in sentence (10), repeated here, this preposition may be used to relate the two ingredients of an assortment even though the place of wheat is not included in the place of barley: (10) There is barley in this wheat.

The correlation between topological inclusion and the preposition dans in the description of mixtures is rather weak. Furthermore, the notion of containment is needed to deal with data that this topological notion cannot explain. Such is the case for the contrast between sentences (14) and (15): (14) There is milk in the coffee. (15) There is coffee in the milk.

Topologically, both situations represent an improper inclusion between the ingredients of the mixture related by the preposition in. However, they do not describe exactly the same blend. Indeed, in sentence (14), the quantity of milk cannot be larger than the quantity of coffee and is probably smaller. Quite the reverse is true for the blend described by sentence (15). Mainly material, this contrast is beyond the scope of topological inclusion that can only deal with spatial entities. The relationship of containment, in contrast, is more appropriate for material entities. One of its main characteristics is that the container controls the content. A similar role may be fulfilled by the whole mixture as well as by the dominant ingredient. In French grammar, as in English, the content is conveyed by the term before the preposition (the target) and the container by the term behind it (the landmark). Therefore, coffee is the main ingredient in sentence (14) whereas milk dominates in sentence (15). Of course, the whole mixture dominates each of its ingredients. Sentence (16), in which the landmark introduced by in is the whole blend may describe the same situation as sentence (14): (16) There is milk in the café au lait.

The dominant ingredient is determined by density in liquid blends and by quantity in assortments: there are more grains of wheat than grains of barley in sentence (10). If the mixture of wheat and barley had a specific name like curry, this name might be used as a landmark. In this case, the topological relation between the

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terms related by the preposition in would be completely different. In contrast, the material relation between the quantities would be reinforced in the same direction: more than the volume of wheat, the volume of the total mixture is superior to the quantity of barley. Dependency of the content relative to the container is an important property of containment that has consequences for the use of in to describe mixtures. In the relation of containment, the content also goes toward the container rather than the reverse. The same relationship may be observed in mixtures: in order to make café au lait (‘coffee with milk’), one normally pours the smaller ingredient (the milk) in the larger one (the coffee) and not the coffee in the milk. The mobile element may be chosen as target of the preposition dans even if it is not smaller. The constraint on the density or on the quantity of the target disappears in this case. Thus, one can pour the milk in the coffee as long as one wishes, it will keep going dans le café au lait (‘in the coffee with milk’). Of course, because the borders of the container are not extendable, I cannot promise that the milk and the coffee will stay in the bowl. The situation described by sentence (16) may be represented by the formula [I1 is in I1 + I2 ] where I1 and I2 are the two ingredients. Sentence (14) describes the same situation but the landmark is conveyed by the name of I2 in the former sentence and by the name of the blend in the latter sentence. Sentence (17), (17) There is milk and coffee in the café au lait.

may be translated by [I1 and I2 are in I1 + I2 ], where I1 + I2 conveys the name of the mixture. Languages coin a word for some mixtures: a curry is an assortment of spices and a daiquiri is a blend of rum and lime. In the case of milk in the coffee or sugarwater, in contrast, the two ingredients remain alive in the linguistic expression of the homogeneous mass. Whereas these composed expressions bear witness to the survival of the ingredients of the mixture, the coining of a new word is more in keeping with the creation of a new entity. However, the disappearance of the ingredients is not confirmed by sentence (18): (18) There is lime in the daiquiri.

Water with sugar may be described in two ways in French: (19) Il y a du sucre dans l’eau. there is some sugar in the water ‘There is sugar in the water.’ (20) L’eau est sucrée. the water is sugar-pp ‘There is sugar in the water.’

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Sentence (19) is compatible with a situation in which sugar is not completely dissolved while eau sucrée, like eau salée (‘salted water’) or eau sale (‘dirty water’) rather suggests a homogeneous blend. All the ingredients in a mixture do not have the same role. Some people put water in their wine. However, they would feel cheated if they knew that a merchant had diluted the wine with water. If they forget that water necessarily enters into the fabrication of wine, it is because, in contrast to the water added to a glass or to a bottle, the water has been “metamorphosed” into wine. The same is true with soup and coffee: there is no comparison between the water used to make these liquids and the water you may add afterwards because the soup is too thick or the coffee too strong. The vegetables in a soup are not linguistically treated like water, since water is the element that turns soup into a solution. Therefore, even though a tomato soup requires tomatoes and water, one may say une soupe aux tomates (‘a tomato soup’) but not une soupe à l’eau (‘a water soup’). Thus, the more an ingredient integrates itself into the mixture, the less its name may appear in its linguistic description. For this reason, in contrast to tomatoes, water cannot be considered as the content of the soup and, unless it has been added after the cooking, one would not say that there is water in the soup. In the same way, one may say that, in Belgium like in Louisiana, there is humidity in the air but, even though there is no humidity without water, one cannot say that there is water in the air, unless there is condensation, creating clouds or rain. We know how blends like coffee or cocktails are mixed and they can sometimes be easily dissociated by physical means. For this reason, the presence of the ingredients in these mixtures is rather conspicuous. Not so for fusions that cannot be physically dissociated. Therefore, they are more likely to be linguistically treated independently of their ingredients. Rather than by a prepositional phrase including the name of the ingredients related by a preposition, fusions often are designated by a single noun. At the atomic level, even simple ingredients may be considered as a fusion. As an example, a molecule of water is a fusion of one atom of oxygen and two atoms of hydrogen. This has been the source of a philosophical puzzle (Zemach 1979). Indeed, remember that any part of a mass like water should be water. However, suppose that, with the help of modern science, we divide water up into its molecules and then into its atoms of oxygen or hydrogen. These atoms are parts of water but, in contradistinction to the cumulative property of masses (Section 3), they are not water. This problem should not worry linguists too much. The reason is that, for the time being, natural languages do not normally work at the atomic level, beyond the threshold of visual perception. Therefore, sentence (12), repeated here, looks very odd: (12) There is hydrogen in water. (21) There is hydrogen in a molecule of water.

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If sentence (21) is perfectly acceptable, this is because the word molecule shifts this sentence from natural to technical language. The preposition in is also acceptable in sentences (22) and (23): (22) There is iron in spinach. (23) There is mercury in fish.

This is so because spinach and mercury are not treated here like the chemical elements Fe and Hg. These sentences rather convey the beneficial or deleterious consequences that common knowledge suggests iron and mercury may have on the health of those who eat spinach and fishes.

. Conclusion This article has attempted to describe our perception and conceptualization of concrete entities represented by nouns in languages like French and English. Places occupied by concrete entities have been called spatial entities. They are not material entities but may be considered more concrete than abstract notions such as qualities since they can exist independently. Perceptions and conceptualizations are the foundation of thought. Can they exist independently of language? Only non-speaking creatures can have a thought completely independent of language. And, by definition, they cannot tell us what it looks like. We could not see the tip of our nose without a mirror. Words are the only mirror in which our silent thought can reflect itself. Formal languages cannot help to solve this paradox since they may be considered as a development of language. One may go around this difficulty by identifying thought and language. Structuralist linguists are close to adopt this solution when they speak of la masse informe de la pensée (‘the amorphous mass of thought’) which is shaped by language. However, I cannot help thinking that my state of mind is different when I look silently at my garden than when I look at the water of a river. And looking at a forest (or imagining it) is not the same thing as saying forest, even though there is a connection between these two operations. If one wants to understand this connection, the only solution is to try to describe (with words) what we feel when we look at a forest! This is logically unsatisfactory and doomed to be imperfect but this is the only way to progress. That is what I attempted to do in this article. As far as the connection between entities and language is concerned, it has been seen that words like forest or country can refer to spatial entities as well as to material entities, depending on the context. This does not mean that language cannot make a distinction between spatial and material entities. As a matter of fact, a spatial preposition in front of a material entity, like in behind the tree, transforms

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a material entity (the tree) in a spatial entity (the region behind the tree). If words like forest and country are ambiguous, it is because, for the communicative purpose of the speakers, the material entity and the spatial entity are so closely related that, very often, the distinction does not matter. The last section of the chapter is concerned with the relation between mixtures and their names. Conceptually, one may consider that the ingredients disappear to create a new entity or that they survive in the mixture. Language appears to adopt the former position when it coins a new word for the mixture (like in curry) and the latter solution when it keeps the name of the ingredients linked by a preposition like in coffee with milk. I would like to conclude this conclusion with an anecdote that demonstrates the importance of the distinction between count entities and mass entities in social and political life. French uses a count noun (voyou) to designate hooligans and a mass noun to designate scum (racaille). In November 2005, a French Interior Minister provoked riots in the underprivileged suburbs of France by calling the young inhabitants of these cities “des voyous et de la racaille”. He remained silent for days while young people were burning cars during the night in protestation but came back on his declaration a week latter with more conciliatory intention. However, he maintained that burning cars could only be committed by des voyous et DES racailles. Notice that de la racaille has been replaced by des racailles. This is bad French but less insulting. Indeed, a count noun like voyou is derogatory but it acknowledges that each individual keeps his or her own limits, in other words a personality. The mass noun la racaille, in contrast, deprives the hooligans of their individuality to fuse them in an indistinct mob. By using des racailles instead of de la racaille, the Minister appeared to quote himself while, at the same time, attenuating his remark in replacing a mass noun by a count noun and conceding boundaries – and consequently individuality – to the hooligans.

References Aurnague, Michel (1991). Contribution à l’étude de la sémantique formelle de l’espace et du raisonnement spatial: La localisation interne en français. PhD dissertation, Université Paul Sabatier, Toulouse. Aurnague, Michel (1996). Les noms de localisation interne: Tentative de caractérisation sémantique à partir des données du basque et du français. Cahiers de Lexicologie, 69(2), 159–192. Bloomfield, Leonard (1933). Language. London: George Allen & Unwin. Borillo, Andrée (1988). Le lexique de l’espace: Les noms et les adjectifs de localisation interne. Cahiers de Grammaire, 13, 1–22. Bowerman, Melissa (1996). The origins of children’s spatial semantic categories: Cognitive versus linguistic determinants. In J. Gumperz & S. Levinson (Eds.), Rethinking linguistic relativity (pp. 145–176). Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.

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Garrod, Simon G. & Anthony J. Sanford (1988). Discourse models as interfaces between language and the spatial world. Journal of Semantics, 6, 147–160. Herweg, Michael (1989). Ansätze zu einer semantischen Beschreibung topologisher Präpositionen. In C. Habel, M. Herweg, & K. Rehkämper (Eds.), Raumkonzepte in Verstehenprozessen (pp. 99–127). Tübingen: Max Niemeyer Verlag. Langacker, Ronald (1991). Foundations of cognitive grammar. Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press. Pelletier, François (Ed.). (1979). Mass terms: Some philosophical problems. Dordrecht: D. Reidel. Quine, Willard V. (1960). Words and objects. New York: John Wiley & Sons. Quine, Willard V. (1973). The roots of reference. La Salle, IL: Open Court. Rosch, Eleanor & Carolyn B. Mervis (1975). Family resemblances: Studies in the internal structure of categories. Cognitive Psychology, 7, 573–605. Rosch, Eleanor, Carol Simpson, & R. Scott Miller (1976). Structural basis of typicality effects. Journal of Experimental Psychology: Human Perception and Performance, 2, 491–502. Ruwet, Nicolas (1991). Human experience and syntax. Chicago, IL: Chicago University Press. Sharvy, Richard (1983). Aristotle on mixtures. The Journal of Philosophy, LXXX: 8, 439–455. Strawson, Peter F. (1959). Individuals [University Paperbacks]. London: Methuen. Vandeloise, Claude (1986). L’espace en français. Paris: Les Editions du Seuil. Vandeloise, Claude (1993). Méthodologie et analyse de la préposition dans. Lexique, 11, 15–40. Vandeloise, Claude (1999). Chaque chose à sa place et chaque chose en son temps. In M. Plénat, M. Aurnague, A. Condamines, J. P. Maurel, Ch. Molinier, & C. Muller (Eds.), L’emprise du sens (pp. 303–323). Amsterdam: Rodopi. Vandeloise, Claude (2001). Aristote et le lexique de l’espace. Stanford, CA: CSLI. Varzi, Achille & Roberto Casati (1999). Parts and places: The structure of spatial representation. Cambridge, MA: The MIT Press. Vieu, Laure (1991). Sémantique des relation spatiales et inférences spatio-temporelles: Une contribution à l’étude des structures formelles de l’espace en langage naturel. PhD dissertation, Université Paul Sabatier, Toulouse. Wierzbicka, Anna (1985). Wheats and oats: The fallacy of arbitrariness. In J. Haiman (Ed.), Iconicity and Syntax (pp. 311–342). Amsterdam: John Benjamins. Wunderlich, Dieter (1985). Raum, Zeit und Lexicon. In H. Schweizer (Ed.), Sprache und Raum (pp. 66–90). Stuttgart: Metzler. Zemach, Eddy (1979). Four Ontologies. In F. Pelletier (Ed.), Mass terms: Some philosophical problems (pp. 81–88). Dordrecht: D. Reidel.

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On the spatial meaning of contre in French The role of entities and force dynamics Andrée Borillo Equipe de Recherche en Syntaxe et Sémantique (ERSS–UMR 5610) CNRS & Université de Toulouse-Le Mirail In its spatial use, the preposition contre (‘against’) applies to nouns that denote entities of the physical world, the notions of “tension” and “force and counterforce” proving to be central. We show that the degrees of intensity expressed by contre depend on: (1) the nature of the “figure” and “ground” and their role as “agonist” (focal force entity) or “antagonist” (opposed force entity); (2) the nature of the force itself (static or dynamic). On the basis of these factors, three schemata are presented, according to the origin of force exertion: in the figure, in the ground or in both sides. But in situations where visual effects play a decisive role, the tension carried out by “force and counterforce” disappears to adapt contre to mere proximity or contrast.

.

Introduction1

According to various studies recently published (cf. Schepping 1991; Dendale 2000; Dendale & De Mulder 1998; Borillo 2003), the French preposition contre (‘against’) may be used in different ways and the meanings it conveys mainly distribute along three or four main lines. It is meant to express a certain type of juxtaposition or contact between solid material entities: (1) L’échelle est appuyée contre l’arbre. the ladder be-pres propped against the tree ‘The ladder is propped up against the tree.’ (2) Sa maison est contre l’église. his house be-pres against the church ‘His house is against the church.’ . This research was carried out within the project “Spatial entities and their categorization in language and cognition” (COG135; 1999–2001) that was financially supported by the Program “Cognitique” of the French Ministry of Research.

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It is used to express an opposing force, meant to be interpreted either as physical or psychological (hostility): (3) Il lutta toute la nuit contre les assauts des vagues. he fight-p.his all the night against the assaults of the waves ‘He fought all night long against the breaking waves.’ (4) Je n’ai rien contre cette doctrine. I not have-pres nothing against this doctrine ‘I have nothing against this doctrine.’

It is also used to express a relation of reciprocity or exchange: (5) Il m’a cédé son album contre des BD. he me aux give-pp his album against some comic strips ‘He let me have his album in exchange for comic strips.’

Sometimes it is also presented as expressing a relation of proportion, but this meaning can probably be derived from its opposition meaning: (6) La résolution a été votée à quinze voix contre neuf. the resolution has been vote-pp by fifteen votes against nine ‘The resolution was passed by fifteen votes as against nine.’

We must specify that our study here will be restricted to the locative reading of contre, that is, restricted to cases where it stands for a spatial relation expressing juxtaposition or contact between concrete physical entities – the way it is illustrated in (1) and (2) above. In fact, when we look more precisely at the different ways in which contre expresses a spatial relation between concrete physical entities, we observe that its use is not restricted to physical contact or proximity as in (1) and (2), but extends to a wider range of spatial relations, as illustrated in the following examples (7) to (11): (7) L’avion s’est écrasé contre la montagne. the plane aux crash-pp against the mountain ‘The plane crashed against the mountain.’ (8) Il retourna le portrait contre le mur. he turn-p.hist the portrait against the wall ‘He turned the portrait against the wall.’ (9) Le saumon nage contre le courant. the salmon swim-pres against the stream ‘Salmon swims against the stream.’ (10) Elle serra son fils contre sa poitrine. she press-p.hist her son against her breast ‘She pressed her son against her breast.’

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(11) Les ombres se projetaient contre le mur d’en face. the shadows project-imp against the wall opposite ‘The shadows projected on the opposite wall.’

In these various uses of contre, all the entities to which the relation applies are concrete physical entities such as solid objects, living creatures, fluids in motion, perceptible forms, etc. As we can see in the examples given above, the different sentences are built on the same model: the entity to be located, called “cible” in French (Vandeloise 1986; translated as “target” or “figure”2 in English), generally stands as the sentential subject or as the direct object if the verb is transitive with an agentive subject. The second entity, called the “site” (“landmark” or “ground” in English) acting as a reference point or an anchoring landmark for the figure, is coupled with the preposition contre to form the complement of the verb. Basically, if we look at all these examples, we derive a common characterization for the different relations expressed by contre, as applied to material physical entities: the fact that all of them have something to do with the notion of “tension” or “force and counterforce” (in the sense in which these two terms are understood in mechanics). This notion of “force and counterforce” is itself included in the general concept of “force dynamics” that has been developed by Talmy in a study where this semantic category is considered “as one of the preeminent conceptual organizing categories in language” (1985: 333). It has to do with “the exertion of force, resistance to such a force, the overcoming of such a resistance, blockage of the expression of force, removal of such blockage, and the like” (ibid: 293), so that to account for force dynamics is to see “how entities interact with respect to force”. With respect to this general concept, a notion we are particularly inclined to retain here because it plays a central role in the meaning of contre, is the “notion of force and counterforce”: an entity exerting a force directed towards another is counterbalanced by the force exerted back by the latter – a force produced as a reaction of its own. As we will see, both opposing forces can lead either to a static effect or to a dynamic one. In our eyes, this conceptual schema is essential to explain most of the spatial relations expressed by contre. We could go further and see how this concept of force and counterforce can be extended to psychological and social interactions (Groussier 1997) and lead to the notion of opposition and exchange (illustrated in examples (4) and (5) above). But, in the present study, we will only retain entities of the physical world and the spatial relations that contre can establish between them (what we may call its “locative meaning”).

. To simplify, from now on we will directly use the English terms “figure” and “ground” (or “figure entity” and “ground entity”) without mentioning the two French equivalents.

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In the different examples presented above to illustrate the locative meaning of contre – (1), (2) and (6)–(11) – the tension supposed to develop between the two entities – figure and ground – appears to be of a different kind, and more precisely of a different intensity. It clearly varies in such a way that sometimes it is difficult to perceive any tension at all; it is the case, for example, in (2) or (11) above where we interpret the relation denoted by contre respectively as close proximity and as contrast. In fact, the degree of intensity of this tension produced by the force and counterforce respectively developed by the figure and the ground seems to depend on three combining factors: 1. the nature of the entities affected by the relation expressed by contre, and their role in the exertion of this tension. Following Talmy, we will use the term “agonist” for the focal force entity and of “antagonist” for the force element that acts against it and opposes it. 2. the different ways in which figure and ground – as they have been defined – play respectively the part of the agonist and of the antagonist in this situation of tension and force dynamics. 3. the nature of the force itself that brings the two entities together, or more precisely the force that directs them towards each other. The dynamic quality of this force is generally expressed through the verb of the sentence. For example, anybody can easily make the difference between to lean (against) and to hurl oneself (against).

. Sketching three different types of prototypical schemata Combining these different factors, three types of prototypical schemata can then be isolated: In the first one (cf. 2.1 below), the figure appears in the role of the agonist. In the second one (cf. 2.2), the role of the agonist is played by what is considered as the ground. In the third one (cf. 2.3), two opposing forces are simultaneously exerted by two entities that cannot be considered as either figure or ground as they both manifest a simultaneous reverse action. . The force exertion originates in the figure In such a construction, the figure, functioning as the sentential subject or as the verb’s complement if there is an agentive subject, acts as the agonist. In this prototypical situation, contre contributes to conveying the idea that a force exerted by

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the agonist encounters resistance on the part of the antagonist (here the ground) which acts as a support or as an obstacle. But this mutual relation of force-counterforce can take different aspects according to the nature of the two entities – figure and ground – and also according to the intensity of the force being initiated and maintained by the figure. .. The agonist is a solid material entity subject to the force of gravity As they are subject to the law of gravity, concrete solid objects have a particular way of offering a resistance to the force of gravity generally figured as an oriented vertical axis, and of finding a natural position on the orthogonal horizontal plane that provides them with a support and a stable base. The most common support is supplied by the surface of the earth or in more ordinary terms, by the flat surface of the ground. Then, under these conditions, if the figure acting as the agonist is a material solid entity in search of a static position, it naturally exerts a force released by its proper weight and density. (1) Solid objects acquire a static position of their own, according to their dimensional properties (for example, the fact that they are two- or threedimensional) but also according to their consistency, their rigidity, their weight, etc. If such objects fail to attain their natural static position, they loose their balance and exert a force released by their weight which tends to bring them down, to the ground or to a flat surface. In order to stabilize them they need to be propped up, to find something to lean on, for example another solid entity enjoying a stable position of its own. Thus, functional objects such as ladders, bicycles or natural objects such as climbing plants, poles, rods, etc. need something to counterbalance their weight force and stabilize them. To express this stabilizing action, contre can be coupled with verbs expressing this capacity of “leaning up”, of “holding up”, such as être appuyé contre (‘to lean against’), or prendre appui contre (‘to be propped up against’) as in (1) repeated below: (1) L’échelle est appuyée contre l’arbre. ‘The ladder is propped against the tree.’

(2) Amongst material entities, human beings or animals have a particular status by the fact that they can generally resist the force of gravity and are able to adopt and to maintain a standing position. But on some occasions, they may need or choose to resort to a physical support to help them to stand or to rest. The verb être appuyé contre, available for any concrete objects, can be used for them but in addition, there are quite a number of more specific positional verbs such as se tenir debout (‘to stand up’) (12), être adossé (‘to lean against’) (13), être assis (‘to be seated’), etc. or verbs with which a meronymic relation can hold between the subject denoting the agonist and a complement figuring one of its body parts –

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either a verbal complement [N0i V N1i contre N2] as in (14), or an appositive complement [N0i V, N1i contre N2] as in (15): (12) Il se tenait debout contre le montant de la porte. he stand-imp against the frame of the door ‘He was standing against the door frame.’ (13) Il était adossé contre le tronc de l’arbre. he be-imp lean-pp against the trunk of the tree ‘He was leaning against the trunk of the tree.’ (14) Il laissa aller sa tête contre le mur. he let-p.hist go his head against the wall ‘He leant his head against the wall.’ (15) Il était couché, l’oreille contre le sol. he be-imp lie-pp, the ear against the ground ‘He was lying with his ear against the ground.’

In this natural encounter of two forces expressed by contre, a balance is obtained which is expressed through verbs meant to describe a state: se tenir debout (‘to stand’), être adossé (‘to lean back’), être couché (‘to lie’) as in (12), (13) and (15) above, or verbs meant to describe movements resulting in a state, as laisser aller contre (‘to recline against’, ‘to lean against’) as in (14). Generally, the antagonist force which responds in a cooperative way to stabilize the figure in a standing position, is supplied by a vertical solid entity (as here in our examples, a wall, a tree, a door frame), but there are also cases where the support is provided by a horizontal plane on which the figure is meant to rest or to recline in an unusual way, as we can see in (15) above for “his ear against the ground” or in (16) below for “his nose against the table”: (16) Il resta longtemps assis le nez contre la table he remain-p.hist long time seat-pp, the nose against the table ‘He remained seated for a long time, his nose against the table.’

.. The agonist is a living being endowed with intentionality The agonist playing the part of the figure may be an animal or a human being voluntarily exerting a force of its own. It is possible for this force to remain passive – that is, reduced to the pressure induced by the figure’s own weight or by the resistance it offers – but it may well acquire a higher level of intensity if it is exerted in a more dynamic way, as a voluntary pressure directed towards an opposing counterforce. There are different degrees in this dynamic force exertion, but even if it appears as a very light one hardly perceived as such, it actually acts as a physical pressure.

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On the spatial meaning of contre in French

In this case, the structures containing this type of subject (that is denoting a living being) make use of more dynamic verbs describing voluntary actions: (1) intransitive reflexive verbs indicating that the agonist comes into close contact with another entity [N0 se V (‘V oneself ’) contre (‘against’) N1]: se coller (‘to stick’), se plaquer (‘to lie flat’), se serrer (‘to snuggle’), se blottir, (‘to huddle’), se tapir (‘to nestle’): (17) L’enfant se blottit contre sa poitrine. the child huddle-p.hist against her breast ‘The child huddled against her breast.’

(2) transitive verbs expressing an action carried out by the agonist (represented by the subject N0) with the help of one of its body parts, N1 [N0i V N1i contre (‘against’) N2]: frotter (‘to rub’), plaquer (‘to press’), coller (‘to glue’, ‘to stick’), etc.: (18) Il plaqua son oreille contre la cloison he stick-p.hist his ear against the wall ‘He stuck his ear against the wall.’

As there is a voluntary action on the part of the agonist, he can choose to direct the force he exerts towards himself. We then have sentence structures in which the agonist, N1, is also and simultaneously acting as the antagonist, N2, as in (19), or at least is giving this role to one of his body parts, as in (20): (19) Elle pressa l’enfant contre elle. she clasp-p.hist the child against her ‘She clasped the child against her.’ (20) Elle pressa l’enfant contre son cœur. she clasp-p.hist the child against her heart ‘She clasped the child against her heart.’

The pressure can increase and reach the intensity of such actions as percussion, friction, squeezing, etc.: cogner (‘to bang’, ‘to knock’), frotter (‘to rub’). Its violence can even bring about the destruction of the object on which it is exerted: écraser (‘to squash’, ‘to crush’): (21) Il écrasa la mouche contre la vitre. he squash-p.hist the fly against the window-pane ‘He squashed the fly against the window-pane.’

.. Taking into account dynamicity (i.e. motion, speed, impetus) in the agonist’s force exertion Independently of the nature of the agonist, and of whether the force exerted is intentional or not, an important factor, dynamicity, is involved in the intensity of this force and in the violence of the encounter between agonist and antagonist.

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This dynamic factor is expressed in the sentence via the verb which describes the action initiated by the agonist. The meeting of the two forces – a dynamic one exerted by the agonist, the other being at a standstill or motionless if it is fixed by nature – results in a contact that can be described as a collision or a violent clash. There are various kinds of verbs describing dynamic action on the basis of such physical phenomena as motion, impetus, thrust, momentum, etc. They belong to two large well-known categories, each one being characterized by different types of syntactic structures in which they are supposed to operate. ... Structures with unaccusative and intransitive verbs. The subject argument denoting the agonist corresponds to the figure entity whose motion and impetus are directed voluntarily or involuntarily towards something or somebody offering some resistance, and more precisely in this case, acting as an obstacle liable to stop or to block its motion. These verbs can be graded according to the intensity of the dynamic force they express and to the nature of its effects, that is (a) leading to a strong impact, (b) resulting in violent clash, (c) possibly responsible for a physical deterioration or a complete destruction of the figure itself. Strong impact. In this case, we find verbs conveying a meaning of rapid motion induced by a strong dynamic force: se précipiter, foncer (‘to dash’), se ruer (‘to rush’), s’élancer (‘to dart’), bondir (‘to leap’), se jeter (‘to throw oneself ’), etc. Like most motion verbs, they are liable to take a locative complement introduced by a preposition such as sur (‘on’), dans (‘into’), vers (‘towards’) or for some of them, jusqu’à (‘as far as’). But with contre, we have the introduction of the notion of opposing forces. Figure and ground come into contact with a certain violence, creating either a collision, a percussion or a clash according to the nature of the situation: (22) La voiture s’est précipitée contre un arbre. the car aux race-pp against a tree ‘The car raced against a tree.’

Moreover, these physical conditions are generally combined with the idea of aggressive feelings on the part of the agonist, when it is a living being responsible for intentional, deliberate acts: (23) Le fauve se précipita contre le grillage. the wild beast rush-p.hist against the wire fence ‘The wild beast rushed against the wire fence.’

Violent clash. There are verbs indicating that the dynamic force exerted by the agonist results in a collision, such as buter (‘to bump’), percuter (‘to hit’), frapper, taper (‘to strike’), heurter (‘to collide with’), ricocher (‘to bounce’), tamponner (‘to ram’), cogner (‘to knock’), etc.

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On the spatial meaning of contre in French

(24) Les balles ont ricoché contre le grillage. the bullets aux bounce-pp against the wire fence ‘The bullets bounced against the wire fence.’

In this case, the two semi-auxiliaries aller and venir are often present in order to emphasize or to make explicit the fact that motion precedes – and is responsible for – the violent impact expressed by the verb: (25) La voiture est allée buter contre l’arbre. the car aux go-pp bump against the tree ‘The car went and bumped against the tree.’ (24) a.

Les balles sont venues ricocher contre le grillage. the bullets aux come-pp bounce against the wire fence ‘The bullets came and bounced against the wire fence.’

Some of these verbs accept as an argument either a prepositional complement or a direct object, e.g., percuter (‘to hit’) or cogner (‘to knock’): (26) La voiture est venue percuter (contre) l’arbre à pleine vitesse. the car aux go-pp hit (against) the tree at full speed ‘The car went and hit (against) the tree at full speed.’ (27) Dans la bousculade, sa tête alla cogner (contre) le mur. in the hustle, his head go-p.hist knock (against) the wall ‘In the hustle, his head went and knocked (against) the wall.’

Physical deterioration. There is a small group of verbs whose meaning focuses on the result produced by this rough contact between figure and ground, that is the deterioration or even the destruction of the figure (denoted in the sentence by the subject): se disloquer (‘to come apart’), se briser (‘to break’), se fracasser (‘to shatter’), s’écraser (‘to crush’), etc. In this case, the collision itself is suggested by the very presence of contre: (28) La coque du bateau s’est brisée contre les rochers. the hull of the boat aux smash-pp against the rocks ‘The hull of the boat smashed against the rocks.’ (29) Le vase est allé se fracasser contre le mur. the vase aux go-pp shatter against the wall ‘The vase went and shattered against the wall.’

... Transitive verbs. They bring into play a third entity, that is a cause or an agent responsible for bringing into motion the agonist and for directing it towards the antagonist denoted in the sentence by the complement introduced by contre. In this case, the subject does not denote the agonist but the agent responsible for the action, directing the dynamic force of an object he or she controls, to-

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wards – and against – some other entity: lancer (‘to throw’), heurter (‘to knock’), frapper (‘to bang’), percuter (‘to crash’), etc. (30) Il lança une pierre contre la vitre. he hurl-p.hist a stone against the window-pane ‘He hurled a stone against the window-pane.’ (31) Il choqua son verre contre le mien. he clink-p.hist his glass against mine ‘He clinked his glass against mine.’ (32) Il fit claquer sa langue contre son palais. he make-p.hist click his tongue against his palate ‘He clicked his tongue against his palate.’

Lexically, most of these transitive verbs are the same as the preceding ones (i.e. the unaccusative or intransitive verbs mentioned in 2.1.3.1). But here, they take three arguments, among which the subject representing the cause or the agent, as for example acculer (‘to drive back’), pousser (‘to push’), jeter, lancer (‘to throw’), projeter (‘to project’), envoyer (‘to throw’), repousser (‘to push away’), tirer (‘to haul’), précipiter (‘to hurl’), propulser (‘to drive along’), etc. With these transitive verbs, it is possible to have the same kind of gradation as for the unaccusative and intransitive verbs, ranging from mild impetus to violent impact and collision, eventually causing damage to – or destruction of – the antagonist: (33) Nous avons poussé le lit contre le mur. we aux push-pp the bed against the wall ‘We pushed the bed against the wall.’ (34) L’enfant a jeté des pierres contre les volets. the child aux throw-pp stones against the shutters ‘The child threw stones against the shutters.’ (35) Les vagues ont fracassé le bateau contre les rochers. the waves aux shatter-pp the boat against the rocks ‘The waves shattered the boat against the rocks.’

The cause or the agent denoted by the subject of the sentence sets the figure entity into motion and directs its trajectory towards the ground entity acting as an obstacle. If the agent is an animate being, it is generally motivated and driven by aggressive or hostile intentions. But all these verbs can be used in the passive voice, with no mention of a cause or an agent when the force is to be attributed to natural phenomena such as the wind, speed, thrust, force of gravity, etc. (36) La voiture a été projetée contre le rail de sécurité. the car has been project-pp against the crash barrier ‘The car was projected against the crash barrier.’

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On the spatial meaning of contre in French

The verbs describing this range of situations have a transitive construction if an agent is mentioned, but most often, no agent being mentioned, the same verbs can be used as unaccusatives in a reflexive form: s’écraser (‘to crash’), se fracasser (‘to smash’), se briser (‘to break’), etc. (7) L’avion s’est écrasé contre la montagne. ‘The plane crashed against the mountain.’ (37) La voiture se fracassa contre le platane. the car crash-p.hist against the plane tree. ‘The car crashed against the plane tree.’

. The force exertion originates in the ground entity In some cases, the figure entity denoted by the subject of the sentence does not act as the agonist initiating the force exertion directed towards another entity that opposes a resistance or a blockage. But on the contrary, the figure entity acts as an opposing force resisting or struggling against an initial force power directed towards it, coming from what we identify as the ground entity (denoted by the verb’s complement introduced by contre): (38) Le nageur lutte contre le courant. the swimmer struggle-pres against the current ‘The swimmer is struggling against the current.’

Generally, this assailing force originates in natural dynamic elements which can be identified because they are visible or at least perceptible, such as flowing water, rain, waves, wind, fire, thunderstorm, tempest, etc., i.e. natural elements whose action and motion can be perceived as being directed towards a target. The counterforce that the figure entity opposes against these natural forces may remain essentially passive or defensive. This is expressed through verbs like se protéger (‘to protect’), s’abriter (‘to shelter’), se défendre (‘to protect oneself ’): (39) La digue est une protection contre les vagues. the sea-wall be-pres a protection against the waves ‘The sea-wall is a protection against the waves.’ (40) Il s’abrita contre le vent. he shelter-p.hist against the wind ‘He sheltered against the wind.’

But the counterforce exerted by the figure itself can be of a dynamic nature. It can be interpreted as a reaction to the force it is subject to, in order to stop it or to overcome it, yet in some cases, it can be more offensive and be interpreted as a counterattack to overwhelm it.

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The difference is expressed in the sentence through the verb: either a motion verb such as nager (‘to swim’) as in (9), remonter (‘to swim upstream’), progresser (‘to gain ground’), etc. or a verb expressing a more offensive attitude: lutter (‘to fight’), as in (41), se mobiliser (‘to engage in battle’), se battre (‘to struggle’, ‘to wrestle’): (9) Le saumon nage contre le courant. ‘Salmon swims against the stream.’ (41) Ils luttèrent toute la nuit contre le feu. they fight-p.hist all the night against the fire ‘They fought all night long against the fire.’

As we have said, this kind of offensive or aggressive action is generally attributed to natural physical elements, but sometimes it is difficult to draw a borderline with the intervention of other kinds of phenomena whose manifestation is more diffuse and whose action on objects and living beings is more difficult to define and to localize, as for example sunlight, heat, cold, ice, or even illness, age, etc. We get the same intransitive and transitive structures with these “actors”, with the difference, perhaps, that contre can more easily be substituted by de (‘from’): (42) Les alpinistes s’abritèrent du froid. the mountaineers shelter-p.hist from the cold ‘The mountaineers sheltered from the cold.’ (43) On protège les plantes fragiles des rayons du soleil. one protect-pres the plants fragile from the beams of the sun ‘Fragile plants are protected from sunlight.’

. Opposite force exertion from two entities of the same class of objects So far, we have presented two sorts of configurations where force and counterforce play their part, but where the initial force exertion is to be attributed to one side (the figure) or to the other (the ground). We can describe a third kind of situation, where two opposite forces are simultaneously exerted by two entities of the same category, one reacting to the other and vice versa. This simultaneous reverse action is generally expressed through reciprocal sentence structures, but for them, specific verbs are not required: all the verbs that have been presented so far (more precisely in §1.2) can operate as predicates in a reciprocal sentence of the form [N0plur3 (se) V (‘V (oneself)’) l’un contre l’autre (‘one against the other’)] for intransitive verbs (44), or of the form [N0 V N1plur l’un contre l’autre] for transitive verbs (45), (46): . According to the verb category, either the subject (N0) or the direct object (N1) takes the plural form.

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(44) Les verres cliquetaient les uns contre les autres. the glasses clink-imp the ones against the others ‘The glasses clinked against each other.’ (45) Elle frotta ses mains l’une contre l’autre. she rub-p.his her hands the one against the other ‘She rubbed her hands one against the other.’ (46) Il appuya les skis les uns contre les autres. he prop-p.hist the skis the ones against the others ‘He propped the skis one against the other.’

We may find expressions such as [les uns contre les autres] (‘one against the other’) or [Nx contre Ny] or even [Nx contre Nx] used on their own, that is without being part of an actual reciprocal construction (since it is not possible to interpret the action expressed by the verb as being reversed from one protagonist to the other – which is the normal case for reciprocal sentences). Such NPs can be added as a manner complement or as an apposition to a predicate in a sentence with a plural subject, describing a situation where two comparable physical forces reach a sort of tensed balance when they touch or when they are simply placed side by side. This construction is possible, independently of the nature of the entities involved, as long as they constitute a set of material objects or living beings: (47) Les maisons étaient alignées les unes contre les autres. the buildings be-imp in a line the ones against the others ‘The buildings were in a line one against the other.’ (48) Les hommes marchaient épaule contre épaule. the men walk-imp shoulder against shoulder ‘Men walked shoulder to shoulder.’

In 2.1, 2.2 and 2.3, we have described three different ways in which the notion of force-counterforce can be responsible for a static or a dynamic spatial relation operating between two entities, each playing the converse role of agonist or antagonist. We now have to explain more particular cases where the spatial preposition contre doesn’t seem to correspond to these three prototypical schemata.

. Three cases where contre cannot be directly associated with force exertion . Tension reduced to a perceptive effect of contact and proximity In many examples, contre may be used to relate two material entities, even when neither of the two seems to exert force tension or pressure towards the other. We have seen such examples in (2) or (47) above, we may add some others such as (49):

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(2) Sa maison est contre l’église. ‘His house is against the church.’ (49) Les cartons étaient entreposés contre le mur. the boxes be-imp store-pp against the wall ‘The boxes were stored against the wall.’

In these examples, the figure entity – denoted by the subject – doesn’t need to be propped up by the ground entity – denoted by the complement – to find its balance. In (2), we don’t have the mental representation of the house leaning on to the church to establish its (standing) position. The relation between the two is reduced to a mere contact or even to a close proximity – they hardly need to touch as we have already pinpointed this kind of situation with entities belonging to a set. One can explain this as the product of a perceptual effect or even of an optical illusion. In general, it is true that contact is the natural result obtained when the two opposite forces are at play in a situation of force-counterforce. If we encounter sentences such as those given in (13) or (15): (13) Il était adossé contre le tronc de l’arbre. ‘He was leaning back against the trunk of the tree.’ (15) Il était couché, l’oreille contre le sol. ‘He was lying with his ear against the ground.’

we have the representation of “the back being in contact with the tree” or “the ear being in contact with the ground”. But most of the time, from a perceptual point of view, there is not a great difference between contact and close proximity. It is particularly true when the ground entity has a vertical dimension and is much bigger in size than the figure entity. For example, in (2) or in (49) above, we probably perceive the small entity as leaning against the big one, even if we know, or if we suppose, that they are only in a close proximity. We are thus entitled to use the preposition contre even if it is clear that the figure doesn’t establish its position in terms of the ground. For the same reason, in (50) we can use contre instead of tout près (‘close to’) or in (51), instead of le long de (‘along’): (50) Je m’installai (tout) contre la fenêtre. I settle-p.hist (all) against the window ‘I settled down against the window.’ (51) De vieilles guirlandes pendaient contre le mur. some old garlands hang-imp against the wall ‘Old garlands were hanging against the wall.’

The fact that the figure is much smaller than the ground gives perceptually the impression that its position depends on it, as if it was leaning on it. This difference

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On the spatial meaning of contre in French

in size explains why in (2) above, we can hardly reverse the order and role of the two entities: (2) a.

??L’église

est contre sa maison. ‘The church is against his house.’

Thus, we can conclude that contre tends to be used for the expression of close proximity when it appears that the ground has a vertical dimension and is much bigger than the figure. This perceptual illusion also applies to dynamic situations. If a figure moves, not perpendicularly but parallel to a much larger and taller entity, the latter seems to control its motion, constraining and orientating its trajectory, which sometimes it really does. In that case, contre can be easily replaced by le long de (‘along’): (52) La fumée montait contre la paroi de la montagne. the smoke rise-imp against the wall of the mountain ‘The smoke rose against the mountain wall.’ (53) L’eau glissait lentement contre la vitre. the rain trickle-imp slowly against the window-pane ‘The rain was trickling down against the window-pane.’

Therefore, we might say that when the ground entity acts as the antagonist, it usually plays this role by providing a support, by opposing a resistance, or by acting as an obstacle for the force exerted by the agonist – the figure. Or we simply get the impression that it does so, because we perceive it as vertically limiting space on one side of the figure, and when the figure entity moves, we perceive the ground entity as directing and chanelling it. . Visual contrast between entities reduced to their two-dimensional contour The same perceptual illusion is probably responsible for the use of contre in situations where a figure entity is seen as standing out in front of a large surface, playing as a sort of background. The salience – the prominence – of the figure outline is given by its shape, its contrasting color or the difference in luminosity, compared with the surface of the ground entity extending behind it: (11) Les ombres se projetaient contre le mur d’en face. ‘The shadows projected against the opposite wall.’ (54) Elle le vit debout contre le ciel. she him see-p.hist standing against the sky ‘She saw him standing against the sky.’

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Here too, contre is probably used because the figure appears as somewhat dependent on the ground entity, which provides it with a contrasting background. Generally, with this effect of contrast, contre combines with appropriate verbs such as se détacher (‘to stand out’), se découper (‘to stand out’), se projeter (‘to project’), but also with perception verbs such as voir, distinguer (‘to see’, ‘to distinguish’) or emergence verbs such as apparaître (‘to appear’), se dessiner (‘to stand out’). With most of them the preposition sur (‘on’) can substitute for contre and be interpreted in the same way, that is as marking a contrast, as in (11) above which can be paraphrased by (11a): (11) a.

Les ombres se projetaient sur le mur d’en face. ‘The shadows projected on to the opposite wall.’

. Direction and facing position There is a marginal use of contre which doesn’t seem to depend on the nature of the entities it relates but which is specifically linked to the meaning of one verb, tourner (‘to turn’). With this verb, contre simply expresses direction, in the same way as would other prepositions such as vers or en direction de (‘towards’): (55) On retourna le tableau contre le mur (= vers le mur). one turn-p.his the painting against the wall (towards the wall) ‘The painting was turned against the wall (= towards the wall).’ (56) Il dormait, la tête tournée contre le mur (= vers le mur). he sleep-imp his head turned against the wall (= towards the wall) ‘He was sleeping with his head turned against the wall (= towards the wall).’

This is the only case where the relation between two entities placed in a face-toface position is expressed by the preposition contre. This is probably a trace of a previous use of this preposition in Old French, when contre could express orientation and direction: aller contre quelqu’un, (‘to go against somebody’) meaning aller vers quelqu’un (‘to go towards somebody’).4

. Conclusion When we are dealing with the locative meaning of contre, the idea of “opposition” which it generally suggests must be translated in terms of “tension” and more particularly of a tension produced by the pair of two converse physical forces – force . Today, this meaning would be expressed by the verb rencontrer or aller à la rencontre (‘to meet’).

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and counterforce – to which material entities of a certain consistency and density are necessarily subjected (including human beings). If for some positioning, the balance between these two forces is not naturally obtained – if they don’t counterbalance each other – then it is necessary to reach it through the help of some sort of support, or propping up. Through this static notion of force balance, the meaning of contre can be reinforced and oriented first towards the idea of force exertion and resistance, but also and more strongly towards a more dynamic force responsible for motion, speed, impact and even collision. Or on the contrary, this meaning can be attenuated and adapted to the expression of mere contact or even close proximity, and eventually it can be diverted towards the expression of contrasting opposition. As we have seen, these different meanings are highly dependent on the nature of the entities playing the role of figure and ground and also on the (stative/non-stative) category and on the meaning of the verb involved in the spatial relation.

References Borillo, Andrée (2003). Un ou plusieurs contre? Recherches Linguistiques, 26, 45–64. Dendale, Patrick (2000). L’emploi spatial de contre: Propositions pour un emploi unifié. Travaux de Linguistique, 42–43, 229–239. Dendale, Patrick & Walter De Mulder (1998). Contre et sur: Du spatial au métaphorique ou vice-versa? Verbum, XX.4, 405–434. Groussier, Marie-Line (1997). Prépositions et primarité du spatial: De l’expression de relations dans l’espace à l’expression de relations non-spatiales. Faits de Langues, 9, 221–234. Schepping, Maria-Theresa (1991). The lexical meaning of the French preposition contre. In G. Raugh (Ed.), Approaches to Prepositions (pp. 225–252). Tübingen: Narr. Talmy, Leonard (1985). Force dynamics in language and thought. In Papers from the 21st Regional Meeting of the Chicago Linguistic Society (pp. 293–337). Chicago, IL: Chicago Linguistic Society. Vandeloise, Claude (1986). L’espace en français: Sémantique des prépositions spatiales. Paris: Seuil.

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The prepositions par and à travers and the categorization of spatial entities in French Dejan Stosic Equipe de Recherche en Syntaxe et Sémantique (ERSS-UMR 5610) CNRS & Université de Toulouse-Le Mirail

This chapter shows how the semantic study of dynamic spatial prepositions par and à travers in French can contribute to the categorization of spatial entities in language and cognition. The analysis of various constraints involved by par and à travers on the nature of locating entities allows us to refine the existing “static” ontology of spatial entities (cf. Borillo 1988, 1999; Aurnague 1991, 1996, 2004; Vieu 1991; Vandeloise 1988) by introducing the sub-category of “roads” in the category of “locations” and the sub-category of “pipes” in the category of “objects”. Our results suggest both the validity of the “static” ontology for “dynamic” space and the need to study dynamic spatial morphemes when classifying spatial entities in language and cognition.

.

Introduction1

Several studies on the expression of space have shown that language carves spatial entities into different categories. In French, most of these categories have been pinpointed by semantic and syntactic analyses of different markers of static linguistic space, like the prepositions à (‘at’), dans (‘in’), sur (‘on’). What about the dynamic spatial morphemes? Can they help us to identify any other spatial properties of entities and to refine the existing linguistic ontology of spatial entities? It is this question we will try to answer by analyzing two spatial morphemes with extremely dynamic semantics: the prepositions par (‘by’) and à travers (‘through’). The first two examples reflect some differences in the applicability of par and à travers to nouns denoting entities like a “motorway” and an “armchair”. Thus, the . This research was carried out within the project “Spatial entities and their categorization in language and cognition” (COG135; 1999–2001) that was financially supported by the Program “Cognitique” of the French Ministry of Research. I would like to thank Michel Aurnague for his constructive comments on many drafts of this article. I am also grateful to Andrée Borillo for her useful remarks and to Harriet Dunbar for her stylistic advice.

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preposition par can occur with the noun autoroute (‘motorway’), as in (1a), but not with the noun fauteuil (‘armchair’), as in (1b): (1) a.

Les troupes américaines ont atteint Bagdad par the forces American aux-pres reach-pp Baghdad by l’autoroute. the motorway ‘The American forces reached Baghdad by the motorway.’ b. *La balle a atteint Max par le fauteuil. the bullet aux-pres hit-pp Max by the armchair ‘The bullet hit Max by the armchair.’

If we try to replace the preposition par with the preposition à travers, we get the opposite: (2) a. *Les troupes américaines ont atteint Bagdad à travers the forces American aux-pres reach-pp Baghdad through l’autoroute. the motorway ‘The American forces reached Baghdad through the motorway.’ b. La balle a atteint Max à travers le fauteuil. the bullet aux-pres hit-pp Max through the armchair ‘The bullet hit Max through the armchair.’

As we can see, unlike par, the preposition à travers can appear with the noun fauteuil (‘armchair’; cf. (2b)) but not with the noun autoroute (‘motorway’; cf. (2a)). In this paper, we want to demonstrate that the spatial prepositions par and à travers, like many other markers of linguistic space, are sensitive to the differences amongst various kinds of spatial entities. The fact that some nouns denoting spatial entities cannot be combined with par or with à travers means that the semantics of these prepositions involves certain constraints on the nature of locating entities which suggests that language undeniably distinguishes different kinds of spatial entities. Briefly, our aim is to explore how the dynamic spatial prepositions par and à travers can contribute to the categorization of spatial entities in French.2 We will use the term “figure” to mark the moving entity and the term “ground” to mark the reference entity from the well-known terminology of Talmy (2000). The paper is in three parts. First, we will define the framework we adopt here by summarizing the existing categorization of spatial entities in French (§2). Next, we will examine how the prepositions par and à travers interact with nouns de. Some of these questions have already been discussed in (Stosic 1999; Aurnague 2000, 2004; Aurnague & Stosic 2002).

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noting different kinds of spatial entities (§§3–4). Finally, we will try to refine the existing “static” categorization of spatial entities on the basis of the results from this study.

. The existing “static” ontology of spatial entities in French It is worth recalling the main classes of spatial entities which have been revealed by various linguistic tests in Borillo (1988, 1999), Aurnague (1991, 1996, 1998, 2004), Vieu (1991, 1997), and Vandeloise (1988) (see also Aurnague, Vieu, & Borillo 1997). This “static” linguistic ontology of spatial entities will be the framework we adopt here. According to this existing classification, five basic categories of spatial entities can be distinguished in French: “space portions”, “locations”, “objects”, “mixed entities” and “substances”. We may consider immaterial entities which, because of their nature, are not autonomous as space portions. In order to exist, space portions must be associated with some other material entities and they can be highlighted via different types of spatial expressions. For example, we can refer to space portions by nouns such as hole, split, crack but also by complex expressions such as the interior of the glass, the space between a chair and a bed which confirm the dependence of space portions on material entities. Entities that constitute the category of locations have two main properties: they are motionless in a given framework and possess an associated space portion defined with respect to the material part of that entity. That this associated space portion exists is very important because it enables the localization of another entity within this location. As a result, locations are both material and immaterial entities. Due to their stability, the position of many locations is generally considered well known by communication participants. This is notably the case of geographical locations identified by proper nouns (e.g., London, Paris, Canada), whose position is well specified in the framework of the Earth. These kinds of locations can therefore play the role of the ground in the relationships expressed by the preposition à (‘at’) in its “specified uses” (e.g., Pierre est à Paris (‘Peter is in Paris’); cf. Vandeloise 1988). In this use of the preposition à, the position of the ground must be well specified, i.e. precisely defined, because the locating entity must be able to fulfill the function of localization. Since the indefinite article marks no specification of ground, the preposition à cannot occur with a NP containing un, une or des (e.g., *Pierre est à une maison (‘Peter is at a house’)). Thus, locations marked by proper nouns such as Paris, London, France can be considered ideal specified

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locations because they occupy fixed and well-known positions in the framework of the Earth and can localize other entities within them. Geographical locations are not the only entities which are categorized as locations. Thus, the notion of location can also be applied to some parts of a wholeentity denoted by so-called Internal Localization Nouns (ILNs) such as intérieur (‘inside’), avant (‘front’), côté (‘side’), coin (‘corner’), and so on. According to the behavior of the Internal Localization Nouns, the entities which they denote fulfill both constraints involved in the notion of (specified) location: their position is stable and well-known within the framework of the whole entity and they introduce space portions. For more details about the properties of these kinds of nouns and entities, see (Aurnague 1991, 1996, 1998, 2004; Borillo 1988, 1999) as well as Aurnague, Champagne, Vieu et al.’s paper in this volume. The category of objects includes entities which violate either both or only one of the two main constraints underlying the notion of location. Generally speaking, these entities have no fixed position. This absence of “fixity” essentially affects entities which can be moved (e.g., table, chair, bed) or which can move (e.g., car). However some of this class’ entities can be motionless (e.g., wall, tree) yet they behave in language(s) as objects because of their difficulty in associating a space portion. In addition, Aurnague (1998) showed that, unlike locations, objects are often well-structured entities: their parts are well-delimited zones with particular functional roles in the whole entity (e.g., handle/knife). Entities such as buildings and houses constitute an intermediate ontological category called mixed entities. In fact, according to their linguistic behavior, these entities can sometimes be considered locations, and at other times objects. On the one hand, like locations, buildings and houses are motionless entities with associated space portions in which other entities can be localized. On the other hand, mixed entities might be compared with objects because it is possible to distinguish different functional parts in their internal structure and because they appear in constructions such as (3) and (4): (3) Il construit/ peint une maison. he make-pres paint-pres a house ‘He is building/is painting a house.’ (4) Il construit/ peint une chaise. he make-pres paint-pres a chair ‘He is making/is painting a chair.’

Finally, the category of substances, which includes mass material entities such as water, snow, crowd, foliage, and so on. Aurnague, Vieu, & Borillo (1997: 87) distinguish “generic substances” such as the water, the sand, etc., and “quantities of substance” such as this water, this sand, the alcohol content of this wine, etc. All these

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entities are conceptualized as homogeneous and uncountable (for more details see the analysis of masses and aggregates in Vandeloise’s paper in this volume). It is important to stress that this basic ontology of spatial entities is not based on objective distinctions in reality, but rather reflects the way spatial entities are classified by French speakers. More precisely, this classification is the result of a complex interaction between language and nonlinguistic recognition of similarities and differences between spatial entities. The study of spatial morphemes allows us to point out the main ontological distinctions between spatial entities. People’s ability to take different points of view in describing space is another essential factor involved in the linguistic categorization of spatial entities. Therefore, language allows us to have many different points of view of the same entity or scene about which we are talking (cf. Tversky, Taylor, & Mainwaring 1997; Tversky 1996; Vieu 1997). This means that the same entity, a forest for example, can be classified as an object or as a location according to whether someone recognizes it as a collection of trees or as a place where trees grow (see Vandeloise’s paper in this volume). We can infer from this that our representation of entities is not established once and for all, but depends on several factors involved in spatial descriptions. A change in perspective or granularity is one of these factors. To sum up, five basic categories of spatial entities emerge from linguistic analyses of static space: space portions, locations, objects, mixed entities and substances. We will continue by observing how the prepositions par and à travers interact with nouns denoting these five different classes of entities. This analysis shows that placing an entity in some of the five categories not only depends on its ontological features but also on the way the entity is used in a given spatial description. The interaction of par and à travers with nouns denoting spatial entities shows that, when classifying an entity, there are two major factors that must be taken into account. These factors are the semantics of other linguistic elements that appear in a spatial description, such as prepositions or verbs; and pragmatic inferences, such as world knowledge and discourse context. Before discussing the validity and accuracy of the existing “static” ontology for “dynamic” space through the analysis of the prepositions par and à travers, let us make it clear that this study is based on attested linguistic material. In fact, for each of the two markers at issue, we have analyzed more than 600 examples where par and à travers express the motion of a figure with respect to a ground. All these utterances have been extracted from several French writers’ works published between 1950 and 2000 and integrated in the database Frantext. Although attested linguistic material formed the basis of this study, we also very often resort to introspection in order to identify more precisely to which properties of spatial entities par and à travers are sensitive in expressing motion.

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. Par and the categorization of spatial entities We will now tackle the issue of which spatial entity categories are able to act as ground in “path” situations which can be expressed by par. It is worth remembering that, as Stosic (1999, 2001) showed, the French preposition par can express four types of spatial relations: (1) “Path” (e.g., Il est passé par le jardin (‘He came through/by the garden’)), (2) “Imprecise Localization” (e.g., On rôde par la ville depuis des heures (‘We have been wandering about the town for hours’)), (3) “Area of Impingement” (e.g., Elle l’a saisi par le bras (‘She grabbed hold of him by the arm’)), (4) “Inchoative Process” (e.g., Les crayons s’usent par le bas (‘Pencils wear out from the bottom’)). In this paper, we will focus on “path” situations because they are the most important and the most representative for the semantics of par (cf. Stosic 2002: Ch. II). When the preposition par describes path situations, it enables the location of a moving entity – the figure –, during a median phase of motion, as in (5): (5) Nous montâmes (. . .) par une route interdite aux touristes. (Thorez) we climb-p.his by a road forbidden to.art tourists ‘We climbed via a road forbidden to tourists.’

In order to play a role of ground, a localizing entity must possess some ontological properties, that is it must fulfill certain conditions imposed by the semantics of par. We will consider subsequently the five categories distinguished in the studies on static linguistic space. We will investigate both whether this categorization is pertinent for “dynamic” space and what properties an entity must possess to play the role of ground. . Par and NP denoting space portions The linguistic material has shown that entities categorized as space portions very often appear as the ground in path situations which par can describe, as seen in (6) and (7). (6) L’ air froid entrait par le trou de la serrure. the air cold enter-imp by the hole of the lock ‘Cold air was coming in through the keyhole.’ (7) Le chat est entré par la fenêtre. (Djian) the cat aux-pres enter-pp by the window ‘The cat came in through the window.’

We called apertures this particular kind of immaterial entity which represents holes penetrating right through a material entity (cf. Stosic 1999, 2001; Aurnague 2000; Aurnague & Stosic 2002). Like any other space portion, apertures are not au-

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tonomous entities but depend on some other material entities with which they are associated. Two kinds of apertures can be distinguished: “contingent” ones such as holes, cracks, splits, wounds and “functional” ones such as doors, windows, dormers, and so on. Examples (8) and (9) show that par can be combined very well with nouns referring to both contingent and functional apertures. (8) Ils entrent dans le hangar par une ouverture sans they enter-pres in the shed by a aperture without porte. (Thérame) door ‘They enter the shed through an aperture without a door.’ (9) Il rentre quelques minutes plus tard par une autre he come back-pres few minutes more late by a other porte. (Caradec) door ‘A few minutes later, he comes back through another door.’

What is important, for the relationship par expresses here, is the fact that apertures – because of their immateriality – can be traversed by the figure. Moreover, all apertures have the capacity of making a connection between two distinct parts of a whole-entity and more generally between entities or regions near them. Very often, these related entities correspond to the interior and the exterior of the material whole-entity with which a given aperture is associated, as in (10). (10) Il s’est échappé de la maison par la fenêtre. he himself aux-pres escape-pp of the house by the window ‘He escaped from the house through the window.’

This connection property of the ground entity seems to be crucial for the semantics of par. Consequently, entities called apertures seem to behave as real communication zones because they make shifts in location possible from one entity/region to another. What is important for us is that amongst the nouns which can be combined with par expressing path situations, many denote entities we can classify as space portions. Accordingly, for this kind of spatial entity, we do not need to introduce any new category. Rather, we think that the preposition par allows us to distinguish the sub-category of apertures within the existing category of space portions. . Par and NP denoting locations The nouns referring to entities categorized as locations are easily introduced by par describing path situations. On the one hand, the existence of a space portion associated with the material part of entities called locations makes the localization of

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moving entities during the median phase of motion possible. On the other hand, the locations – due to their immobility – are capable of connecting other entities. Hence, nouns denoting geographical locations can always be combined with par, as shown in (11) and (12): (11) Un chien est passé par notre jardin. a dog aux-pres pass-pp by our garden ‘A dog went through our garden.’ (12) Quelques jours plus tard, il regagnait l’Italie par la vallée few days more late he regain-imp the Italy by the valley du Brenner. (Yourcenar) of.art Brenner ‘A few days later, he returned to Italy via the Brenner valley.’

We can distinguish path situations expressed by par where geographical locations playing the role of ground are really crossed, as in (11) and (12), and path situations, as in (13) and (14), where the ground entity is conceptualized as a simple landmark. (13) Nous devions transiter par Bruxelles. (Thorez) we must-imp transit-inf by Brussels ‘We had to transit by way of Brussels.’ (14) Marie était passée successivement par Kiev, par Budapest et par Marie aux-imp pass-pp successively by Kiev by Budapest and by Vienne. (Ormesson) Vienna ‘Marie had successively passed through Kiev, Budapest and Vienna.’

There is no reason to introduce any new ontological category nor any new subcategory of locations here, as this landmark-reading does not result from differences in the nature of entities. Rather, it comes from a change in perspective: in the path situation expressed in (13) and (14), the role of the ground entity is not really to locate the figure, but to identify, in a general way, the itinerary followed by the figure. However, for many reasons, the analysis of the preposition par makes it possible to distinguish between the sub-category of “roads” and other entities within the class of locations.3 First, the linguistic data has shown that, in describing path situations, par very frequently occurs with such nouns as rue (‘street’), route (‘road’), . Note that, as Mathieu-Colas (1998) showed, it is possible to define the class of “roads” (“voies de communication”) syntactically. NPs denoting this class of entities can appear with three predicates: aller quelque part par (‘go somewhere via ’), prendre (‘take ’), être impracticable (‘ be impassable’).

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chemin (‘path’), autoroute (‘motorway’), passage (‘passage’), and so on. Examples (15) and (16) illustrate some of these situations. (15) Ils sont venus à pied par le sentier. (Le Clezio 1) they aux-pres come-pp on foot by the footpath ‘They came on foot via the footpath.’ (16) Il est repassé par la(le) même he aux-pres pass.again-pp by the same rue/route/boulevard/chemin/pont/allée. street/road/boulevard/way/bridge/alley ‘He went back via the same street/road/boulevard/way/bridge/alley.’

Second, roads differ from other geographical locations by their shape and, more importantly, by their function. Thus, the intrinsic function of roads is to make the passage of other entities easier, on the one hand, and to facilitate communication between entities/regions in space, on the other hand. Once again, nouns denoting entities capable of establishing a connection between other spatial entities seem to be ideal complements for the preposition par. As we have seen in Section 2, part-entities identified by Internal Localization Nouns (ILNs) can be considered a sub-category of locations. Consequently, when ILNs interact with par, they behave as nouns denoting locations, as seen in (17) and (18): (17) Le contenu tourbillonne comme l’eau d’un réservoir qui se the content whirl-pres like the water of a reservoir who itself vide par le fond. (Gracq 2) empty.out-pres by the bottom ‘The contents whirl like water in a reservoir emptying out through the bottom.’ (18) Je passe par l’autre côté de la rue. I pass-pres by the other side of the road ‘I pass by the other side of the road.’

For more details about the combination of par with Internal Localization Nouns, see (Aurnague 2000; Aurnague & Stosic 2002). . Par and NP denoting objects Next, in expressing path situations, par can be combined with a number of nouns denoting movable entities which are considered to be objects in the existing ontology. Examples (19) and (20) illustrate this possibility:

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(19) Le liquide afflue par le tuyau. the liquid flow.out-pres by the pipe ‘The liquid flows out through the pipe.’ (20) L’eau est évacuée par un canal latéral. the water aux-pres drain.off-pp by a canal lateral ‘The water is drained off by the side groove.’

However, par is not systematically combined with all nouns denoting objects, only with those nouns which identify objects with an associated space portion and which allow motion through them (e.g., tuyau (‘pipe’)). This means that not all entities categorized as objects are apprehended in the same way regarding the existence or non-existence of a space portion defined with respect to the material part of the entity. The preposition par is a good test for establishing this distinction. Thus, purely material objects cannot act as the ground in the path situations described by par, as seen in (21). (21) *Le lustre est tombé sur le sol par la table. the chandelier aux-pres fall.down-pp on the ground by the table ‘The chandelier fell down by the table.’

Furthermore, that a space portion exists is not sufficient for using the preposition par with nouns denoting entities classified as objects. Accordingly, example (22) shows that some objects with an associated space portion such as a cup or a glass cannot be selected as the ground in path situations expressed by par. (22) *L’eau coule par la tasse. the water flow-pres by the cup ‘Water flows through the cup.’

The space portions these objects define – that is, their interiors – are used for containing other entities (e.g., wine in a glass). On the contrary, what is special about the objects par selects as ground is that the primary function of their space portion is not to contain but to make movement from one side to the other possible. (23) Comme si le monde à tout coup tentait de s’ évacuer as if the world at all cost try-imp prep itself run.out-inf littérairement tout entier par un conduit trop étroit. (Gracq 2) literally all whole by a pipe very narrow ‘As if literally the whole world was trying at any cost to run out through a very narrow pipe.’

We called “pipes” all those objects which introduce space portions and which allow other entities to move through them during the median phase of motion. Unlike containing entities classified as objects (opposition to vertical and horizontal motion), pipes oppose lateral but not frontal motion of the figure. In addition, when

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entities called pipes play the role of ground in path situations described by par, their function consists in bringing other entities into relation with one another. Compared to roads which also have this connection function, pipes are not intrinsically motionless (they do not necessarily occupy fixed positions in a given framework). Given the mobility of pipes, the connections they establish between entities in space are generally not lasting but temporary. Note that if the relation pipes establish becomes stable, these entities move closer or shift to the category of locations. The analysis of the preposition par allows us to distinguish firstly between purely material objects and objects with associated space portions. Secondly we highlighted the sub-category of pipes among those objects which define space portions. Only nouns denoting objects which we called pipes appear with par. . Par and NP denoting mixed entities The preposition par can also be combined with nouns which denote mixed entities. Generally speaking, in path situations which par can express, mixed entities are used for identifying the itinerary followed by the figure. If the ground corresponds to some part of a mixed entity, it is really crossed, as in (24) to (25): (24) Le Kommandeur lui fit traverser la chapelle par the Kommandeur he-dat make-p.hist cross-inf the chapel by laquelle on accédait à la terrasse. (Tournier) which someone access-imp to the terrace ‘The Kommandeur made him cross the chapel by which you gain access to the terrace.’ (25) Il va traverser le bâtiment par la cave et ressortira de he aux-pres cross-inf the building by the cellar and go.out-fut on l’autre côté, ni vu ni connu. (Charef) the other side nor seen nor recognized ‘He will cross the building by the cellar and will come out on the other side, unnoticed.’

If the ground corresponds to a building, that is to a whole mixed entity, it is generally conceptualized as a simple landmark: (26) Nous sommes passés par le bâtiment central. we aux-pres pass-pp by the building central ‘We went through the central building.’

In fact, what is important for the semantics of par is that the ground entity is considered by the links it establishes between other adjacent entities and not whether the ground is really crossed or not.

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. Par and NP denoting substances Finally, entities categorized as substances (e.g., sand, water, fog, butter) cannot appear as a ground in path situations which par can describe: (27) *Ils sont arrivés par la brume. they aux-pres arrived-pp by the fog ‘They arrived by the fog.’ (28) *Le poisson monte par l’eau. the fish go.up-pres by the water ‘The fish swims up by the water.’

These entities do not fulfill any of the conditions which the preposition par imposes on entities selected as ground: first, these are often purely material entities without space portions, second, the non-stability of their position makes it difficult to take them as the ground in the path situations described by par. Note that because of their non-stability, substances are similar to the category of objects discussed above (see §§2 and 3.3). Therefore, the behavior of par with regard to nouns denoting substances and objects seems to confirm the “rapprochement” between the kinds of spatial entities observed in (Vieu 1991). The observation of the properties of spatial entities to which the preposition par is sensitive showed that this marker may only be combined with nouns that denote spatial entities with associated space portions. The function of these is to enable the movement of the figure with respect to the ground. Another very important property of ground entities selected by par is their stability which allows them to establish a connection between some other entities involved in the motion event. Hence, the preposition par causes us to conceptualize the ground as an entity relating (directly or indirectly) the initial and final positions on the trajectory. With regard to the existing ontology, the analysis of par does not pinpoint any new category of spatial entities. However, we have been able to introduce several different sub-categories within the existing ontological categories of spatial entities.

. A travers and the categorization of spatial entities We will now examine the behavior of à travers in relation to nouns denoting different kinds of spatial entities. We will take into account not only the five basic categories characteristic of static space, but also the sub-categories of apertures, roads and pipes which we have just pinpointed through the analysis of par. We will consider here only those spatial uses of à travers where this marker enables

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the location of the figure with respect to the ground during the median phase of motion, as seen in (29). (29) J’aime marcher à travers la ville, le soir. . . (Camus) I like-pres walk-inf through the city the evening ‘I like to walk through the city, in the evening...’

. A travers and NP denoting space portions Entities categorized as space portions can play the role of the ground in situations expressed by à travers, as shown in (30) and (31). (30) Un rai de soleil filtrait à travers les fentes du volet. (Sagan) a ray of sun filter-imp through the slits of shutter ‘A ray of sunshine filtered through the slits of the shutter.’ (31) Cette eau est obligée de cheminer à travers les interstices this water is forced to travel through the interstices subcapillaires du gel. (Cleret de Langavant) sub capillary of.art frost

‘This water has to travel through the sub capillary interstices of the frost.’ Although nouns identifying space portions do appear with à travers, these entities are not considered in terms of their ability to make communication easier between other entities, nor to relate entities in space. In sentences (30) and (31), the association of à travers with nouns denoting apertures seems to stress the existential dependency of these immaterial entities on their material frame. The function of this material frame consists in canalizing the movement of the figure. It is important to stress that in situations such as that illustrated in (32): (32) La lumière pénétrait à travers la porte/fenêtre. the sunshine penetrate-imp through the door/window ‘Sunshine was streaming through the door/window.’

we tend to imagine that the door and the window are closed and that the figure’s movement is through the material part of the ground. This is not, however, the only possibility for reading this kind of spatial description as there are many cases where the ground obviously corresponds to apertures and where the movement of the figure is carved out through the immaterial part of the ground: (33) Un souffle d’air frais passa à travers la fenêtre ouverte. a breath of air fresh pass-p.hist through the window open ‘A breath of fresh air came through the open window.’

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(34) Celui qui regarde du dehors à travers une fenêtre ouverte, this.one who look-pres from outside through a window open ne voit jamais autant de choses que celui qui regarde not see-pres never as much of things than this one who look-pres une fenêtre fermée. (Baudelaire) a window closed ‘Looking through an open window from outside one never sees as much as when one looks at a closed window.’

In the configurations described in (33) and (34), the figure passes between/within the limits of the apertures. The existence of lateral material elements between which the figure passes seems to be one of the most important spatial constraints which the preposition à travers introduces on the configurations it describes. The role of these lateral limits is to control the figure’s movements to the left and to the right. We proposed in (Stosic 2002) the notion of “guidance” in order to define the semantics of the preposition à travers in its spatial uses. The semantic concept of guidance results from the combination of two very general notions: “force dynamics” (cf. Talmy 2000) and “lateral orientation” (cf. Vandeloise 1986). Thus, in spatial configurations expressed by à travers, the ground entity essentially constrains the figure’s lateral movements whereas its frontal movements are generally possible. The interaction between two opposite forces (“agonist” vs. “antagonist”; cf. Talmy 2000) is situated on the lateral and not on the frontal axis, so that the ground entity controls, by its lateral limits or by its internal structure, the movement of the figure to the left and to the right. Therefore, due to this lateral opposition, the ground entity seems to canalize, that is to guide the motion of the figure, whereas its frontal movements are generally possible (for more details about the concept of guidance, see Stosic 2002: Ch. IV). . A travers and NP denoting locations The linguistic material has shown that nouns denoting locations frequently occur with the preposition à travers. Some of these situations are represented by the sentences in (35) to (37): (35) On raconte qu’elle a fui à pied à travers people say-pres that she aux-pres flee-pp on foot through l’Europe. (Joffo) the Europe ‘People say that she fled on foot throughout Europe.’ chemine à travers une vallée. (36) Le car the coach wend-pres through a valley ‘The coach wends through the valley.’

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(37) Je marche à travers le parc vers les urnes de pierre. (Gracq 1) I walk-pres through the park towards the urns of stone ‘I am walking through the park towards the stone urns.’

In all these examples, the movement of the figure is supposed to be constrained by the internal structure of the locations at issue and/or by the elements or entities which these locations contain. However, not all location nouns can be combined with à travers. Thus, generally speaking, entities categorized as roads do not appear as the ground in situations described by à travers, as seen in (38). (38) *Il est parti à travers cette route/autoroute. he aux-pres go.off-pp through this road/motorway ‘He left through this road/motorway.’

We have seen that an important property of those entities we call roads depends on their ability to provide a connection between other entities in space. This functional aspect of roads seems to be incompatible with the semantics of à travers. However, certain other aspects of roads such as their narrowness or their sinuosity can be taken into consideration in spatial descriptions and thus make it possible to combine the preposition à travers with some nouns denoting roads, as in the following example: (39) Le regard muet de ces fenêtres le gênait à la fois et the look dump of these windows him disturb-imp both and l’attirait : il zigzaguait de l’une à l’autre à travers la him attract-imp he zigzag-imp from the one to the other through the rue vide. (Gracq 3) street empty ‘He was both disturbed and attracted by the silent look of these windows: he zigzagged from one to the other through the empty street.’

Due to their narrowness and/or sinuosity, entities like streets, footpaths, alleys and so on, are able to control the movement of the figure to the left and to the right, which enables them to play, in certain cases, the role of the ground in path situations described by à travers. It thus appears that, even if locations selected as the ground in relations expressed by à travers can be crossed, they are not considered to relate other entities in space, as is the case with ground entities selected by par, but to be capable of controlling lateral movements of the figure during the median phase of motion. The fact that the preposition à travers focuses rather on the movement of the figure within the ground and not on its capacity of making a connection, is also confirmed by the analysis of the combination of à travers with verbs. Thus, if we take a closer look at the verbs with which the preposition à travers occurs in describing

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path relations, we can see that, unlike par, à travers is most often combined with verbs such as marcher (‘walk’), courir (‘run’), se promener (‘go for a walk’), and so on. According to (Vet 1980: 68), from an aspectual point of view, these motion verbs always appear in sentences which refer to non-transitional situations. What is special about these kinds of situations is that the realization of the process that they involve does not lead to a transition from one state or position to another. This means that in path relations expressed by the preposition à travers, the movement of the figure is generally conceptualized as limited to the ground entity. If the movement of the figure extends beyond the limits of the ground this is due to the semantics of the verb and not to the semantics of the preposition à travers (for more details see Stosic 2002: Ch. V). . A travers and NP denoting objects The combination of à travers with nouns denoting entities classified as objects seems not to be related either to the existence of a space portion nor to their connection property. As we can see in (40) to (42), every entity considered as an object can fulfill the role of the ground in situations described by à travers. (40) Le jour filtre à travers les rideaux de soie. (Sabatier) the day filter-pres through the curtains of silk ‘The daylight filters through the silk curtains.’ (41) J’ai vraiment senti l’eau chaude et salée passer direct I aux-pres really feel-pp the water hot and salty pass-inf directly à travers l’estomac. (Pouy) through the stomach ‘I really felt the hot, salty water going directly through my stomach.’ (42) L’eau monte à travers le tuyau transparent. the water go.up-pres through the tube transparent ‘The water rises through the transparent tube.’

Thus, we find purely material (without space portion) objects as the ground, as in (40), as well as objects with an associated space portion corresponding either to interiors or to pipes, as seen respectively in (41) and (42). Furthermore, in many cases, the preposition à travers expresses the motion of the figure through a plurality of objects, as shown in (43). (43) Il (. . .) se mit à courir (. . .) à travers les rochers. (Le Clezio 2) he himself put to run through the rocks ‘He started to run through the rocks.’

In all these situations, the ground entity constrains certain of the figure’s movements.

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. A travers and NP denoting mixed entities The preposition à travers, in its spatial uses, can also be combined with nouns denoting mixed entities, as seen in (44) and (45). (44) Je suis descendue pieds nus à travers la maison I aux-pres go.down feet bare through the house endormie. (Beauvoir) sleepy ‘I went down barefoot through the sleepy house.’ (45) Monique pérégrine à travers l’appartement. (Bazin) Monique walk.up.and.down-pres through the flat ‘Monique is walking backwards and forwards in the flat.’

Mixed entities playing the role of the ground in relations expressed by à travers are really crossed, unlike mixed entities selected as the ground by par whose function is, mainly, to identify an itinerary. Once again, the preposition à travers selects those nouns denoting entities (here mixed entities) which, because of their internal structure (parts) and/or the elements they contain, are capable of constraining certain movements of the figure during the median phase of motion. . A travers and NP denoting substances Finally, nouns referring to entities categorized as substances easily appear as the ground in scenes described by à travers. Examples (46) and (47) illustrate the motion of the figure with respect to entities belonging to the category of substances. (46) Les passants se hâtaient à travers la brume. (Beauvoir) the passers-by themselves hurry-imp through the haze ‘Passers-by were hurrying through the haze.’ (47) Quelqu’un venait (. . . ) à travers cette grêle redoutable. (Genevoix) somebody come-imp through this hail fierce ‘Somebody was coming through this fierce hail.’

Even if substances are conceptualized as purely material entities, this cannot keep certain entities from moving through them. Unlike par, the preposition à travers is able to locate the figure with respect to a purely material ground during the median phase of motion. The analysis of the behavior of à travers in relation to nouns denoting different kinds of spatial entities showed that situations represented by à travers have somewhat different properties than do scenes specified by par. Thus, the first fundamental difference is that not only entities defining space portions can be associated with à travers. Unlike par, the preposition à travers is not sensitive to

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this constraint and can introduce nouns denoting purely material entities like substances (e.g., à travers l’eau (‘water’)/ la fumée (‘smoke’)) or objects without space portions (e.g., à travers le mur (‘wall’)). The second very important difference is that the capacity of making a connection, characteristic of the ground entity selected by par, does not play any role in the case of à travers. The preposition à travers focuses, rather, on the movement within the ground and, more precisely, on the interactions between the figure and the ground during the median phase of motion. Entities acting as the ground in path configurations described by à travers must be able to constrain certain (essentially lateral) movements of the figure. These properties of the preposition à travers are grasped via the notion of guidance.

. Conclusion In this paper, we have defined more precisely the contribution of the prepositions par and à travers to the categorization of spatial entities in language and cognition. In this way, we extend the existing “static” ontology of spatial entities and argue for its validity and accuracy for “dynamic” space. This analysis shows that the classification of spatial entities is not only based on their ontological properties, but also on the semantics of the given prepositions and other lexical items present in spatial descriptions. Other factors like nonlinguistic knowledge, discourse context and granularity also play an important role in categorizing spatial entities, as shown in Sections 3 and 4. Thus, without disputing this existing “static” ontology, the analysis of the dynamic spatial relations expressed by the prepositions par and à travers revealed several other interesting distinctions between spatial entities in language. For example, both prepositions par and à travers allow us to define the new sub-category of roads – within the category of locations – because of the functional aspects of these entities. However, in analyzing par we pinpointed the sub-category of roads in a positive way, while the analysis of à travers did so in a negative way. We also pointed out the sub-category of pipes within the category of objects. What is interesting about this distinction is that, if both par and à travers are capable of occurring with nouns denoting pipes, only par – by virtue of its semantic content – makes us conceptualize this kind of objects as pipes. As it could be shown in this paper, this preposition focuses on such properties of pipes as the presence of a space portion or the capacity to connect other entities involved in the motion, whereas the preposition à travers underlines the material nature of these entities, and more precisely their ability to constrain, by their limits, the figure’s lateral movements. Only in the first case (with par) these entities are classified by language as pipes; in the second case (with à travers) they are considered as any other

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material entities. So, French obviously allows two different points of view on this kind of entity (pipe / material entity). But, this possibility does not exist, for instance, in Serbian which in the situations at issue only uses the preposition kroz – semantically very similar to à travers – so that the ground entity (pipe) is conceptualized by Serbian speakers as a simple material object and not really as a pipe (see Stosic 2002).4 These results illustrate the need to take dynamic markers of linguistic space into account in classifying spatial entities in language and cognition. As we have shown, the study of dynamic space can identify certain other properties to which language is sensitive, in classifying spatial entities. Taking dynamic morphemes into account is a good way of testing the validity and accuracy of the existing categorization of spatial entities but also of refining it. The evidence from other languages is also indispensable.

References Aurnague, Michel (1991). Contribution à l’étude de la sémantique formelle de l’espace et du raisonnement spatial: La localisation interne en français, sémantique et structures inférentielles. PhD dissertation, Université Paul Sabatier, Toulouse. Aurnague, Michel (1996). Les noms de localisation interne, tentative de caractérisation sémantique à partir du basque et du français. Cahiers de Lexicologie, 69, 1996–2, 159–192. Aurnague, Michel (1998). Basque genitives and part-whole relations: Typical configurations and dependences. Carnets de Grammaire, 1. Aurnague, Michel (2000). Entrer par la petite porte, passer par des chemins de traverse: Á propos de la préposition par et de la notion de “trajet”. Carnets de Grammaire, 7. Aurnague, Michel (2004). Les structures de l’espace linguistique: Regards croisés sur quelques constructions spatiales du basque et du français [Bibliothèque de l’Information Grammaticale 56]. Leuven & Paris: Peeters. Aurnague, Michel, Laure Vieu, & Andrée Borillo (1997). Représentation formelle des concepts spatiaux dans la langue. In M. Denis (Ed.), Langage et cognition spatiale (pp. 69–102). Paris: Masson.

. A parallel can be drawn with apertures (e.g., hole, window, door). As we showed in Sections 3.1 and 4.1, both par and à travers occur with nouns of apertures, but whereas par selects them as “connecting” entities, à travers focuses on the material parts of these entities and underlines the constraints that their boundaries impose on the figure’s movements. So, in French, two different points of view can be adopted in the linguistic and cognitive representation of these entities (aperture / material entity), which is not the case in some other languages, like Serbian. In describing the path situations at issue, this language uses, here again, the preposition kroz, very close to à travers, so that apertures are always considered as any kind of material entity (Stosic 2002).

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Aurnague, Michel & Dejan Stosic (2002). La préposition par et l’expression du déplacement: Vers une caractérisation sémantique et cognitive de la notion de “trajet”. Cahiers de Lexicologie, 81, 2002–2, 113–139. Borillo, Andrée (1988). Le lexique de l’espace: Les noms et les adjectifs de localisation interne. Cahiers de Grammaire, 13, 1–22. Borillo, Andrée (1999). Partition et localisation spatiale: Les Noms de Localisation Interne. Langages, 136, 53–75. Mathieu-Colas, Michel (1998). Illustration d’une classe d’objets: Les voies de communication. Langages, 131, 77–90. Stosic, Dejan (1999). Etude de la préposition par en français: Sens spatial. DEA report. Toulouse: Université de Toulouse-Le Mirail. Stosic, Dejan (2001). Par et l’expression des relations spatiales en français. Revue de sémantique et pragmatique, 9/10, 75–102. Stosic, Dejan (2002). Par et à travers dans l’expression des relations spatiales: Comparaison entre le français et le serbo-croate. Doctoral dissertation. Toulouse: Université de Toulouse-Le Mirail. Talmy, Leonard (2000). Toward a cognitive semantics, Vol. 1&2. Cambridge, MA: The MIT Press. Tversky, Barbara (1996). Spatial Perspective in Descriptions. In P. Bloom, M. A. Peterson, L. Nadel, & M. F. Garrett (Eds.), Language and space (pp. 463–491). Cambridge, MA: The MIT Press. Tversky, Barbara, Holly A. Taylor, & Scott Mainwaring (1997). Langage et perspective spatiale. In M. Denis (Ed.), Langage et cognition spatiale (pp. 25–49). Paris: Masson. Vandeloise, Claude (1986). L’espace en français: Sémantique des prépositions spatiales. Paris: Seuil. Vandeloise, Claude (1988). Les usages spatiaux statiques de la préposition à. Cahiers de Lexicologie, 53(2), 119–148. Vet, Co (1980). Temps, aspects et adverbes de temps en français contemporain: Essai de sémantique formelle. Genève: Droz. Vieu, Laure (1991). Sémantique des relations spatiales et inférences spatio-temporelles: Une contribution à l’étude des structures formelles de l’espace en langage naturel. PhD dissertation, Université Paul Sabatier, Toulouse. Vieu, Laure (1997). Spatial representation and reasoning in Artificial Intelligence. In O. Stock (Ed.), Spatial and temporal reasoning (pp. 5–41). Dordrecht: Kluwer Academic Publishers.

Appendixes Source of exemples Baudelaire, Charles (1962). Petits poèmes en prose. “Les fenêtres”. Paris: Garnier. Bazin, Hervé (1950). La mort du petit cheval. Paris: Grasset. Beauvoir, Simone de (1954). Les Mandarins. Paris: Gallimard. Camus, Albert (1962). La Chute. Paris: Gallimard. Caradec, François (1986). La compagnie des zincs. Paris: Ramsay. Charef, Mehdi (1991). Le thé au harem. Paris: Gallimard. Cleret de Langavant (1951). Ciments et bétons. Paris: A. Colin. Djian, Philippe (1989). 37.2◦ le matin. Paris: J’ai lu. Genevoix, Maurice (1983). Ceux de 14. Paris: Glammarion. Gracq, Julien (1988). Lettrines. Paris: Corti. [Gracq 1]

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Gracq, Julien (1991). En lisant en écrivant. Paris: Corti. [Gracq 2] Gracq, Julien (1958). Un balcon en forêt. Paris: Corti [Gracq 3] Joffo, Joseph (1982). Un sac de billes. Paris: Lattes. Le Clezio, Jean-Marie Gustave (1995). Désert. Paris: Gallimard. [Le Clezio 1] Le Clezio, Jean-Marie Gustave (1995). Le procès-verbal. Paris: Gallimard. [Le Clezio 2] Ormesson, Jean d’ (1988). Le vent du soir. Paris: Le livre de poche. Pouy, Jean-Bernard (1988). La clef des mensonges. Paris: Gallimard. Sabatier, Robert (1966). Le chinois d’Afrique. Paris: Albin Michel. Sagan, Françoise (1954). Bonjour tristesse. Paris: Julliard. Thérame, Victoria (1985). Bastienne. Paris: Flammarion. Thorez, Paul (1982). Les enfants modèles. Paris: Gallimard. Tournier, Michel (1970). Le roi des Aulnes. Paris: Gallimard. Yourcenar, Marguerite (1968). L’oeuvre au noir. Paris: Gallimard.

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The linguistic categorization of spatial entities Classifiers and other nominal classification systems Colette Grinevald Laboratoire Dynamique du Langage (UMR 5596) CNRS & Université Lyon 2

This chapter focuses on the classifier systems found around the world, with particular attention to Amerindian languages. It first proposes a typology of these systems that takes into account their different characteristics (morpho-syntactic, semantic, pragmatic. . .) and their dynamic dimensions (grammaticalization, age, productivity. . .). It then describes in more detail a sample of classifier systems (from America, Asia, Oceania. . .), shows some of their invariants and specificities, and relates them to other linguistic systems. The final part of the chapter presents a summary of the types of information that are conveyed by classifier systems and other nominal classification systems about spatial entities (e.g., spatial properties, perceptual modalities. . .) and examines, as well, the different encoding strategies that seem to be used across languages.

. Introduction The paper is a contribution from the field of descriptive and typological linguistics meant to give an overview of some linguistic systems unknown to European languages that explicitly categorize spatial entities according to a number of criteria, such as material essence, spatial characteristics or function of the entities. This means for instance that, while in European languages one does not have to specify that tables have four legs and are usually made of wood, or that oranges are fruits and are of a spherical shape, or that a tree is long and rigid, vertical or standing, in certain languages of the world this type of information is systematically given. This paper will focus on the so-called classifier systems found around the world that do so, with a special view to the contribution of Amerindian languages in this domain, and to the linguistic status of such systems, half way between lexicon and syntax in their more prototypical instantiations. Classifier systems first attracted the attention of general linguists and psychologists from a typological perspective in the seventies (see for instance the now classical Allan 1977; Denny 1976) and received more recognition as an interesting

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object of study on the part of linguists and psycholinguists alike since the eighties (see for instance Craig 1986a; Senft 2000; Aikhenvald 2000). More recently yet they have been considered as interesting material for the reopened debate on linguistic relativity, and the general issue of the relation of language to cognition (see for instance Lucy 1992; Imai & Gentner 1993 and a synopsis of their experimental approach in Foley 1997). This paper draws heavily on the more recent publications of the author on the subject (Grinevald 1999, 2000, 2001, 2002, 2003, 2004; Grinevald & Seifart 2004) for an account of a typological approach to the phenomenon. It focuses on the question of what classifier systems tell us in their explicit way about the spatial entities that belong to the environment of the speakers of classifier languages, and mentions more in passing other linguistic systems of categorization of spatial entities of a more lexical nature. It means therefore to underline some of the features of those spatial entities that are repeatedly made explicit across the various types of systems of nominal classification that have been identified in the languages of the world. The first part of this paper presents a typology of classifier systems within a larger one of nominal classification systems; it articulates the multiple pieces of the puzzle one must handle if one wants to give a comprehensive linguistic account of such classification systems. The key aspects of such systems to be emphasized here are that: –

–

–

there exists a variety of nominal classification systems, classifier systems in general being only one of them, and that even within the phenomenon of classifiers various subtypes of systems can be identified; from a descriptive point of view, these systems need to be considered from a number of angles, such as their morpho-syntactic characteristics, their semantics (including their semantic domains, their semantic inventories, the degree of their semantic motivation), and their actual usage (their pragmatic relevance and the nature of their discourse functions); as intermediate lexico-grammatical systems, they are subject to many dynamics that need to be systematically considered to assess their status in a particular language (such as the age of the system, its degree of vitality and its degree of grammaticalization).

The second part of this paper has been conceived as a “show-and-tell” display of a sample of classifier systems in order to illustrate the types of information such systems can give on spatial entities. Other linguistic systems akin to, but different from, classifier systems will also be mentioned and exemplified in order to point to an interesting cross-over of the semantic and pragmatic information on spatial entities they often provide: they are systems of more verbal origin and more lexical nature, such as so called posture or stance verbs, positionals and classificatory verbs.

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Following the typological descriptive framework of the first part and the sampling of actual systems of the second part, the third part of this paper will offer a summary review of what kind of information, in particular spatial information, some of those linguistic systems convey about spatial entities, and through what linguistic means. The idea behind exposing the complexity of the descriptive task is to issue a warning to those who might become fascinated with the phenomenon, because of its obvious potential bearing on studies about the relation of language to cognition, and who might therefore become interested in conceiving experimental research projects involving such systems. The warning is that setting up appropriate hypotheses about how classifiers systems or other nominal classification systems may help uncover the relation of language to cognition would seem to require first a good grasp of the typological dimensions of the linguistic phenomenon at hand, and that a comprehensive and solid description of the particular nominal classification system under scrutiny that considers all the variables mentioned above would be necessary if comparisons are intended.

.

Classifiers in a typological overview of nominal classification systems

The typological framework summarized here was initially conceived in the eighties (see Craig 1986b, 1987 inter alia) but has been expanded and refined in recent years (Grinevald 1999, 2000, 2001, 2002, 2004). It is still in the process of elaboration, as new data continue to be gathered, in particular from areas of the world like the Amazon region, rich of such systems and still largely under-documented (Grinevald 2003; Grinevald & Seifart 2004).1 . Classifiers among other nominal classification systems Classifier systems are intermediate systems of nominal classification in their being clearly of lexical origin while functioning in a more or less syntacticized or grammaticalized fashion: (1) class-terms “CLASSIFIERS” noun classes measure terms gender

. In the course of working out this typology, originally in order to argue that the classifiers of Jacaltec were of a particular nature, not numeral classifiers but noun classifiers, two name changes occurred in parallel fashion, from Craig to Grinevald and from Jacaltec to Jakaltek and then (Jakaltek) Popti’.

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Classifier systems can be distinguished from systems that belong to the lexical end of the spectrum, such as the two types of “class terms” and “measure terms”. The former is represented by systems of the -berry kind (as in strawberry, blackberry, blueberry, etc.) that create new lexical items, the latter of the drop/splash/glass/bottle/bucket of water or glass of water/milk/wine kind that productively create complex measure constructions out of lexical items. At the other end of the continuum, the classifier systems are also to be distinguished from the familiar gender systems of most European languages, and the “noun class systems” best described at first for Niger Congo languages and more recently for Australian aborigines languages (Sands 1995). In their more prototypical form, classifier systems can be thought of as intermediate systems of nominal classification in that, on one hand, they consist of distinct sets of morphemes of lexical origin that are still fairly motivated semantically (to the extent that they evoke some characteristic of the spatial entity to which they are linked), while, on the other hand, they also function as morpho-syntactic systems, although they are still sensitive to discourse conditions and therefore are often not entirely grammaticalized. . A typology of classifier systems The typology of classifier systems presented here identifies different morphosyntactic subtypes on the basis of the locus of the classifier. It was devised as a descriptive strategy proposed for fieldworkers facing such systems because of the fact that the morphology of a language is the part of language that is of easiest access to field linguists. This strategic choice does not pretend to have theoretical weight and is mostly worth its capacity to entice fieldworkers not versed in this domain to produce the kind of description that will only exist if they provide them. Within such an approach that focuses on the basic morphological locus of the classifier, four main subtypes of classifiers have been identified: (2) [POSS+CL Numeral+CL CL NOUN] // Verb-CL 3 2 1 4

The four major subtypes considered have been: (1) the noun classifiers, (2) the numeral classifiers, (3) the genitive (or possessive) classifiers and (4) the verbal classifiers.2 Below are illustrative examples of these different subtypes, the first three types being classifiers found within the noun phrase and the types the most stud. The expression “major” types was meant to signify that other types existed, but were considered at the time as minor to the extent that little information was available about them then and that they seemed more limited in areal spread. Such was the case for some types found in some Amerindian languages labeled demonstrative and locative classifiers. See the contribution of Aikhenvald (2000) to have them included in the inventory of classifier systems.

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ied, while the verbal classifier type is the most diversified because of its possible various origins, its parallels with both numeral and noun classifiers, and its propensity to be found at different stages of lexicalization. (3) Noun classifiers; Jakaltek-Popti’ (Craig 1986b: 264) Xil naj xuwan no7 lab’a. saw cl John cl snake ‘(man) John saw the (animal) snake.’ (4) Numeral classifiers; Ponapean (Rehg 1981: 130) a. pwihk riemen pig 2+cl ‘two(-animate) pigs’ b. tuhke rioapwoat tree 2+cl ‘two(-long) trees’ (5) Genitive classifiers; Ponapean (Rehg 1981: 184) a. kene-i mwenge cl-gen.1 food ‘my(-edible) food’ b. were-i pwoht cl-gen.1 boat ‘my(-transport) boat’ (6) Verbal Classifiers; Cayuga (Mithun 1986: 386–88) a. Ohon’atatke: ak-hon’at-a:k. it-potato-rotten past.I-cl-eat ‘I (potato-)ate a rotten potato.’ b. So:wa:s akh-nahskw-ae’. dog I-cl-have ‘I have(-pet) a dog.’ c. Skitu ake’-treh-tae’. skidoo I-cl-have ‘I have(-vehicle) a car.’

To support the claim of there being different kinds of classifiers, the principal argument presented has been the co-existence of subtypes in a particular language. Ponapean, for instance, is such a language with two subtypes, numeral and genitive, as illustrated by examples ((4) and (5)) above. The other proposed argument has been a claimed correlation between the major morpho-syntactic types of classifiers known and their prototypical “semantic profiles”. By semantic profile was meant a pattern of dominance of a certain semantic field (such as physical – including spatial –, functional and material characteristics) for each type of classifier. This correlation is outlined in (7) below:

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numeral classifiers (physical)3 two-ROUND oranges three-LONG RIGID pencils four-FLAT FLEXIBLE blankets b. genitive classifiers (functional) my-EDIBLE food his-DRINKABLE potion their-TRANSPORT canoe c. noun classifiers (material/essence) an ANIMAL deer the ROCK cave MAN musician

(7) a.

As argued in Grinevald (1999, 2000, 2004) the correlations work best in languages with co-occurring classifier systems, as with a contrast of the Ponapean numeral and possessive systems illustrated above in (4) and (5). The correlation is less strong in the case of large numeral classifiers, particularly when they are the only classifier system of a language, in that all three semantic fields may well be represented, in varying proportion, although it always remains that these systems are the only ones to systematically contain classifiers of physical characteristics, in particular spatial ones. . Numeral classifiers and physical properties of spatial entities One particular type of classifiers, namely the numeral classifiers, can appeal therefore to some physical characteristics of the classified spatial entities, including spatial ones such as dimensions. As claimed early in the literature on the topic (by Adams & Conklin 1973; Allan 1977 for instance) the three basic shapes that correspond to the major dimensional outlines of objects (1D, 2D, 3D) are the most widespread. They are generally found primarily combined with a specific secondary characteristic of consistency and/or size. The particular combinations can be seen as a reflection of the fact that the most common lexical sources for this basic set of classifiers are nouns from the vegetal world. The shapes identified correspond interestingly to those of the primary elements handled by human communities for their survival, as given below:

. We are dealing here specifically with the so-called “sortal” numeral classifiers, attending to the spatial entities in their individuality (objects that are individually of a particular shape for instance), leaving aside the so-called “mensural” and “arrangement” classifiers that specify characteristics of a set of spatial entities (such as a box/bag of apples or a pile/line/circle of chairs) and correspond to constructions found in all languages of the world.

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(8) Three basic shape classifiers and their lexical origin 1D ‘long-rigid’ from ‘tree/trunk’ 2D ‘flat-flexible’ ‘leaf ’ 3D ‘round’4 ‘fruit’

In this basic set of three classifiers, the common association of a certain dimension with a certain texture or plasticity is relatively transparent in that the classifier for long+rigid objects (1D) often comes lexically from the noun for sticks of wood or trunks of trees, the one for flat+flexible objects (2D) from the noun for the leaves of a tree, and the one for spherical objects (3D) from the noun for fruits. When the system of classifier expands beyond this basic set, other combinations of dimensions and size, flexibility or compactness appear. One then finds classifiers for 1D long+flexible objects (such as rope, snake, vine) or for 1D long+hollow objects (such as canes, flutes, blowing guns); classifiers for 2D flat+rigid objects (such as planks, trays, doors) and/or for 2D flat+rigid+circular objects (such as plates, records, disks, pot covers); finally, different classifiers for 3D can exist, for round+hollow objects (such as pots, recipients) and round+small objects (such as grains of rice or corn, small stones, necklace beads). . Degrees of specificity of the classifiers Another variable in the semantics of the classifiers is their degree of specificity. Classifiers can vary as to the nature of the classes they define, from large heterogeneous ones to simple ones made up of only one item. Four kinds of classifiers have been identified in the literature according to the scope of the class they define and their lexical origin: (9) classifier types by their scope a. specific classifiers b. general classifiers c. unique classifiers d. repeaters

The essential characteristics of these different types of classifiers are as follow: a. Specific classifiers. They are the most common type (such as classifiers for “1Drigid”, “animals”, “vehicles”, etc.). The classes they head are built around prototypical exemplars, with incorporation of other elements by any number of types of extensions of the class. . The expression ‘spherical’ would be more appropriate than ‘round’ here but ‘round’ is the one that appears in the previous publications from which this section is extracted and that did not address directly the issue of the characteristics of spatial entities and spatial features.

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b. General classifiers, as their label indicates, head large heterogeneous classes with no distinct semantic motivation, except sometimes one of animacy. They are generally de-semanticized specific classifiers. Large Asian numeral classifier systems are known to have such general classifiers. c. Unique classifiers head classes of just one element, such as a class for a specific animal (be it the elephant or the tiger, or even the dog), co-existing with a specific class for all other animals. Unique classifiers have sometimes been interpreted, a posteriori, as highlighting some cultural items of particular significance in a particular culture. Craig (1986b) considers the cultural relevance of such unique classifiers in the noun classifier system of Jakaltek-Popti’. d. Repeaters are actually of a different nature from the preceding types of classifiers. Their formal characteristic is to be homophonous with a noun which has obviously been their lexical source; they may still be full repeaters or truncated forms of the source noun: (10) sample repeater (noun)classifiers of Jakaltek-Popti’ classifier source noun naj winaj ‘man’ ix ix ‘woman’ no’ noq’ ‘animal’ q’ap q’ape ‘cloth’

On the other hand, repeaters can themselves be either unique or specific classifiers, a particular dimension of the variety of classifiers within a system to which few writings have paid close attention until now. . The dynamic dimensions of classifier systems The importance of considering the dynamic variables when describing classifier systems cannot be underestimated, if systems are to be compared. Such a dynamic perspective is particularly important if one is interested in researching the correlations between language and cognition through the study of classifier systems, to the extent that one would expect different correlations according to the different stages of development and stabilization, and the different degrees of grammaticalization that characterize specific systems. .. Four dynamic dimensions Four distinct dynamics at least need to be taken into account for a proper assessment of the nature of a language specific classifier system: a. Its degree of grammaticalization: one can find, for each subtype of system, examples of systems at every stage of grammaticalization: from incipient systems, to

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well established ones functioning like prototypical systems (at mid-point between lexical and totally grammaticalized systems), all the way to systems at an advanced stage of grammaticalization that are more akin, at that point, to the gender systems familiar to speakers of European languages. The best known systems of the numeral classifier type are probably the ones of South Asian languages, that have generally large inventories and are clearly discourse sensitive systems (see 2.1.1 below) and have been taken as prototype of this subtype of classifiers. But one can also find instances of very grammaticalized numeral classifier systems, such as the ones of most of the Chibchan languages of Costa Rica (see 2.1.3 below). b. Its age: some systems are very old, like the thousands of years of the Chinese system of numeral classifiers for instance, while others can be argued to be only several century old, like the Q’anjob’alan-Mayan systems of noun classifiers. c. Its productivity, independently of its age. For instance the Thai numeral classifier system, which is very old, is also very productive: it is open and adapting to the language of modern life, while the noun classifier system of Jakaltek-Popti’, which can be argued to not be very old, seemed frozen and unable to cope with the classification of modern imports and products until fairly recently. d. Its areal status. The areal spread of classifier systems needs to be assessed in the context of the common phenomenon of borrowing of systems by contact, the borrowing being either through borrowing of actual classifiers (as happened in Japanese with classifiers of Chinese origin), or through the borrowing of the idea of such a system, as seems to have happened in the Q’anjob’alan linguistic area of Guatemala. .. Learning about dynamics from the Jakaltek-Popti’ system It is the encounter with a particular classifier system in a Mayan language and the need to demonstrate its specificity that helped isolate these different dynamic variables. First the system encountered in Jakaltek-Popti’ was a noun classifier system and not a numeral classifier system, difference which had to be argued (Craig 1986b, 1987, 1992). This need to establish a distinct type of classifier system was in fact the initial motivation for establishing a typology of classifier systems. The dynamic variables of systems of classification listed above (grammaticalization, age, rigidity and areal spread) were furthermore needed to specify the exact nature of that system. The Jakaltek-Popti’ system was shown to be very grammaticalized, with classifiers functioning as determiner-like markers of referentiality and anaphoric pronouns, making them omnipresent in the language (Craig 1992). This unusual degree of grammaticalization turned out to be a relatively rare phenomenon, when put in contrast with the array of noun classifier systems of Australian lan-

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guages, which go for their part from incipient to well established systems (Sands 1995; Wilkins 2000) but never reach the degree of grammaticalization exhibited in Jakaltek-Popti’ (Grinevald 2002). In addition, the system could be demonstrated to be a fairly recent one, actually an innovation of that branch of the family calculated to be between 700 to 900 years of age (Craig 1990). But in spite of its being a relatively recent system, characterized by a highly motivated classification of spatial entities by their material or essence, this striking semantic motivation was combined, at the time of the initial fieldwork in the early seventies, with an extreme rigidity and a limited productivity, as it was clearly not absorbing new commercial products made of unknown material (Craig 1986b). New fieldwork carried out three decades later has revealed a thaw in the rigidity of the system.5 The last dynamic variable identified corresponds to the clear evidence of areal spread of the system. While no two of the Q’anjob’alan languages have exactly the same set of classifiers, it is worth noting that some neighboring Mamean languages have borrowed the idea of the system; they have developed incipient systems using their own lexical sources. Interestingly, this has only happened in the dialects of those languages (Mam and Ixil) that are in direct contact with Q’anjob’alan languages (England 1992). . Classifiers and other classification systems of spatial entities Although the attention has been focused here on classifier systems, they are not the only linguistic systems of categorization of spatial entities in existence, although they may be the most explicit ones. The other systems that would definitely deserve attention, in that they too evoke spatial characteristics of spatial entities, are both of a more verbal and a more lexical nature: they are known as systems of “posture verbs” and “positionals”. .. Posture verbs Posture verbs are actually found in European languages (such as German, Dutch, Swedish and Polish), and are a characteristic of Oceanic languages. See for instance the collective volume of Newman (2002) on “The Linguistics of Sitting, Standing . The system is presently in evolution under pressure of shift to Spanish and incipient obsolescence of the language, and of the creation of literacy norms by the new language academy. After a period of several decades of not absorbing into one of the established classes the new items made of plastic that have invaded the market (such as footware and kitchenware), it seems to allow today their inclusion. There are two competing strategies for plastic objects: to assimilate them either in the plant or the animal class; as plant objects by those who claim knowledge of the plant origin of rubber, or as animal objects by those who consider instead their appearance and liken the feel of them to that of snake skin.

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and Lying”, including the chapter by Lemmens on the semantics of Dutch posture verbs. Posture verbs are also commonly found, sometimes in rich inventories, in Amerindian languages. Of interest here is a striking overlap between the spatial semantics of such posture verbs and the semantics of the basic set of numeral classifiers (as displayed in (8) above). Such parallelism between posture verbs and numeral classifiers points to the fact that different systems of classification appear to select similar physical characteristics of spatial entities. Only shared static characteristics of the spatial entities are considered here, although posture verbs may also include dynamic dimensions, akin to directional systems and unknown to numeral classifiers (as in standing coming this way, or going that way, for instance). The parallelism between shape and dimension specified by numeral classifiers and stance of posture verbs is sketched out below: (11) numeral classifiers 1D long rigid 2D flat flexible 3D round

posture verbs standing lying sitting, crouching

There is actually a very common fourth member to this basic set of correspondence. A common classifier of numeral classifier systems of Amazonian languages is one for hollowed objects, such as carved out and curved recipients. In parallel fashion systems of posture verbs of the same region of the world usually include a hanging posture verb, as in hanging in a hammock, with a similar curved position. Kuna, a Chibchan language of Panama, has both types of systems, numeral classifiers and posture verbs, that point interestingly to similar spatial characteristics of entities, in spite of the two systems being from clearly different lexical sources. Compare below the use of the posture verbs ‘standing’ and ‘sitting’ (used here as satellites of main verbs rather than main verbs) and the numeral classifiers of 1D and 3D objects: (12) Kuna (Sherzer 1978: 335) a. suka kwa-pakke crab cl.3D-4 ‘four (round) crabs’ b. sappi wala-pakke tree cl.1D-4 ‘four(long) trees’

a’. Suka purkwe-si. crab die-post.sit ‘the crab is dying(sitting).’ b’. Sappi purkwe-kwici. tree die-post.stand ‘the tree is dying(standing).’

To be noted is the overlap between the characterizations of a crab as a squatty roundish animal (3D) through the numeral classifier, which at the moment of dying is said to be naturally in a sitting (3D) posture. As for the characterizations of a tree in the two systems, it is first as a long and rigid object through the numeral

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classifier and as a standing object through the verb of posture, a posture actually typical of long and rigid objects considered alive (as trees are considered to be in the cultures of this part of the world). .. Positionals Positional systems are much larger systems of categorization of spatial entities and of a more decidedly lexical nature. Some of the better known positional systems are from Mayan languages, particularly the Tzeltal one described by Brown (1994). One can talk of classification systems in the sense that their use is systematic in certain constructions, particularly in the expression of static location. In their rich semantics they provide detailed information on the spatial entities being located, the dimensionality of the objects being only one of the parameters taken into account. Their semantics in fact conflates notions of dimensionality with size, texture, orientation, or type of action that resulted in a particular position. Otherwise the language has only one neutral preposition with no spatial semantics, with all the spatial information distributed between the lexical semantics of those positional verbs and optional relational nouns that can specify the point of location on a ground. Below is a small sample of positionals showing some of the semantic details of objects of various forms being located ‘on’ a table: (13) Tzeltal (Brown (1994)) conflated semantics of positional object located – tall oblong-shaped container or solid object canonically ‘standing’ . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . bottle (1D) – wide flat object lying flat . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . frying pan (2D) – blob with distinguishably flat surface lying face down . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . dough (3D) – wide-mouthed container canonically ‘sitting’ . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . bowl (3D concave)

These positional predicates are derived from hundreds of positional roots that constitute a distinct morphological category in the Mayan family of languages. These positional roots are omnipresent and very productive in the language; with appropriate derivational affixation, they yield not only locative predicates, but also intransitive verbs of movement and transitive verbs of caused movement. An example of such productive derivation from the sister language Tzotzil is given in Haviland (1992). Under the root chot he has included the following entries: chotol for a stative positional predicate (of location) ‘seated, sitting’; choti for an intransitive verb ‘to sit down, to be settled’; chotan for a transitive verb ‘to set down (a child, a bag etc. . .)’. Interestingly, numeral classifiers can be derived from positional roots too, so that the semantic cross-over between the two systems, positionals and

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numeral classifiers, is much more direct in the Tzeltalan languages than in the two Kuna systems just mentioned. . A multidimensional approach and fieldwork methodology As a way of concluding this section on the extremely complex multidimensional phenomenon of nominal classification systems of the languages of the world, it will be said again how the majority of those systems are not found in the familiar IndoEuropean languages but rather, in many cases, in extremely minorized and now endangered oral tradition languages. The information on such systems is therefore often partial, or actually yet to be gathered and made available. The approach promoted here is one that could be called a “total elephant approach”, in that it proposes describing the systems from as many angles as possible, in order to account as precisely as possible for the nature of the specific system under study, and to place it both in the overall structure of the language and within a typology of such systems. It argues therefore against grabbing a system either by the tail, or the trunk, or one of its legs (that is to say by its semantics or its morpho-syntax or its discourse use alone). It will only be through embracing their multi-dimensionality that we could hope to comprehend the dimensions of this phenomenon that takes so many varied forms in the languages of the world, and ultimately to be able to articulate cogently how their existence could contribute to our understanding of the relation between language and cognition.

. A sampler of classifier systems This part is meant to speak for itself by providing data from a number of classifier systems in order to illustrate some of the major ways in which non Indo-European languages may explicitly categorize spatial entities, and to show both some of the invariants that can be detected in those systems and some of their specificities. . Numeral classifier systems This section provides selected data from systems large and small, grammaticalized and less grammaticalized, with a focus on their overlapping semantic motivations and some of their semantic specificities. One is a large system often cited in the literature on classifier (Burmese, from Burling 1965; Becker 1975) that corresponds to the prototype image one has of such systems (large with discourse use). The others are from America, one very similar to Burmese in its overall large size and discourse use (Tzotzil Maya) and the others rare cases of very grammaticalized ones (Chibchan languages of Central America).

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.. Burmese (Asia): Inventory and discourse use The inventory given in Burling (1965) will be reproduced as is here, to show the state of much of the first-hand information found in the literature on classifier systems. This fairly extensive list of the numeral classifiers was produced before the major typological studies of classifiers appeared, and is organized in semantic categories. Of interest here is the “group 2” that the author says is for “Objects with Dimension In Time or Space”, noting how “several of the most commonly used classifiers roughly indicate the shape of the object or show that some event occurs in time”. (14) Burmese (Burling 1965): “group 2” physical classifiers – long, slender objects: pencils, spoons, rulers, sticks; needles, knives, cotton yam (not wool), keys, rope, small pieces of bamboo, umbrellas, pieces of sugar cane, bamboo tie strips, pieces of firewood, horns, tails, braids of hair, etc. – long slender living, or recently living things, which are vertical or perpendicular to the object to which they are attached: trees, plants or stalks of plants, blades of grass, hair, strands of woollen yarn – vertical slender objects which are not living: posts, candlesticks – hoops, loops, rings, bracelets, sarongs, rubber bands – thin, flat objects: carpets, mats, mirrors, plates, trays, loops of pineapple as found in tins, slices of bread, bricks (which were thinner and flatter in traditional Burma than in some countries) – very thin and flat objects: leaves, paper – spherical or cubical objects: boxes, pots, chairs, houses, fruit, cups, loaves, eyes, mountains, bags, pills, seeds, grains, etc. – objects which come in symmetrical pairs: body parts such as eyes, hands, ears, nostrils; shoes, sides of paper (i.e., “pages” in which the two sides of the same sheet are counted separately) – holes: windows, doorways (not the door itself), entrances to caves, holes in paper or cloth – events or actions which take place in time: the number of times that something is done – ‘once’, – ‘twice’, etc. – trips or motions, occurring in time, as “he came here three times” – for storms of rain and wind

The strictly spatial classifiers are the first ones in this list, where one can identify the recurrent dimensions: there are three 1D classifiers for inanimate and for living things, some specified as vertical; two 2D with thinness difference, and one 3D spherical plus one classifier for ring like objects (round and flat), maybe to be contrasted with the classifier for another variant of circular, the one for “holes”.

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The other classifiers have another type of semantics and include pairs and times, and one very specific for storms. As was mentioned earlier it is not the case that all numeral classifiers convey semantics of physical characteristics of spatial entities, rather that it is in such systems of classifiers that one finds classifiers of shape. For instance, the set of classifiers referred to as “group 3”, that Burling labels “Objects with Use” would correspond to those classifiers Denny (1976) called “functional classifiers”. (15) Burmese: “group 3” functional classifiers: – things worn on the body: trousers, sarongs, handkerchiefs, shirts; not used for shoes or for hats – tools or machinery which are used for transportation or for cutting ships, boats, automobiles, knives, saws, arrows – things ridden: elephants, horses, carts, automobiles, airplanes – things which can be read: letters, tickets – hand tools: knives, guns, umbrellas, hammers, spectacles, brooms – for looped objects which can be worn: garlands, necklaces – livable places: houses, apartments; used especially for the apartments of the various queens in the traditional Burmese royal palace – (rare) geographical connections; roads, rivers

One can easily identify in this set of classifiers some widespread functional categories, such as clothing and decoration, transport (machines and pathways), tools, and lodging. Such categories are fairly typical of genitive classifiers as will be shown below in Section 2.3 with examples from Oceania and America. Later Burling identifies a “Residual Category-Objects” labeled “Group 4” headed by the classifier khù. She claims that this classifier “has a unique role in the Burmese language. It can be most simply understood as belonging where no other more specific classifier is appropriate”. (16) Burmese: “group 4” – classifier used whenever nothing else is appropriate; implies nothing of shape, or use, but it does show at least that the item counted is not animate or sacred and that it is an individual object: spectacles, chairs, houses, stories, moons, tails, etc.

This kind of semantically neutral classifier would correspond to the general classifier mentioned earlier; it seems to either be used instead of a more specific one or as a kind of default classifier in a system that calls for the systematic use of classifiers. The other characteristic for which the Burmese system is well-known is its discourse use. This has been illustrated in the literature by the now classic example from Becker (1975) of the different classifiers that can be used when talking of a river, according to the context in which it is evoked:

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(17) Burmese (Becker 1975) – river one line (e.g., on a map) – river one arc (e.g., a path to the sea) – river one connection (e.g., tying two villages) – river one thing (e.g., in a discussion of rivers in general)

Such choice of classifier means that the classifier system is sensitive to discourse pragmatics and is chosen on the basis of some selected characteristic of the referent. This is not, however, a trait of numeral classifiers per se, but rather a reflection of the stage of grammaticalization of this particular one, as the contrast with the very grammaticalized ones of some Chibchan languages will demonstrate. But before, another system from America that functions more like the Burmese one will be mentioned. .. Tzotzil (America 1): On sortal shape classifiers Tzotzil is a Mayan language from Mexico, of the Tzeltalan branch. It has, like its neighboring and sister language Tzeltal already mentioned, a large set of numeral classifiers, among which de León (1987) has identified classifiers for units, collections, partinomies and measure. Only the reduced set of sortal (unit) classifiers will be presented here, to illustrate the presence of the basic dimensional semantics, setting aside the fact that the general notion of shape is also found of course in many mensural classifiers, but showing it is beyond the scope of this paper:6 (18) Tzotzil (de León 1987: 79) animal standing four-legged, tree standing vertical, long 1D, flat and flexible 2D, rectangular and flat 2D, round, spherical 3D

This set of sortal classifiers contains three classifiers that appeal to position as well as shape for humans, animals and trees, and four basically for shapes of inanimates, where the three basic dimensions (1D, 2D, 3D) can be recognized. .. Chibchan languages of Central America (America 2): Very grammaticalized systems There exist very grammaticalized numeral classifiers exhibiting grammatical paradigms of numbers with morphological fusion, neutralizations, and irregularities reminiscent in their morphology of some of the Indo-European morpho. One always needs to keep track of the difference between sortal classifiers, generally a handful in large numeral classifier systems, and possibly large inventories of mensural classifiers. In Tzeltalan languages, the difference is very marked, as the language has hundreds of numeral classifiers of the mensural type. See Berlin (1968) for a first photographic collection illustrating the detailed semantics of such classifiers in Tzeltal, the same language in which objects are located through the use of positionals, as evoked in (13) above.

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syntactic paradigms of declension and conjugation. This is the case for instance with a number of numeral classifier systems of the Chibchan languages of lower Central America (Costa Rica and Panama in particular). The inventories of their closed sets of fused numeral classifiers largely overlap: they share for instance a basic set for shapes (flat, round, long), mixed with material or essence type (humans, plants), and with a few instances of functional classes (clothing and money) and mensural types (clusters, groups, tied, heaps). The data are presented, again, as they can be found in the original sources, including in the order in which the classifiers are listed by the authors and with no attempt made to reinterpret them: (19) Cabecar (Margery 1989: xxvi–ii) human, round, long, flat, group, tied (20) Bribri (Margery 1989: xxiv–xxv) human, flat, round, long, pounds/trees, packages, clusters, groups, kinds (21) Movere-Ngwabere (Young 1996) human, living, plant, long 1D, flat flexible 2D, flat rigid 2D, round 3D, number of times an action or event occurs, clothing, coins, days, heaps, bunches of bananas/ branches of trees, things wrapped in leaves, fathoms, measurements by hand-spans (22) Bocota (Solis 1989: 142–152) human, flat, round, long, square, plants, money, clothing/ kindling, bunches of bananas/plantain/pejibay, clusters (23) Kuna (Sherzer 1978) long oblong and bulky, long 1D thin or flat, flat, round, fruit trees, clothing, plots of land or farm, generic word for fish

Examples of the heterogeneity of numeral classifiers inventories are, for instance, the Movere-Ngwavere time classifiers (number of times of actions and events, and days) and measure ones (fathoms and hand-spans), and the Kuna classifiers for plots of land, fish and the only instance of an animal class in that group of closely related languages. This, of course, raises the question of how animals are classified in the other systems and whether the label “human” should not be reconsidered and replaced by “animate” (as a reminder of the difficulty one often encounters trying to interpret the available and partial descriptions of such systems). . Noun classifiers Noun classifiers are interesting semantically in that they do not refer to the shape of spatial entities at all, but rather to their essence, corresponding to the semantics of their generic source nouns. The illustration comes from a system of Central America (Jakaltek-Popti’ (America 3)), the other part of the world where other systems have been identified being Australia.

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Jakaltek-Popti’ is one of the Q’anjojb’alan Mayan languages, and has become known in particular for its having this type of classifiers. Craig (1986b) presents the set of 24 noun classifiers, 12 of which are used for human and superhuman entities, and 12 for animals and inanimates; with a discussion of the items excluded from the classification, and of the apparent cultural significance of the classification system. For animals and inanimates the classifiers evoke the material or essence of the objects, in a system that is striking for its high semantic motivation, partly due to the high incidence of classifiers that are repeaters: (24) Jakaltek-Popti’ – animal: repeater and specific, for all animals except dogs, and products made of animal material (milk, eggs, leather items) – dog: specific and unique classifier of unknown origin – plant: repeater and specific for all plants except corn (and wheat), and all products from plant material (except rope, thread, and cloth) – corn: repeater and specific for corn and wheat products – thread: repeater and specific for thread and woven material made of thread (hair band, sash) – rope: repeater and specific, for fiber rope and objects made of rope (rope, twine, small and large netbags) – cloth: repeater and specific for woven items of clothing – rock: specific for stone, rock, glass and metal objects (cooking stones, grinding stone, bottle, glasses, knives, trucks, airplanes. . .) – ground, dirt: repeater and specific for ground, dirt and pottery (clay pottery: jugs, plates. . .) – salt: repeater and unique, just for salt – fire: repeater and unique, just for fire – water: repeater and specific for water (water, river, rain, lake)

This kind of system and inventory is specific to the Q’anjob’alan branch of the family. The neighboring sister language, Akateko, has by and large the same inventory, except that it does not isolate the dog in a special class, while it has an additional class of plants, distinct from one for trees (rather than a general plant one); in addition, it recognizes the specificity of the thread, but lacks classifiers for cloth and rope products (Zavala 2000: 134). . Genitive classifiers The interesting consistency of the semantic categories found in genitive classifier systems has been well demonstrated on the basis of Oceanic and Amerindian data

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(Carlson & Payne 1989). It is the type of classifiers where the dominant semantics is that of functionality. .. Oceanic languages: An areal phenomenon In the sample of 14 languages from Oceania that Carlson and Payne considered, the functional semantics of the classifiers distributed themselves as follows, in decreasing order of frequency: (25) Oceanic languages (Carlson & Payne 1989: 93) edible 14, general 13, drinkable 12, animal 8, vehicle 6, building 5, game catch 4, earring 4, garland 4, island 4, plant 3, sheet 2, pillows 2, undergoer 2

One can recognize the presence of a general classifier in all but one system, and several widespread functional categories of edibles, drinkables, animals, transport/vehicles and building, with a largely shared priority for basic human sustenance. .. Panare (America 4) The inventory of the genitive classifiers of the Panare language, clearly half way around the world in the Amazonian region of Venezuela, is strikingly similar, with obvious adjustments for cultural and geographic specificities: (26) Panare (Carlson & Payne 1989: 105) general, edible, drinkable liquid, animal, vehicle, hunting arm, musical instrument, body paint, clothing, container, artificial light.

This list is followed by a mention of 3 repeater+unique classifiers for ‘village, hatchet, blowgun and fire’, and 3 unique classifiers for ‘hammock, house and swidden garden’. To date, the better known genitive classifier systems are those of the Oceanic languages, while it would appear that the phenomenon is also found in a widespread area of Amazonia, although much remains to be done to fully document these systems. . Verbal classifiers Verbal classifiers are those classifiers found inside the verb form as agreement markers on the absolutive argument of the verb (subject of verbs of location or movement, object of transitive verbs of caused movement or manipulation). The sample below was chosen for its relatively transparent semantics, primarily to illustrate one of the main points of the present discussion, the physical characteristics of spatial entities that can be explicitly encoded in some languages of the world through systems of classifiers. Such systems have been repertoried for North Amer-

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ica, for instance, although many of the descriptions remain fragmentary and leave many questions begging within the present typological framework. .. Haida (America 5): Shape semantics like numeral classifiers The verbal classifiers of Haida, a language spoken in Alaska and British Columbia, come in the form of verbal prefixes that conflate features of shape, size and animacy. The inventory presented below is reproduced in its original state, in order to show once again the nature of the primary data on classifiers one encounters in the literature, and to underline how much of the semantic analysis relies on a posteriori interpretations by unavoidably western ethnocentric linguists minds: (27) Haida (Levine 1977: 139–50 in Mithun 2000: 114)7 – ‘branching or forking from the end of a central axis’: chair, fork, bed, stove, binocular, scissors, adze, halibut hook – ‘flat’: leaf, box lid, mirror, knife, shovel, lake, apron – ‘roundish, flat on one side’: mask, flounder, hat, abalone, button – ‘spheroid or cylindrical’: drum, hammer, clam, stone, copper – ‘mass or aggregate’: bunch of clothing – ‘branching from central axis’: tree branches, combs – (meaning unclear): shirt, kerchief, axe – ‘rigid circular’: ring, bracelet, nose ring, black cod hook – ‘long, flexible’: rope, net, belt – ‘long, cylindrical’: lamp, bottle, spruce cone, pipe – (meaning unclear): chisel, bag, nail, red cod, object wrapped as parcel – ‘long, narrow, rigid’: stick, paddle, harpoon, poker, cane, arrow, needle – ‘relatively long, teardrop-shaped’: feather, spoon

One can obviously recognize in this inventory the familiar dimensional classifiers and some of their variants (as is the case for the three classifiers of 1D objects: long flexible, long cylindrical, long narrow and rigid). To be noted also are the classifiers for which no semantic motivation was found, seemingly regrouping objects of very heterogeneous shapes. .. Ika (America 6): Towards lexicalization The classificatory verb system of Ika, a Chibchan language of Colombia, is presented here for its advanced state of lexicalization. This is evidenced by the fact that, although the presence of classifying elements in the verb is still identifiable, their morphemic independence seems blurred and they appear in an advanced

. Due to space limitation only half of the inventory is given here, but it is representative enough of the semantic range of the system.

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stage of fusion. This case illustrates the continuum between clearly segmentable classifying morphemes and lexicalized classificatory verb stems. (28) Ika (Frank 1990: 55 in Aikhenvald 2000: 156)

Exist/loc Be in Be up on Be on Put up on Put down Put in

Long

Flat

Threedimensional

Liquid

Holders

Upright

g"k" "‘-geiku" i-geiku" geiku" igeik" g"k" [g"kó] h%g"k"

p" "‘-p%nku" i-p%nku" p%nku" i-p"n p"n [p"] k%p"s

s" "‘-niku" i-niku" niku" is" s" k%ss"

_ "‘ku" _ _ idos dos k%dos

_ "‘žu ižu _ _ _ k%žus

tšo "‘nuk i-nuk nuk itšo tšo‘s k%tšo‘s

From a purely structural point of view, this example of classifying elements fused to the verb is reminiscent of the advanced process of fusion of numeral classifiers in some Chibchan languages of Central America (see Section 2.1.3 above). Semantically, one recognizes a majority of shape categories, including the basic 1D, 2D and 3D. .. Kwakwala (America 7): Cross semantics between numeral classifier and other classification system It has already been noted that the same semantics can operate within the same language between a system of numeral classifiers and another system of a more verbal nature (as in the Kuna language, ex. (12) in 1.6.1). Kwakwala, a Northern Wakashan language of British Columbia, as its Southern relative Nootka, has both numeral classifiers and classificatory verb stems. There are about 20 classifiers for quantifying expressions, though their productivity varies. The ones most commonly used are listed below: (29) Kwakwala suffixes to numerals (Berman 1990: 40, 38 in Mithun 2000: 109) human, bulky, long, hollow, flat, hole

This set of common classifiers includes the expected shape classifiers, with underspecified classifiers for 1D (long), 2D (flat), 3D (bulky) objects, and the additional variations of 3D (hollow and hole) often found in Amerindian languages. It is interesting to compare the semantics of this numeral system (29) with the semantics of a series of verbal stems akin to posture verbs (30). The system of stems of location typically used for static location as well as handling (caused motion) constructions is much richer semantically than the system of numeral suffixes, although what is to be noted is how the systems share spatial semantics for entities, whether these are counted, located or handled:

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(30) Kwakwala stems of location, (Berman 1990: 52–6 in Mithun 2000: 110) – vertical human is somewhere – horizontal human is somewhere – vertical humans or long objects are somewhere – vertical long object is somewhere – horizontal long object is somewhere – vertical flat object is somewhere – vertical flat objects are somewhere – horizontal flat object is somewhere on its front – horizontal flat object is somewhere on its back – bulky object is somewhere – hollow object is somewhere right-side up – hollow objects are somewhere right-side up – hollow object is somewhere upside down – hole is somewhere

This verbal system is interestingly complex: it conflates information on animacy with the basic dimensions already shown to be part of many numeral classifier systems (1D, 2D, 3D, including a hollow shape typical of Amazonian systems of nominal classification), with the further specification, in this language, of orientation (vertical/horizontal, rightside up/upside down), and finally of number. . A descriptive typological framework on how information on spatial entities might be expressed in languages By way of conclusion, this section will review the principle parameters of the different means languages have availed themselves to specify characteristics of spatial entities in discourse and grammar, through classifier systems and other types of nominal classification systems. . Strategies of encoding When semantic information about spatial entities is specified in a language through nominal classification systems of the kinds presented above, it may follow any number of encoding strategies. .. Information may be overt, covert or unspecified Information about spatial entities is more or less explicit in languages. One can find any one of three situations: –

overt information is found in some morpho-syntactic systems, such as the systems of classifiers presented here, especially the numeral classifier and the

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–

–

verbal classifier types with their explicit spatial information. Sets of positionals and posture verbs fall into this type of overt classification systems.8 covert information about spatial entities can be found in the lexical semantics of English verbs such as chew, lick, crunch, drink that give information on the texture of the entities being digested, and are restricted to the lexical realm of language. Among nominal classification systems that have constituted themselves as part of the grammar of the language are sets of classificatory verbs used for static location and caused motion events such as handling or giving. Unspecified information would be as in the case of Romance languages, which lack systematic detailed information on features of the special entities in other elements of the clause beyond the lexical semantics of the denomination of that spatial entity itself.

.. Information may be distributed through various elements of the clause Overt information on spatial entities may be found in several loci of a proposition. Several nominal classification systems may be operative at once, with possible overlap and redundancy of information. As described in this paper they can be found: – – –

In the naming of the spatial entity itself as is the case with class terms. On other elements of the noun phrase: as with the various subtypes of classifiers (numeral, noun, genitive classifiers). On verbs: either overtly as verbal classifiers, or posture satellites.

The main point to be made here is that some languages make extensive use of such systems, to the extent that some of them may coexist within the same language, multiplying specific information on spatial entities within a single clause. . Information may be about different characteristics of the spatial entities Three major types of information on spatial entities are repeatedly found across the classification systems of the languages of the world (focusing on non-human spatial entities): . These do not exhaust the various means languages have to express information about spatial entities. Not mentioned so far, but potentially interesting too, are other systems such as, for instance, the concordial noun class systems (particularly the semantically motivated Amazonian systems, as discussed in Grinevald 2003 and Grinevald & Seifart 2004), the posture satellites (which are similar in grammatical status to English verb particles or Mayan directionals and express the position in which spatial entities participate in some events), as well as body part locatives, in particular the ones grammaticalized in possessive constructions and known as relational nouns (in the literature on Amerindian languages, but Internal Localization Nouns – or NLI “Noms de Localisation Interne” – in French literature: see Aurnague, Champagne, Vieu and colleagues’ paper in this volume).

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–

–

–

Material/essence, which is principally the semantic variable of noun classifier systems. It includes the notion of animacy that is found in most classifier systems. Physical traits for spatial and tactile information, that are mostly found in numeral classifier systems and verbal systems, either verbal classifiers or classificatory verbs. Function, which is the principal semantic trait of genitive classifiers but can also be found in other systems, the evolution from physical to functional semantics being a matter of degree in many cases.

It remains to analyze how these classifications are, at the same time, reflections of universal human cognition developed through the shared experience of human survival anywhere in the world, and clues to specific cultural traits that reflect modes of adaptation to specific environments, by pointing with classifiers to the saliency of certain spatial (and non spatial) entities. Another way to approach these classification systems of spatial entities is to consider their uneven links to the various perception modes: –

–

– –

The visual mode is heavily represented by information on contour/shape, size, posture/position; however it is worth noting that there is no categorization on the basis of color information, as was noted very early in studies of classifier systems. The tactile mode is primarily acknowledged through attention to the shape of objects being handled, with texture and essence being secondary characteristics of the classification. There is an interesting lack of appeal to the olfactive mode, with no grammaticalized classification system apparently linked to the smell of objects, and an equal absence of classification through the auditory mode, although auditory information might be found in some mensural expressions, but never in basic sortal systems.

Although the information presented in this paper has been restricted to spatial entities, it is important to mention that these classification systems very generally include non spatial entities in their schemes, such as deities and spirits, including diseases, or time units, even language units, as shown for Burmese. The present focus on spatial entities responded to the task at hand in this volume but should not distract from the need for descriptions of the complete sets of linguistic categorization systems.

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. About spatial information in nominal classification systems The kind of physical information those linguistic classification systems provide includes information on basic dimensional, texture, and size features of the spatial entities. – –

–

The most basic and widespread information attends to the salient dimensions of the objects (1D, 2D, 3D), with secondary variations based on texture (rigid, flexible) and size (large and small, even granular) and contour (circular, pear shaped, angular) for each type of dimensional object. The distinction between shape and function in the semantic analysis of some classifiers is not always easy to produce in the sense that certain shapes obviously correspond to certain functions: many tools or instruments must be long and rigid, clothing is optimally flat and flexible, containers are necessarily somewhat hollow. For further illustrations of the relations between geometry/shape and function see Vieu & Aurnague as well as Aurnague, Champagne, Vieu and colleagues’ contributions in this book. A more precise account of the way geometric and functional information can be distinguished and articulated in the semantics of spatial expressions is provided in Aurnague, Vieu, & Borillo (1997).

So much remains to be done to make such semantic distinctions operative in the analysis of the systems of nominal classification introduced here that guarding from facile ad hoc interpretation tainted by easy ethnocentrism may be called for. As mentioned on different occasions, there is an interesting convergence of information that is being conveyed by spatial classifiers (mostly those numeral classifiers and verbal classifier that indeed have spatial semantics) on one hand, and posture verbs, on the other. This semantic convergence is particularly noteworthy since it holds in spite of different lexical origins of the classifying items. . Some languages obsess about spatial information and spatial entities This paper meant to bring to the attention of researchers not familiar with the great variety of the languages of the world the linguistic means available to highlight characteristics of spatial entities. Languages that are rich with such systems can be found all around the world, with some areal distribution in the density of certain types of systems reflected in the literature specializing in the phenomenon, such as numeral classifiers from Asia, Oceania and North America, noun classifiers from Middle America and Australia, genitive classifiers from Oceania and Latin America, noun class systems of Africa and Amazonia. Beyond this areal distribution, an interesting aspect of the phenomenon of nominal classification is the

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fact that in some languages the spatial information they provide is part of a much wider scheme of the language. One can talk of the genius, or the obsession even, of some languages with spatial notions. In this respect, some regions of the world and some language families of the worlds have attracted attention in recent years. One case in point among Amerindian languages, is the Mayan family of languages of MesoAmerica. These languages have for instance: numeral classifier systems (Tzeltal: Berlin 1968; Tzotzil: de León 1987; Yucatec: Lucy 1992), noun classifiers (Jakaltek: (Grinevald) Craig 1986b etc.; Akatek: Zavala 2000), genitive classifiers (Yucatec: Lehmann 1998), positionals (Tzeltal: Brown 1994), relational nouns (Tzotzil: de León 1992), as well as directionals (Tzotzil: Haviland 1993; Jakaltek (Popti’): Craig 1994).9 In closing, a comment about the wealth of what many languages around the world have chosen to explicitly tell through intricate and varied linguistic systems of nominal classification of the spatial entities of the world of the kind presented here and largely unknown to European languages, wealth that remains still largely untapped. The many Amerindian languages of interest, for instance, are, by and large, oral tradition languages of minority linguistic communities, and the vast majority of them are today at different degrees of language endangerment. Such socio-linguistic conditions are therefore bound to constitute a challenge for research methodologies that have been originally conceived and developed in research laboratories of first world countries.10 Meanwhile their potential for interesting studies of the interaction between cognition, language and culture is there, provided the linguistic profession considers it in its best interest to embrace this threatened linguistic diversity.

. This is just a quick sampling of publications. The Mayan family has been a fertile research field for researchers from the Max Planck Institute of Nijmegen in over a decade that have pioneered much of the research on space and cognition (see Levinson & de León 1992; Haviland & Levinson 1994). . And last but not least, serious considerations of the kinds of ethics of fieldwork that is being more and more explicitly expected from researchers by even the major foundations now promoting the documentation of such languages. For a discussion of the situation of endangered languages in South America, see Grinevald (1998), and for an overview of the situation of the languages of the Amazonian region, see Queixalos & Lescure (2000). As feels compelled to add in closing the author of this paper, amerindianist field linguist at heart, always preoccupied with the balancing act between two challenges: the realities of fieldwork and of the life of the speakers of the languages being studied, and the realities of academic life and research standards articulated very far away from such field realities.

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References Adams, Karen & Nancy Conklin (1973). Towards a natural classification (1–10). In Papers from the Annual Meetings of the Chicago Linguistic Society, 9. Aikhenvald, Alexandra (2000). Classifiers: A typology of noun categorization devices. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Allan, Keith (1977). Classifiers. Language, 53, 284–310. Aurnague, Michel, Laure Vieu, & Andrée Borillo (1997). Représentation formelle des concepts spatiaux dans la langue. In M. Denis (Ed.), Langage et cognition spatiale (pp. 69–102). Paris: Masson. Becker, Alton J. (1975). A linguistic image of nature: The Burmese numerative classifier system. Linguistics, 165, 109–121. Berlin, Brent (1968). Tzeltal numeral classifiers: A study in ethnographic semantics. The Hague: Mouton. Brown, Penelope (1994). The INS and ONs of Tzeltal locative expressions: The semantics of static descriptions of location. In J. Haviland & S. Levinson (Eds.), Spatial conceptualization in Mayan languages, Linguistics, 32–4/5, 743–790. Burling, Robbins (1965). How to chose a Burmese numeral classifier. In M. E. Spiro (Ed.), Context and meaning in cultural anthropology, in honor of A. Irving Hallowell (pp. 243–64). New York, NY: Free Press. Carlson, Robert & Doris L. Payne (1989). Genitive classifiers. In Proceedings of the 4th Annual Pacific Linguistics Conference (pp. 89–119). Eugene, OR: University of Oregon. Craig, Colette (Ed.). (1986a). Noun classes and categorization. Amsterdam: John Benjamins. Craig, Colette (1986b). Jacaltec noun classifiers: A study in language and culture. In C. G. Craig (Ed.), Noun classes and categorization (pp. 263–295). Amsterdam: John Benjamins. Craig, Colette (1987). Jacaltec noun classifiers: A study in grammaticalization. Lingua, 70, 241– 284. Craig, Colette (1990). Los clasificadores de nombre en Jacalteco: Una innovación kanjobalana. In N. England (Ed.), Lecturas en la lingüística maya. Antigua, Guatemala: CIRMA. Craig, Colette (1992). Classifiers in a functional perspective. In M. Fortescue, P. Harder & L. Kristoffersen (Eds.), Layered structure and reference in a functional perspective. Papers from the Functional Grammar conference (pp. 277–301). Copenhagen, 1990. Amsterdam: John Benjamins. Craig, Colette (1994). Jacaltec directionals: Their meaning and their function. Languages of the World, 7, 23–36. de León, Lourdes (1987). Noun and numeral classifiers in Mixtec and Tzotzil: A referential view. PhD dissertation, University of Sussex. de León, Lourdes (1992). Body parts and location in Tzotzil: Ongoing grammaticalization. In S. Levinson & L. de León (Eds.), Special Issue: Spatial Description in Mesoamerican Languages, Z. Phon. Sprachwiss. Kommun.forsch (ZPSK), 45 (1992) 6, 570–589. Denny, Peter J. (1976). What are noun classifiers good for? In Papers from the Annual Meetings of the Chicago Linguistic Society, 12, 122–132. England, Nora (1992). Autonomía de los idiomas Mayas: Historia e identidad. Guatemala: Cholsamaj. Foley, William (1997). Anthropological linguistics. Malden, MA: Blackwell. Frank, Paul S. (1990). Ika syntax. Dallas, TX: SiL and the University of Texas at Arlington.

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Grinevald, Colette (1998). Language endangerment in South America: A programmatic approach. In L. Grenoble & L. Whaley (Eds), Endangered languages (pp. 124–160). Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Grinevald, Colette (1999). Typologie des systèmes de classification nominale. In La catégorisation dans les langues, Faits de Langues, 14, 101–123. Grinevald, Colette (2000). A morpho-syntactic typology of classifiers. In G. Senft (Ed.), Systems of nominal classification (pp. 50–92). Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Grinevald, Colette (2001). Linguistics of classifiers (#68). Encyclopedia of the social and behavioural sciences, 1973–1978. Amsterdam: Elsevier. Grinevald, Colette (2002). Making sense of nominal classification systems: Noun classifiers and the grammaticalization variable. In I. Wischer & G. Diewald (Eds.), New reflections on grammaticalization [Typological Studies in Language] (pp. 259–275). Amsterdam: John Benjamins. Grinevald, Colette (2003). Classification nominale: Le défi amazonien. In J. Landaburu & F. Queixalos (Eds.), Méso-Amérique, Caraïbes, Amazonie, Vol. 2, Faits de langues, 21, 133–154. Grinevald, Colette (2004). Classifiers. In C. Lehmann, J. Mugdan & S. Skopeteas (Eds.), Morphology. An international handbook of inflection and word-Formation, Vol. 2 (pp. 1016– 1032). Berlin: Walter de Gruyter. Grinevald, Colette & Frank Seifart (2004). Noun classes in African and Amazonian Languages. Linguistic Typology, 8, 243–285. Haviland, John (1992). Seated and settled: Tzotzil verbs of the body. In Special Issue: Spatial description in Mesoamerican languages, Z. Phon. Sprachwiss. Kommun.forsch (ZPSK), 45(6), 543–561. Haviland, John (1993). The syntax of Tzotzil auxiliaries and directionals: The grammaticalization of “motion”. Berkeley Linguistic Society, 35–49. Haviland, John & Stephen Levinson (Eds.). (1994.) Spatial conceptualization in Mayan languages. Linguistic, 32–4/5. Imai, Mutsumi & Dedre Gentner (1993). Linguistic relativity vs universal ontology: Crosslinguistic studies of the object/substance distinction. In K. Beals et al. (Eds.), What we think, what we mean and how we say it: Papers from the parasession on the correspondence of conceptual, semantic and grammatical representations (pp. 171–186). Chicago, IL: Chicago Linguistic Society. Lehmann, Christian (1998). Possession in Yukatek Maya [Lincom Studies in Native American Linguistics IV]. Munich: Lincom. Levine, Robert D. (1977). The Shidegate dialect of Haida. PhD disseration, Comlumbia University. Levinson, Stephen & Lourdes de León (Eds.). (1992). Special Issue: Spatial description in Mesoamerican languages. Z. Phon.Sprachwiss. Kommun.forsch (ZPSK), 45(6). Lucy, John (1992). Language diversity and thought: A reformulation of the linguistic relativity hypothesis. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Margery, Enrique (1989). Diccionario cabécar-español español-cabécar. San José: Editorial de la Universidad de Costa Rica. Mithun, Marianne (1986). The convergence of noun classification systems. In C. G. Craig (Ed.), Noun classes and categorization (pp. 379–397). Amsterdam: John Benjamins. Mithun, Marianne (2000). The languages of North America. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Newman, John (2002). The linguistics of sitting, standing and lying [Typological Studies in Language 51]. Amsterdam: John Benjamins.

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Queixalos, Francisco & Odile Renault-Lescure (Eds.). (2000). As línguas amazônicas hoje. Saõ Paolo: IRD MPEG Instituto Socioambiental. Regh, Kenneth L. (1981). Ponapean reference grammar. Honolulu, HI: University Press of Hawaii. Senft, Gunter (Ed.). (2000). Systems of Nominal Classification. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Sands, Christina (1995). Nominal classification in Australia. Anthropological Linguistics, 37, 247– 346. Sherzer, Joel (1978). Cuna numeral classifiers. In J. A. Jazayeri, E. C. Palomé, & W. Winter (Eds.), Linguistics and literary studies in honor of Archibald A. Hill (pp. 331–337). The Hague: Mouton. Sherzer, Joel (1990). Verbal art in San Blas: Kuna culture through its discourse. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Solis, Mayra (1989). Los cuantificadores numerales en el bocota de Chiriquí. In Estudios de Lingüística Chibcha VIII (pp. 141–152). San José: Editorial de la Universidad de Costa Rica. Wilkins, David (2000). Classifier constructions in Arrente. In G. Senft (Ed.), Systems of nominal classification (pp. 147–216). Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Young, Philip (1996). Ngwabere numeral classifiers. In S. DeLancey & R. Tomlin (Eds.), Proceedings of the second annual meetings of the Pacific Linguistics Conference. Eugene, OR: University of Oregon. Zavala, Roberto (2000). Multiple classifiers systems in Akatek Mayan. In G. Senft (Ed.), Systems of nominal classification (pp. 114–146). Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.

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The expression of semantic components and the nature of ground entity in orientation motion verbs A cross-linguistic account based on French and Korean Injoo Choi-Jonini and Laure Sardaii i

Equipe de Recherche en Syntaxe et Sémantique (ERSS–UMR 5610) CNRS & Université Toulouse-Le Mirail ii Laboratoire Langues, Textes, Traitements Informatiques et Cognition (LaTTICe-UMR 8094) CNRS, Ecole Normale Supérieure & Université de Paris 7

In this chapter, we describe six orientation motion verbs in French and Korean, which express a deictic motion and/ or frontal or vertical orientation. This comparative study strengthens the view that the nature of entities such as “location” and “object” plays an important role in object selection in both languages. We also propose to refine the semantic components of motion put forward by Talmy (1985, 2000). Through a detailed description of each type of orientation motion verb, we show that both lexical selection and grammatical object marking depend largely upon the composition of orientation verbs which include deictic motion verbs in Korean, but not in French.

.

Introduction1

Following Talmy’s work on “lexicalization patterns” (1985, 2000), we examine the relationships between meaning (in terms of the semantic or conceptual compo. This research was carried out within the project “Spatial entities and their categorization in language and cognition” (COG135; 1999–2001) that was financially supported by the Program “Cognitique” of the French Ministry of Research. We wish to thank Michel Aurnague, Colette Grinevald and the two anonymous reviewers for their helpful comments on an earlier version of this paper. We are also indebted to Francis Cornish, Andrew McMichael, Anne Przewozny and Christophe Zimmer for their stylistic advice.

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nent) and surface expression (overt linguistic forms). We concentrate on how Motion, Path and Deixis components are expressed by verbal constructions with the following motion verbs, in French and in Korean: Fr Kr

aller ga-da

venir o-da

Eng

go

come

entrer dil6 ga-da dil6 o-da go in come in

sortir na ga-da na o-da go out come out

monter olla ga-da olla o-da go up come up

descendre n7rj6 ga-da n7rj6 o-da go down come down

We call these verbs “orientation motion verbs”, since they express in Korean and French a motion towards or from the speaker (deictic motion) and/ or frontal and vertical orientation. From a general typological point of view, French and Korean belong to the same group of Verb-framed languages, i.e. languages where the Path component is naturally lexicalized by the verb ((1a), (1b)), in contrast to the Satellite-framed languages where the Path is lexicalized by the satellite, such as English (1c). (1) a.

b.

c.

We do not question this very general typological distinction between Verb-framed and Satellite-framed languages, but we propose here to further examine the data of two languages belonging to the same group. Our aim is twofold. On the one hand, we want to characterize the exact role that each element in the verbal complex (verbs, adpositions or suffixes, relational nouns, type of object) plays in the expression of the Motion, Path and Deixis components through a detailed description of object marking for each type of orientation motion verbs. On the other hand, we shall describe the constraints of object selection by taking into account the nature of “ground entities”. According to Talmy (ib.), Motion and Path are basic components of a motion event, along with the Figure (entity to be localized) and the Ground (localizing entity). Motion refers to the presence per se of motion (MOVE) or locatedness (BELOC ) in the event. The Path is the path followed or the site occupied by the Figure object with respect to the ground object (cf. Talmy 1985: 25). In addition, a motion event can be associated with a co-event expressing Manner, Cause or

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Deixis (i.e. motion towards the speakers vs. motion away from the speaker).2 In this study, we consider motion involving a displacement (MOVE) and not the result of a motion (beloc ); also, we specifically address the distribution of Motion, Path and Deixis components in patterns where the Figure is expressed by the subject and the Ground by the object. Regarding the ways in which these components are lexicalized by surface expressions, Talmy identified two types of surface expressions in English capable of realizing the Path component: the satellite and the preposition. He pointed out that the Path is generally completely expressed by the combination of both a satellite and a preposition, but when the Ground is not expressed, it is the preposition that must disappear, not the satellite. In I ran out of the house, the ellipsis of the constituent realizing the Ground component implies the suppression of of, and not of out: I ran out/ *I ran of. Since the Path is expressed both by the satellite and the preposition, and can be expressed by other surface expressions both in French and Korean, we suggest in this paper that it is necessary to distinguish different types of Path. On the basis of French data, the question arises of whether the verb, the direct object and the preposition express the same Path as in il monte vers la colline ‘he is moving up towards the hill’, or il descend l’escalier ‘he is moving down the staircase’. In Korean, a motion verb can combine with a deictic motion verb, forming a compound verb. An additional question is thus whether the two components of the compound express the same type of Motion. Concerning the question of object selection, the orientation motion verbs call for an argument referring to a spatial entity. However, not all types of orientation motion verbs can combine with any noun designating a spatial entity. In addition, the type of object marking also seems to play a role in object selection. A sub-categorization of spatial entities (see Aurnague 1996, 2004; Aurnague, Champagne, Vieu et al. in this volume) is therefore useful to identify the type of nouns which can be associated with grammatical objects. By addressing the question whether French and Korean behave in the same way with regards to object selection and categorization of spatial entities, we will provide evidence to reinforce the view that “objects” and “locations” are strongly different and that relational nouns have a close link with “locations”. In this paper, we first present an outline of motion constructions and object marking in Korean and French (Section 2). We then present data showing the need to distinguish two types of Motion and we discuss the lexicalization patterns of Korean motion events described in Choi and Bowerman (1991) (Section 3). In Section 4, we examine the combinability of each type of orientation motion verb . The Deixis component has been added to this collection of basic components of a motion event by Choi and Bowerman (1991) to describe Korean lexicalization patterns.



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with object marking in French and Korean, and determine which category realizes which semantic component. We then propose to distinguish three types of Path. In Section 5, we further investigate the verb-object relationships by describing the selection restrictions imposed by the different verbs and the different possibilities of object marking. We conclude by suggesting that the semantic components of motion put forward by Talmy are not sufficient for a fine-grained description of motion, and that Motion and Path components must be sub-categorized. In addition, this study confirms the importance of considering the nature of the entity associated with the grammatical object in order to explain constraints on object selection.

. A brief outline of motion constructions and object marking in Korean and French . Korean motion constructions In Korean, a verbal form is made up of a verbal root, followed by several verbal suffixes, such as an honorific suffix, an aspectual suffix, a modal suffix and a terminal suffix (a table of abbreviations is given at the end of the paper):3 (2) VR – Hon – AT – MS1 – MS2 – TS ga - si - 6sÁ - k7sÁ - d6 - la. go - Hon - Pas - Pres - Test - Ass ‘From what I saw, I assume he went away.’

Motion constructions can be made up of a compound verb, which consists of several verbal roots, the last one being a deictic motion verb: (3) VR1 – VR2 – VR3 – Hon – AT – MS1 – MS2 – Ts gi6 - olla - ga - si - 6sÁ - k7sÁ - d6 - la. crawl - move up - go - Hon - Pas - Pres - Test - Ass ‘From what I saw, I assume he crawled up (crawl-move up-go).’

Deictic motion verbs ga-da (‘go’) and o-da (‘come’) express that the subject, considered as the Figure of motion, moves respectively away from the speaker and towards the speaker.

. The honorific suffix expresses a social relationship between the speaker and the person denoted by the grammatical subject; the terminal suffix expresses a type of sentence, such as assertion, question, exclamation, etc., and a social relationship between the speaker and the addressee.

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. French motion constructions French orientation motion verbs can appear in the intransitive construction (4a), in the direct transitive construction (causative (4b) or non causative (4c)), or in the intransitive construction with a prepositional object (this is the most frequent case (4d)): (4) a.

Les eaux montent. the-det waters-subj move up-v ‘The water (Fig) is rising.’ b. Max monte les livres au grenier. Max-subj move up-v the-det books-n to-prep+the-det attic-n ‘Max is bringing the books (Fig) up to the attic (Gr).’ monte l’escalier. c. Max Max-subj move up-v the-det staircase-n ‘Max (Fig) is going up the staircase (Gr).’ d. Max monte sur la colline. Max-subj move up-v on-prep the-det hill-n ‘Max (Fig) is climbing the hill (Gr).’

In the following, we do not consider the causative construction where the direct object expresses the Figure. . Korean object marking system A Korean noun, used as a constituent in a sentence, can be followed by what is traditionally called an auxiliary particle. These auxiliary particles are grammatical morphemes since they do not carry lexical meaning and are not syntactically autonomous. Indeed, they must be preceded by a nominal constituent. Korean grammars distinguish two types of auxiliary particles: case particles and specific particles. Case particles include Nominative, Genitive, Accusative, Dative, Locative, Ablative, Directional, Instrumental, Comitative, and Vocative; specific particles include Topic and other particles which express the beginning or the end of a process (‘from. . . until’), a restriction (‘only’), an addition (‘also’), a random selection (‘any’) etc. A case particle cannot be combined with another case particle, but it can occur with a specific particle.4 Concerning so-called case marking, we prefer to talk of functional nominal suffixes rather than cases, because their presence after a nominal constituent is not obligatory. An object of a motion verb can be combined with a functional nominal suffix such as the accusative, the locative, the abla. However, unlike other case markings, the Nominative and the Accusative cannot be combined with the topic marking.

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tive or the directional. In addition, in order to express specific localization, Korean uses relational nouns, which can be combined with a functional nominal suffix.5 (5) ki-nin ch 7ksa]-Ci-e olla-ga -sÁ-da. he-th table-top-loc move up-go-pas-ts ‘He climbed up onto the table.’

. French prepositional system Orientation motion verbs can combine with a variety of prepositions which are the equivalent of the Korean functional nominal suffix system, as in the table below (this list is not exhaustive): Fr Kr Eng

à Loc -e at/ to

de Abl -es6 from

vers Dir -ro towards

∅ Acc -il ∅

dans

sur

sous

in

on

under

par Inst -ro by

en

jusqu’à -kÁaci until

. Basic Motion vs. Deictic Motion In this section, we examine which component is expressed by the verb in French and Korean. The orientation verbs under consideration here, aller/ venir (‘go’/ ‘come’), entrer/ sortir (‘move in’ (‘enter’)/ ‘move out’ (‘leave’)), monter/ descendre (‘move up’ (‘go up’)/ ‘move down’ (‘go down’)) and their Korean counterparts express deictic motion and/ or frontal or vertical orientation. As shown in the introduction (ex. (1a)), French motion verbs conflate Motion and Path (i.e. the verb expresses both the Motion (MOVE) and the Path component (IN, OUT, UP or DOWN)). We now examine what happens with Korean verbs. Korean motion verbs are characterized by their combinability with deictic motion verbs ga-da (‘go’) or o-da (‘come’). According to Choi & Bowerman (1991: 89), the deictic motion verb expresses Motion and Deixis, while the first verbal root move in, move out, move up or move down expresses the Path component (and not the Motion component).6 . A relational noun corresponds to the Internal Localization Nouns described by other authors in this volume. . Choi & Bowerman (1991: 89, Note 3) give two reasons why the first verbal root of the compound should be considered as the base element of the Path component only. First, they claim that the verb dil6- (‘enter’), combined with -is’-da (‘be’) expresses static location: dil6-isÁ-da (‘be

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(6) VR1 dil6 move in na move out [Path]

VR2 ga/ o-da go/ come ga/ o-da go/ come [Motion+ Deixis]

VR1 olla move up n7rj6 move down [Path]

VR2 ga/ o-da go/ come ga/ o-da go/ come [Motion+ Deixis]

In the examples that follow, however, compound verbs dil6s6da (Lit. ‘standing after having entered’) and nas6da (Lit. ‘standing after having left’) express Motion thanks to the verbal roots dil6- (‘move in’) and na- (‘move out’), in the absence of any deictic motion verb.7 Moreover, the possibility of combining these verbs with an ideophone or an adverb of manner reinforces the idea that they intrinsically express Motion.8 (7) insu-nin ba]-iro 6gic6g 6gic6g dil6-s6-sÁ-da. Insoo-th room-dir waddle move in-stand-pas-ts ‘Insoo MOVED-in the room waddling, WITH-THE-CONCURRENT-RESULT-OF [he stands].’ ‘Insoo was waddling into the room.’ (8) insu-nin cib-bagg-iro ch 6nch 6nhi na-s6-sÁ-da. Insoo-th house-out-dir slowly move out-stand-pas-ts ‘Insoo MOVED-out of the house slowly, WITH-THE-CONCURRENT-RESULT-OF [he stands].’ ‘Insoo slowly stepped out of the house.’

in’). But this compound verb expresses a static location resulting from a motion. Moreover, the deictic motion verbs ga-da and o-da can also occur with is’-da: Insoo cib-e ga-is’-da (Insoo, home-Loc, go-be-TS: ‘Insoo is at home’); here too, these verbs express a static location resulting from a motion. Should the deictic motion verb therefore be considered as a vehicle of the PATH component? Second, they claim that the verb ori-da (‘move up’), when occurring alone, expresses motion in a rather abstract, holistic way. Yet, it is not clear why this expression should be more abstract or holistic than when the verb occurs with a deictic motion verb. With the progressive in particular, the verb ori-da (‘move up’) can express a dynamic motion event (climbing the mountain), whether occurring alone or combined with a deictic motion verb, as shown respectively by the following two examples: John-i san-e ori-go isÁ-da (John-Subj, mountain-Loc move up-Prog-TS: ‘John is going up the mountain’) and John-i san-e olla-ga-go isÁ-da (John-Subj, mountain-Loc move up-go-Prog-TS: ‘John is going up the mountain’). . This case is comparable to the result construction in English The door slammed shut: in this example, the verb slammed conflates MOTION and MANNER, and the verb shut expresses the result of this motion. . The Korean expression 6gic6g 6gic6g is an ideophone, namely a word that represents the manner of a motion by imitation, in the same sense as onomatopoeia evoke something by phonetic imitation.

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The verbs ori-da/ n7ri-da (‘move up’/ ‘move down’) can also express Motion alone when their objects refer to a vehicle. (9) th 7gsi-e/ es6 ori/ n7ri-nin insu. Taxi-loc/ abl get in/ get off-as Insoo ‘Insoo MOVED-up/ down (in/ out of) the taxi.’ ‘Insoo who gets in/ out of a taxi.’

These examples clearly show that orientation verbs as well as deictic motion verbs express Motion. We thus propose to distinguish basic intrinsic motion (i.e. the motion along the frontal or vertical direction) from deictic motion (Motion + Deixis, i.e. the motion toward or away from the speaker). In Korean, compound verbs are made up of an orientation motion verb and a deictic motion verb, the former expressing both Path and Basic Motion and the latter Deictic Motion. (10) V1 dil6 na olla n7rj6 [Path+Basic Motion]

V2 ga/ o-da ga/ o-da ga/ o-da ga/ o-da [Deictic Motion]

‘go in’/ ‘come in’ ‘go out’/ ‘come out’ ‘go up’/ ‘come up’ ‘go down’/ ‘come down’

These two types of Motion must also be distinguished in French. Even though the Deictic Motion is never realized (except with the verbs aller/ venir), the Basic Motion is expressed by orientation verbs in addition to Path. (11) V entrer sortir monter descendre [Path + Basic Motion]

‘go into’ ‘go out of ’ ‘go up’ ‘go down’

In this section, we have introduced the distinction between Basic and Deictic Motion and showed that Korean patterns express Path and basic Motion in the first verbal root, and deictic Motion in the last one. We insisted on the fact that the first verbal root does express Motion independently of the presence of a deictic motion verb. . Object marking In this section, we examine the possibilities of combining the six orientation motion verbs under consideration with different object markers (Korean functional nominal suffixes or French prepositions). We present the Korean data in Sec-

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tion 4.1, and the French data in Section 4.2. Finally, in Section 4.3, we compare the strategies used in French and in Korean to express specific localization, i.e. localization involving the use of “color prepositions” such as in, on, and under.9 . Korean Data In Korean, orientation motion verbs exhibit four possibilities of object marking: zero, Locative/ Ablative, Accusative and Directional. All verbs can occur with all suffixes (Acc, Loc/ Abl, Dir), even if the verb dil6-ga-da (‘move in’) with an accusative object denotes an activity rather than the motion itself (ex. ‘enter the army’). We illustrate these different possibilities with the verb ori-da (‘move up’). (12) Object-ø olla-ga/ o-da agasÁi-ga s6ul olla-ga-l tÁe gÁaci-yo. Miss-nom Seoul-ø move up-go-as moment till-ts ‘Until Miss went up to Seoul.’ (Life, 02, 13/41) (13) Obj-Acc olla-ga/ o-da gims7 migÁir6cil g6s gath in ‘which seems very slippery’ [bj6ra]-il gj6u da olla-ga-sÁ-ninde] ..... cliff-acc just all move up-go-pas-cs ‘(he) just climbed up the cliff ’ ‘He just climbed up the cliff which seems very slippery.....’ (Imp, 9) (14) Object-Dir olla-ga/ o-da mj6]hwa haggjo-ro olla-ga-n-da. Meonghwa school-dir move up-go-pst-ts ‘Meonghwa is going up to the school.’ (Shylover, 20) (15) Object-loc/ Abl olla-ga/ o-da a. ca ice-nin namu-Ci-e olla-ga-ge. well now-th tree-top-loc move up-go-ts Lit. ‘Climb up the tree.’ (The death of a salt merchant) b. sokimca]su-nin[. . . ] namu-es6 n7rj6-o-a-sÁ-ipnida. salt merchant-th tree-abl move down-come-pas-ts Lit. ‘The salt merchant came down from the tree.’ (The death of a salt merchant) . This terminology was introduced by Spang-Hanssen (1963) who distinguishes between color prepositions which denote referential meanings as in dans (‘in’), sur (‘on’), sous (‘under’), avec (‘with’) etc. and colorless prepositions à (‘to’), de (‘from’) which have lost their referential meanings.



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The zero marked object seems to be used when the object is not considered as an entity conceived independently of the verb’s representation: in example (12), s6ul olla-gada represents the event of ‘going up to Seoul’. Therefore, zero marked objects often express an activity or an occupation: one goes somewhere (to the hospital, to the casino, to work etc. . .) in order to do something. Locative and Ablative (15) objects respectively express goal-location and source-location. The Accusative (13) conflates Path with Ground, which provides a global vision of the process. Finally, Directional (14) creates a Path between the positions of Figure and Ground. These observations suggest that the notion of Path is not only marked by the verbal element but also by object marking and lead us to propose a refinement of Talmy’s Path component. On the one hand, orientation motion verbs express a Path towards the inside/ outside, the top or the bottom. On the other hand, functional nominal suffixes express a Path corresponding to the location of the Figure with respect to the Ground (Loc/ Abl) or the trajectory of the Figure that may or may not be conflated with the Ground (Acc/ Dir). These distinctions provide the basis for a new typology of Paths that we will propose at the end of this section. . French Data We now examine the possibility of combining French orientation motion verbs with the prepositions à (‘to/ at’), de (‘from’), vers (‘towards’) and the null preposition (i.e. transitive construction), corresponding to the Korean suffixes Locative, Ablative, Directional and Accusative, respectively. In contrast to Korean, not all French orientation motion verbs can combine with all prepositions. The preposition à is the only one that occurs with all six verbs, but when it is combined with entrer (‘move in’) and sortir (‘move out’), the object must be preceded by a definite article and the denoted event corresponds very often to an activity rather than a motion event. The definite object can be interpreted as generic: entrer à l’école etc. (lit. ‘enter to the school’: ‘go to school’) and leads to an interpretation as an activity, or specific: entrer à la cuisine (pour prendre une pomme) (‘enter the kitchen to take an apple’) and leads to an interpretation as a motion event. When combined with the verbs aller, venir, monter and descendre, the preposition à introduces a goal location. The preposition de (‘from’) can combine with monter (‘move up’), descendre (‘move down’), sortir (‘move out’) and venir (‘come’). In all these cases, de introduces the source-object. It is pragmatically incompatible with the verb entrer (‘move in’), which focuses on the goal location. It is normally also incompatible with aller (‘go’), which expresses a motion from the speaker, considered the source (it is thus redundant to introduce another source), except in the presence of another PP introduced by the preposition à (‘to’) and optionally, an adver-

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bial determining the manner of going or the circumstances, as in elle est allée de Toulouse à Paris en avion (lit. ‘she went from Toulouse to Paris in airplane’: ‘she flew from. . .to. . .’). In this case, aller loses its deictic value. The preposition vers (‘towards’) can occur with the verbs aller (‘go’), venir (‘come’), monter (‘move up’) and descendre (‘move down’), but not with entrer (‘move in’) and rarely with sortir (‘move out’). When sortir occurs with a directional PP, the latter denotes a rough direction: elle est sortie vers le centre (lit. ‘she went out towards the city center’). Finally, only monter (‘move up’) and descendre (‘move down’) can have a direct object. With these verbs, the French direct construction involves, as does the Accusative in Korean, a global vision of the process where part of the Path component is conflated with the Ground which corresponds to a holistic Theme (Dowty 1991). In monter l’escalier (‘go up the stairs’), the object l’escalier is a functional path that serves to measure out the process (Tenny 1995). The French deictic verbs aller (‘go’) and venir (‘come’) never appear in the direct construction, except aller in combination with a cognate object as in elle va son chemin (‘she goes her way’). The verbs entrer (‘move in’) and sortir (‘move out’) never take a direct object. . Linguistic material that expresses specific localization In French, orientation motion verbs can occur with “color prepositions” such as dans, sur, sous (‘in’, ‘on’, ‘under’) and with complex prepositions made up of relational nouns such as à l’intérieur de, au-dessus de, au-dessous de. . . (‘inside of ’, ‘on top of ’, ‘below’). The former prepositions express a functional relation between the Figure and the Ground (such as containment, support or access to perception), the latter are specific in that they systematically imply a space portion which is localized with respect to the Ground (cf. Aurnague 2004; Aurnague & Vieu 1993; Vandeloise 1986). In Korean, this distinction is not made. Indeed, the relational noun Ci (‘top’) is used not only for a relation implying contact (on) but also for a relation which does not imply it (above): (16) insu-nin ch 7gsa] Ci-e olla-ga-sÁ-da. Insoo-th table top-loc move up-go-pas-ts ‘Insoo climbed on the table.’ (17) tal-i san Ci-e tÁ6-oll-asÁ-da. moon-subj mountain top-loc rise-move up-pas-ts ‘The moon rose above the mountain.’

In Korean, localization is always expressed by functional suffixes, and space portion by relational nouns, as for the following French complex prepositions: au bord de (‘at the edge of ’), à côté de (‘next to’), au-dessus de (‘on top of ’) etc. How-



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ever, Korean relational nouns can combine with any functional suffix, whereas the French complex prepositions made up of relational nouns and the preposition à are fossilized expressions at various stages (see Aurnague 1996, 2004; Svorou 1994). In this section, we have examined the combinability of each type of orientation verb with different object markings in French and in Korean. This led us to distinguish different types of path, realized by different surface expressions: orientation motion verbs express the “Path of motion” (towards the inside/ outside, the top/ the bottom); the Korean functional nominal suffixes Locative and Ablative, and the French prepositions (à, de) express the “Path of localization” (goal or source); the Korean Accusative and the French direct object express the “Path of total trajectory” of the Figure, while the Korean Directional and the French preposition vers express the “Path of partial trajectory” of the Figure. In French, localization of the Figure can be realized also by the color prepositions dans, sur, sous (‘in’, ‘on’, ‘under’), which imply in addition a functional relation between the Figure and the Ground; whereas in Korean, it is always realized by a functional nominal suffix and the functional relation between the Figure and the Ground is not taken into account. Finally, space portions are realized by relational nouns in French and in Korean. This morpho-syntactic description must now be enriched by means of a semantic analysis. Indeed, even when one type of verb can combine with a type of object marking, there are constraints on the type of noun in object position. In the next section, we thus focus on object selection.

. Object Selection . Ontology of spatial entities In this section we use the ontological distinctions between location type entities and object type entities (see Aurnague 1996, 2004; Aurnague, Champagne, Vieu et al. in this volume). A “location” is a material entity which defines a space portion that is fixed in a given frame of reference (e.g., home, buildings, ocean, mountain, etc.). An “object” is a material entity, which may not necessarily have to be associated with a space portion and is not necessarily fixed (Peter, tree, table, etc.). However, an “object noun” can denote a (specified) location, for instance when it is specified by a relational noun of localization (e.g., the edge of the table, the foot of the tree, the bottom of the book, etc. are all expressions which denote a specified location because the position of the place they denote is well-known). Nouns such as Paris, Rock of Gibraltar are equally specified locations. In the following, it is important to avoid confusion between the grammatical object and the ontological

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object. We now analyze the lexical selection of each type of grammatical object combined with each type of orientation verb. An overview of object marking and object selection is given at the end of the section. . Locative/ ablative object and the prepositions à/ de .. Deictic motion verbs (‘go’, ‘come’) In Korean, the noun associated with a locative object, occurring with deictic motion verbs ga-da (‘go’) or o-da (‘come’), must denote a location. If it denotes an ontological object, it must be followed by a relational noun such as aph (‘front’) or dCi (‘behind’) and thus denotes a specified location: (18) sigsa cib-e ga-s6 di-si-gujo. meal home-loc go-cs eat-hon-ts ‘OK, have dinner at home.’ (Shylover, 9) Lit. ‘You go home, and have your dinner.’ ga-s6 m6ri mancj6 po-go. (19) k6ul-aph -e mirror-front-loc go-cs hair arrange-cs ‘He places himself in front of the mirror, to do his hair.’ (Life, 02, 2/41)

On the other hand, the noun associated with an ablative object occurring with the deictic motion verb o-da (‘come’) must correspond to a noun of location (insu-nin s6ul-es6 o-asÁ-da (Insu-TH, Seoul-Abl, come-Pas-TS: ‘Insoo came from Seoul’)); it is difficult to mark a noun denoting an ontological object entity by the Ablative in the same context, even when it comes with a relational noun of localization (??insu-nin g6ul-dCi-es6 o-asÁ-da (Insu-Th, mirror-behind-Abl come-Pas-TS: ‘Insoo came from behind the mirror’)). The same restrictions may be observed in French. The verbs aller (‘go’) and venir (‘come’) select a location noun when their grammatical object is headed by the preposition à: Paul va à Paris/ à la maison (‘Paul is going to Paris’/ ‘Paul is going home’ (lit. ‘to the house’)); except in cases which imply a routine associated with a displacement (il va au piano: ‘he is going to the piano’, e.g., to play), a noun referring to an ontological object can occur after the preposition à only if it is specified by a relational noun of localization: *il va à l’arbre/ il va au pied de l’arbre (lit. ‘he is going to the tree’/ ‘he is going to the foot of the tree’). Accordingly, the verb venir (‘come’) followed by the preposition de (‘from’) selects a location noun: il vient de Paris (‘he comes from Paris’). A noun referring to an ontological object is more problematic in this position, even if it comes with a relational noun: ?il vient du pied de l’arbre (‘he is coming from the foot of the tree’). This utterance is not very relevant but is nevertheless better than *il vient de l’arbre (‘he is coming from the tree’). However, it can be combined with a complex preposition as in la fourmi est venue de dessous le fauteuil (‘the ant came from under the armchair’).

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.. Frontal orientation verbs (‘move in’, ‘move out’) When they occur with Korean orientation verbs dil6-ga-da (‘move in’) and na-gada (‘move out’), the grammatical locative or ablative object selects a location noun or a noun denoting a three-dimensional object possessing an interior. Otherwise, the noun must be followed by a relational noun of localization. (20) insu cib-e dil-6-ga-n-da. Insoo house-loc move in-cs-go-pst-ts ‘Insoo is entering the house.’ (21) insu-ga ch 7gsa]-mit-e dil-6-ga-n-da. Insoo-nom table-underneath-loc move in-cs-go-pst-ts ‘Insoo is going under the table.’

French verbs of frontal orientation behave somewhat differently. The preposition à cannot occur with the verb entrer (‘move in’), except to express an activity: Paul est entré à l’armée/ à l’école (lit. ‘Paul has gone into the army/ to school’). In this case, the notion of motion is superceded, and the grammatical direct object denotes an institution rather than a location. However, the combination entrer + à can have a spatial interpretation with a definite (i.e. non generic) reading: Paul est entré au restaurant (‘Paul went into the restaurant’). The PP argument of the verb sortir (‘move out’), headed by the preposition de (‘from’) selects an entity having an interior: Paul sort de la maison/ de la boîte (‘Paul is going out of (leaving) the house/ out of the night club’); a noun which denotes an object lacking an interior would have to be preceded by a complex preposition defining a space portion: Paul sort de derrière la porte/ de dessous la table (‘Paul is coming out from behind the door/ from under the table’). These remarks lead us to reconsider the role of the Korean Locative and the French preposition à in the representation of motion. We suggested above firstly that the Locative in Korean represents the Path of localization and indicates the end-point of the motion; and secondly that the preposition à in French is, to a certain extent, comparable to this expression. However, in both languages, these expressions can be used as dynamic or static: (22) Kr pÁol-in ph ari-e ga-n-da. Paul-th Paris-loc go-pst-ts Fr Paul va à Paris. (‘Paul is going to Paris.’) (23) Kr pÁol-in cib-e isÁ-da. Paul-th home-loc be-ts Fr Paul est à la maison. (‘Paul is at home.’)

The Korean locative marker and the French preposition à do not intrinsically entail the final position of a dynamic motion. The expression of dynamic motion requires a combination of these expressions with a dynamic verb. This condition

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is necessary but not sufficient: the verb must also denote an Accomplishment (a process that extends over time), not an Achievement (a punctual process). Indeed, the French verb entrer (‘go into’) expresses an event of passing into a place and is thus punctual. This may explain why entrer hardly ever occurs with the preposition à with a spatial interpretation. Another explanation may lie in the dynamic use of the preposition à which, according to Vandeloise (1987, 1988), involves a principle of anticipation (the localization of the Figure to the “à Ground” (‘at Ground’) would be anticipated while the Figure is still moving): the anticipation and the extended nature resulting from it would be incompatible with the punctual nature of entrer. In Korean, the verbal expression dil6-ga-da (‘move in-go-TS’) is made up of two verbs, where the first verb is punctual but the latter, a deictic motion verb, is not. Hence it is the deictic motion verb that licenses the locative object expressing the final position of a dynamic motion. .. Vertical orientation verbs (‘move up’, ‘move down’) Let us now examine the combinability of Locative and Ablative with verbs of vertical orientation. In Korean, the grammatical locative or ablative object of the verbs ori-da/ n7ri-da (‘move up’/ ‘move down’) must denote a vertically-oriented entity such as san (‘mountain’), 6nd6g (‘hill’), namu (‘tree’), c6nbosd7 (‘electricity pole’). (24) insu-ga namu-e oll-a-ga-sÁ-6. Insoo-nom tree-loc move up-cs-go-pas-ts ‘Insoo climbed up the tree.’

A location noun can also appear as locative or ablative object of verbs expressing vertical motion, as long as it denotes a location higher or lower than the Figure’s initial position. In this case, the vertical orientation resides in the Path between the Figure and the Ground. (25) insu-ga s6ul-e oll-a-ga-sÁ-6. Insoo-nom Seoul-loc move up-cs-go-pas-ts ‘Insoo went up to Seoul.’

The other types of nouns (which represent neither a vertically-oriented entity nor a location higher or lower than the Figure’s initial position) must be specified by a relational noun of localization in order to appear as the locative object of verbs expressing vertical motion. However, they can appear as ablative objects without combining with a relational noun: mimi-ga caph an-Ci-e oll-a-ga-sÁ-6. Mimi-nom keyboard-top-loc move up-cs-go-pas-ts ‘Mimi climbed on the keyboard.’ (Mimi is a cat) b. ??mimi-ga caph an-e oll-a-ga-sÁ-6.

(26) a.

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c.

mimi-ga caph an-es6 n7rj-6-o-asÁ-6. Mimi-nom keyboard-abl move down-cs-come-pas-ts ‘Mimi got off the keyboard.’

In French, the prepositional object of the verbs monter (‘move up’)/ descendre (‘move down’), headed by the preposition à, refers to a location higher or lower than the Figure’s initial position: Paul monte au grenier/ à Paris (‘Paul is going up to the attic/ to Paris’); Paul descend à la cave/ à Marseille (‘Paul is going down to the cellar/ to Marseille’). The vertically-oriented entity represented here is the Path between the Figure and the Ground, as we have just observed in Korean. However, contrary to Korean, the verb monter (‘move up’) accepts with difficulty at best a prepositional object headed by à and denoting a vertically oriented entity: ??Paul monte à la colline (Lit. ‘Paul is climbing to the hill’).10 Nouns denoting this type of entity must be preceded by a relational noun of localization that defines the final position of the motion: Paul monte au sommet de la colline (‘Paul is climbing up to the top of the hill’). In contrast, the verb descendre can select a noun denoting a verticallyoriented object if preceded by the preposition de: Paul descend de la colline (Lit. ‘Paul is coming down from the hill’). A noun which does not denote a location or a vertically-oriented object entity cannot occur as a prepositional object headed by à as argument of the verb monter: ??Mimi est monté au clavier (Lit. ‘Mimi climbed to the keyboard’). In this case, it must be preceded by a relational noun (Mimi est monté au bord du clavier ‘Mimi climbed to the edge of the keyboard’) or by a color preposition (Mimi est monté sur le clavier ‘Mimi climbed up on the keyboard’). On the other hand, we observe that the verb descendre (‘move down’) accepts nouns such as keyboard as prepositional objects headed by the preposition de: Mimi est descendu du clavier (Lit. ‘Mimi got down from the keyboard’). Once again, we note that in Korean the verbal form olla-ga-da (‘move up-goTS’) consists of a motion verb indicating motion upwards and a deictic motion verb. It seems that it is the deictic motion verb which allows the assignment of the Locative to nouns that denote vertically-oriented entities, since the deictic motion verb introduces the goal of a dynamic motion. On the other hand, the French verb monter does not intrinsically denote a bounded process, although it denotes a nonpunctual dynamic process that can be bounded by a PP: le ballon monte (‘the ball is rising up’) is an Activity, whereas Paul monte au grenier (‘Paul is going up to the attic’) is an Accomplishment, thanks to the final PP to the attic, which denotes a location higher than the Figure’s initial position. A vertically-oriented object could . Monter aux arbres (Lit. ‘climb at the trees’) is fine in French, but the event denotes an activity or a global action.

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Orientation motion verbs in French and Korean 

not occur in this position, headed by the preposition à, unless preceded by a relational noun of localization. It can nevertheless combine with a color preposition which establishes a functional relation between the Figure and the Ground: Paul est monté dans l’arbre/ sur la colline (Lit. ‘Paul climbed up into the tree/ onto the hill’). . Accusative/ direct object .. Deictic motion verbs (‘go’, ‘come’) Contrary to the French deictic motion verbs, the Korean deictic motion verbs ga-da/ o-da (‘go’/ ‘come’) accept an accusative object if this object refers to a Pathway.11 (27) j7snal acu oren jesnal-e ‘once upon a time’ [6ni sogimcangsu-ga sangil-il ga-goisÁ-6sÁ-ibnida]. a salt merchant-nom mountain trail-acc go-prog-pas-ts ‘Once upon a time, a salt merchant was walking along a mountain trail.’ (Magic Stick, 135)

An activity noun sanja] (‘hunting’) can also occupy the position of the accusative object of a deictic motion verb, but the notion of motion is then superceded by the notion of activity. No other type of nouns can be marked with the Accusative, even with the help of a relational noun. .. Frontal orientation verbs (‘move into’, ‘move out of ’) We now consider verbs of frontal orientation. The French verbs entrer/ sortir (‘move into’/ ‘move out of ’) do not accept a direct object (when the subject is the Figure of motion). In Korean, the accusative object of the verbs dil6-ga-da (‘move in’)/ na-ga-da (‘move out’) may be a noun denoting both a location and an institution, such as haggjo (‘school’), gund7 (‘army’). In this case, the notion of motion is again superceded by the notion of activity: haggjo-ril dil6-ga-sÁ-da (school-Acc, move in-go-Pas-TS: ‘(he) entered the school’) meaning ‘he attended school’. However, the verb na-ga-da (‘move out of ’) still expresses motion when its accusative object corresponds to a location noun such as ca] (‘market’), mogjogth a] (‘bathroom’), anba] (‘interior’).

. The French expression il va son chemin (‘he is going his way’) is very different from the accusative object construction of the Korean deictic motion verbs. It is totally fossilized and means ‘Il mène sa propre vie’ (‘He leads his own life’). Here, the notion of motion is only present metaphorically.

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(28) babo ch o]gag-in hanin-su 6bsi ca]-il idiot bachelor-th because he couldn’t do anything better market-acc na-w-a cib-iro dola-ga-sÁ-bnida. move out-come-cs home-dir return-go-pas-ts ‘The idiot left the market and went back home, because he couldn’t do anything better.’ (Idiot)

The verb dil6-ga-da (‘move in’), contrary to na-ga-da (‘move out’), hardly ever accepts an accusative object denoting a location: ??babo cho]gag-in ca]-il dil6-ga-s-da (idiot bachelor-Th market-Acc move in-go-Pas-TS: ‘The idiot entered the market’). The reason why the Accusative is possible in one case but not in the other appears to be that it is easier to completely abandon a location than to completely occupy a location, albeit metaphorically. The Accusative in Korean seems to endow the object with global vision by introducing it as an entity accessible or visible from the outside (see Chae Hee-Rahk 1999). This meaning of Accusative is responsible for the pragmatic effect of surprise as in the following example: (29) 6di-ril dil-6-w-a ?! where-acc move in-cs-come-ts ‘Where do you come in?!’

Utterance (29) expresses an unexpected event. It implies ‘you are entering a place where you must not enter’. The event is represented here as a global event that contrasts with another event from a modal point of view. In this case, the Accusative confers a global vision, not on the object alone, but on the whole event. Other types of nouns, which do not denote a location, hardly ever occur as accusative objects of frontal orientation verbs in Korean, even if they combine with a relational noun. At best, they can carry an effect of surprise. .. Vertical orientation verbs (‘move up’, ‘move down’) The Korean vertical orientation verbs can accept as accusative objects nouns denoting a vertically-oriented entity. As we have seen, these nouns can also be marked with the Locative or the Ablative. However a different interpretation appears between the locative or ablative object on the one hand, and the accusative object on the other: the locative or ablative objects express the final or initial position of the Figure involved in a vertically-oriented motion, whereas the accusative object expresses the complete distance corresponding to the Path. Indeed, the utterance insu-nin namu-e olla-ga-sÁ-da (Insoo-Th, tree-Loc move up-go-Pas-TS: ‘Insoo climbed up into the tree’), which has a locative object, means that Insoo climbed up the tree, but not necessarily up to the top; the Figure can be located at any height in the tree, since it has vertically moved up from the ground to a place in the tree. On the other hand, the utterance insu-nin namu-ril olla-ga-sÁ-da

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Orientation motion verbs in French and Korean

(Insoo-Th, tree-Acc move up-go-Pas-TS: ‘Insoo climbed up the tree’), which has an accusative object, means that the Figure has moved from the bottom to the top of the tree. The Path, conflated with the Ground, is in this case completely covert. A noun not denoting a vertically-oriented entity can also occur as the accusative object of a vertical orientation verb in Korean, if it co-occurs with a relational noun of localization. In example (26) above, the locative object does not denote a vertically-oriented entity and thus combines with a relational noun. The substitution of the Locative for the Accusative is possible in this example but this conveys a change of meaning: the use of the Locative involves the final position of the Figure along a vertical motion axis, whereas the use of the Accusative involves a surprise effect, something unexpected by the speaker. In French, the verbs monter/ descendre (‘move up’/ ‘move down’) can have a direct object, but the type of the object is much more constrained than in Korean. The object must be a noun denoting a vertically-oriented entity that can be conceptualized as a Pathway (Sarda 1999, 2001; cf. Stosic’s paper in this volume). Nouns such as escalier (‘stairs’), pente (‘slope’) or côte (‘hillside’) fulfill these two conditions: Paul monte/ descend l’escalier/ la pente/ la côte (‘Paul is moving up/ down the stairs/ the slope/ the hillside’). By contrast, nouns such as montagne (‘mountain’), colline (‘hill’), arbre (‘tree’) or poteau électrique (‘electricity pole’) represent vertically-oriented entities, but do not correspond to a functional Pathway. This explains why these nouns cannot occur as direct objects of the French vertical orientation verbs: Paul monte/ descend ??la montagne/ ??la colline/ ??l’arbre/ ??le poteau électrique. . Directional object and the preposition vers (‘towards’) .. Deictic motion verbs (‘go’, ‘come’) The directional in Korean and the preposition vers in French both create, and equally well, a Path between the Figure and the Ground. However, the combinatory constraints are not exactly the same in the two languages. In Korean, the directional object of a deictic motion verb can be a location noun or a noun referring to an ontological object: (30) cib-iro ga-ca-kuyo. Home-dir go-ts ‘Let’s go home.’ (Life, 01, 20/40) (31) soph a-ro ga-s6 anc-nin mansu. sofa-dir go-cs sit down-as Mansoo ‘Mansoo who sits down on the sofa.’ Lit. ‘Mansoo who goes to sofa and sits down.’ (Life, 02, 2/41)

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If the directional object denotes a person, it must co-occur with a relational noun. In (32), the omission of the relational noun aph (front) would make the utterance hardly acceptable: (32) caemin th 6lbo-aph -iro ga-n-da. Caemin Thôlbo-front-dir go-pst-ts ‘Caemin is going to the front of Thôlbo.’ (Life, 02, 3/41)

In French, the verbs aller/ venir (‘go’/ ‘come’) accept any type of nouns – including nouns referring to a person – in prepositional object position headed by the preposition vers (‘towards’), without the need for a relational noun: Paul va/ vient vers la maison/ vers le divan/ vers Marie (‘Paul is going/ coming towards the house/ towards the sofa/ towards Marie’). .. Frontal orientation verbs (‘move in’, ‘move out’) By contrast, the French verbs of frontal orientation do not accept an object headed by the preposition vers: ??Paul entre vers la chambre/ ??Paul sort vers le plateau (Lit. ‘Paul is entering towards the room’/ ‘Paul is leaving towards the plateau’). In Korean, a location noun can perfectly well occur as directional object of frontal orientation verbs, whereas a noun referring to an ontological object, regardless of whether it has an interior or not, must co-occur with a relational noun in order to appear in the position of a directional object: (33) insu cib-iro dil6-ga-n-da. Insoo home-dir move in-go-pst-ts ‘Insoo is on his way home.’ (34) ??insu sa]ca-ro dil6-ga-n-da. Insoo box-dir move-go-pst-ts ‘Insoo is going in the box.’ (35) insoo sa]ca-sog-iro dil6-ga-n-da. Insoo box-inner-dir move in-go-pst-ts ‘Insoo is going inside the box.’ (36) ??insu mun-iro na-ga-n-da. Insoo gate-dir move out-go-pst-ts ‘Insoo goes out to the gate.’ (37) insoo mun-bagg-iro na-ga-n-da. Insoo gate-outside-dir move out-go-pst-ts ‘Insoo is going out to the outside of the gate.’

Here, the possibility of marking the grammatical object of Korean frontal orientation verbs with a Directional is due to the presence of the deictic motion verb in the compound verb. The deictic motion verb is dynamic and non-punctual. In French, the verbs entrer/ sortir (‘move in’/ ‘move out’), which are dynamic but punc-

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Orientation motion verbs in French and Korean 

tual, cannot select a prepositional object headed by vers, because of an aspectual conflict. A directional object can only appear as an argument of a non-punctual process. .. Vertical orientation verbs (‘move up’, ‘move down’) In French and Korean, the directional objects of vertical orientation verbs may equally be location nouns or nouns referring to an ontological object, on condition that the locations or object entities denoted are higher or lower than the Figure’s initial position: (38) Kr insu-nin gjohø/ ph ari-ro olla-ga-sÁ-da. Insoo-th church/ Paris-dir move up-go-pas-ts Fr Insoo est monté vers l’église/ vers Paris. ‘Insoo went up to the church/ to Paris.’ olla-ga-sÁ-da. (39) Kr insu-nin gombaCi-ro Insos-th bear’s rock-dir move up-go-pas-ts Fr Insoo est monté vers le Rocher de l’Ours. ‘Insoo climbed up towards the Bear Rock.’

Table 1 gives an overview of the lexical selection of each type of object combined with each type of orientation verb analyzed here. The table only takes into account cases where the verbs are construed as denoting a motion event, i.e. a dynamic and continuous process. Objects construed as activities or as entailing a pragmatic effect of surprise are ignored. Object selection depends mainly on the meaning of the verb, i.e. frontal, vertical orientations or deictic motions. Generally, in French and in Korean, a location noun can always occur with an orientation motion verb, but a noun referring to an ontological object must obey the following constraints: with a frontal or vertical orientation verb, the object must either be three-dimensional and possess an interior, or be vertically oriented, or else occur with a relational noun. This analysis confirms that the ontological distinction between “location” and “object” entities is relevant for the description of motion events. The need to consider different ontological types is obvious in the accusative construction of Korean deictic motion verbs (ka-ta ‘go’, o-ta ‘come’) and in the direct transitive construction of French vertical orientation verbs (monter ‘move up’). Indeed, both types of verbs select an entity which is conceptualized as a pathway. This is a confirmation that the “pathway” or “road” is a distinct type of spatial entity (cf. Stosic’s paper in this volume). Moreover, we have shown that personal nouns behave differently in Korean and in French when they occur as directional objects of deictic motion verbs: they require a relational noun in Korean but not in French.

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Table 1. Object Marking and Object Selection Kr Loc Go/ Come LocN *ObjN ObjN + RN

Fr à

Kr Abl

LocN *ObjN RN + ObjN

LocN *ObjN ?ObjN + RN

Go In/ Go Out

LocN * ObjN (+inner) *ObjN (–inner) ObjN (–inner) + RN

Go Up/ Go Down

LocN (if HP) ObjN (+VO)

Fr de

LocN *ObjN ?RN + ObjN CplxP + ObjN LocN LocN ObjN (+inner) ObjN (+inner) *ObjN (–inner) *ObjN (–inner) ObjN (–inner) + RN CplxP + ObjN (–inner) LocN (if HP) LocN (if HP) ObjN (+VO) ObjN (+VO)

*ObjN (–VO) ObjN (–VO) + RN

LocN (if HP) *ObjN (+VO) RN + ObjN (+VO) *Obj N (–VO) ObjN (–VO) RN + ObjN (–VO)

Acc

DO

Dir

vers

Go/ Come PathwayN

*

LocN ObjN Person N

Go In

*

*

LocN ObjN * Person N RN + Person N LocN * Obj N RN + ObjN

Go Out

LocN *ObjN *ObjN + RN LocN (if VO)

*

Go Up/ Go Down

ObjN (if VO)

LocN(if VO and Pathway) ObjN (if VO and Pathway)

ObjN (–VO)

*

LocN (if HP)

LocN (if HP)

ObjN (if HP)

ObjN (if HP)

* CplxP: Complex preposition; DO: Direct Object; HP: Ground Position is higher than the Figure position; LocN: Location Noun; ObjN: Object Noun; RN: Relational Noun; VO: Vertically Oriented

Concerning the combinability of the Korean frontal motion verb dil6-ga-da (‘move in’) with the functional suffix Locative or the Directional, which is impossible in French (*entrer à,*entrer vers), we have shown that this is made possible in Korean by the presence of the deictic motion verb. The same is true for the combinability of the Korean vertical motion verb olla-ga-da (‘move up’) with the noun of a vertically-oriented object marked directly for the Locative. It is the deictic motion verb that assigns the Locative to this type of entity by providing the goal of the motion. The French verb monter (‘move up’), which does not intrinsically denote

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Orientation motion verbs in French and Korean 

a bounded process, cannot occur with the noun of a vertically-oriented object preceded by the preposition à (‘to’), unless it is associated with a relational noun of localization.

Conclusion Our study of French and Korean orientation verbs allows us to answer some of the questions raised in the introduction. We saw that in most cases, the basic components of orientation motion verbs (Motion, Path and Deixis) are supported not only by verbal categories, but also by object marking in Korean and in French. In our analysis of the French and Korean data, it appeared that Talmy’s semantic components of motion, specifically the Motion (MOVE) and Path components, must be refined. We distinguished two types of Motion (MOVE): basic intrinsic motion and deictic motion. The former expresses the orientation of a frontal or vertical motion and the latter the orientation of a motion defined with respect to the speaker’s position (which indicates whether the Figure moves towards or away from the speaker’s position). As for the Path component, our study led us to distinguish three types of Path: Path of motion, Path of localization and Path of trajectory. The Path of motion represents a passage towards the interior, the exterior, the top or the bottom. The Path of localization defines the final or initial position of the Figure. There are two types of Path of trajectory, depending on whether the Path is conflated with the Ground or not. If the Path and the Ground are conflated, we propose to call the Path “Path of total trajectory”; otherwise we refer to the Path as “Path of partial trajectory”. These different types of Motion and Path are not marked by the same linguistic categories in French and in Korean. In Korean orientation verbs, the intrinsic motion is expressed by the first component of the compound verb, whereas the deictic motion is expressed by the second verbal component. Each verbal component can have an autonomous use and/ or can combine with other types of verbs while maintaining the same representation. In French, the frontal or vertical orientation verbs entrer, sortir, monter, descendre express the intrinsic motion, while the deictic motion verbs aller and venir express the deictic motion. They all have an autonomous use and do not form a compound verb. Let us now consider the expression of the Path component. In Korean, the Path of motion is expressed by the first component of the compound verb. The Path of localization is expressed by the object markers, the Locative and the Ablative; the Path of total trajectory is marked by the Accusative, whereas the Path of partial trajectory is marked by the Directional. In French, the Path of motion is expressed by orientation verbs. The Path of localization is expressed by the prepositions à/ de. The Path of partial trajectory

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Table 2. Linguistic categories and semantic components of motion in French and Korean Intrinsic Motion + Path of Motion Kr

Fr

(Orientation

V1 V

Orientation

V

+ +

Deictic Motion

Path of Localization

Path of Total trajectory

Path of Partial trajectory

V2 DMV) DMV

Loc/ Abl

Acc

Dir

Loc/ Abl à/ de à/ de

Acc DO

Dir vers vers

DMV

is expressed by the preposition vers, and the Path of total trajectory by the direct object. Leaving aside the fact that the Korean deictic motion verbs can have an accusative object, Table 2 clearly shows that the main difference between French and Korean lies in the composition of Korean orientation verbs with deictic motion verbs. This composition is responsible for the different possibilities of combining orientation verbs and functional nominal suffixes or prepositions in Korean and French. We have shown that the combinability of orientation motion verbs with the Locative or the preposition à, as well as differences in lexical selection (§5) are mainly determined by the presence (Korean) or absence (French) of deictic motion verbs. Yet the two languages exhibit a parallel in the linguistic categories and the semantic components they represent: orientation verbs express both the intrinsic Motion and the Path of Motion; the Locative and the Ablative in Korean, and the French preposition à and de express the Path of localization; the Accusative in Korean, and the direct construction in French express the Path of total trajectory; the Directional in Korean and the French preposition vers express the Path of partial trajectory. According to our analysis, satellites (as defined by Talmy) express a Path of motion, while prepositions express a Path of localization in English (see Table 3). The Path of localization is realized by a preposition in English and in French, and by a functional nominal suffix in Korean. The Path of Motion is realized in English by a satellite, and in French and in Korean by a verb. Both types of Path can be realized in English by a preposition such as into. The Path of trajectory is not compatible with the Path of localization, whereas it can occur with the Path of motion. The Path of total trajectory is realized in English as in French by a zero marking (go up a hill). The Path of partial trajectory is realized in English by the satellite toward (go toward the hill). It is noteworthy that a Path of Motion can occur with another Path of Motion, but that a Path of Localization cannot occur with another Path of Localization (go up in an airplane vs *go to of the house). Finally, the nature of nouns which are associated with a grammatical object plays an important role in object selection both in Korean and in French. Indeed,

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Orientation motion verbs in French and Korean 

Table 3. Expressions of motion and path in English, French and Korean English

French

go go go go go Deictic Motion

inout up down Path of Motion

aller (‘go’)

Deictic Motion

sortir (‘go out’) Basic Motion + Path of Motion

to -to of to to Path of Localization à (‘to’) de (‘of ’) Path of Localization

the house the room the room bed the shop Ground la maison (‘the house’) la chambre (‘the room’) Ground

Korean cib (‘house’) e (‘to’) gada (‘go’) ba] (‘room’) es6 (‘of ’) na- (‘out’) gada (‘go’) Ground Path of Localization Basic Motion + Path of Motion Deictic Motion

while a noun referring to a location generally appears as the grammatical object associated with orientation motion verbs, a noun referring to an object is more constrained in the position of a grammatical object. As for relational nouns, which denote a specified location, they behave as location nouns rather than nouns referring to an ontological object. This strengthens the importance of the ontological distinction of spatial entities (cf. Stosic’s paper, as well as Aurnague, Champagne, Vieu et al. in this volume). Another outcome to be noted is that some orientation motion verbs select as their grammatical objects spatial entities which are conceptualized as a Pathway. In Korean, the deictic motion verbs ga-ta (‘go’) and o-ta (‘come’) do accept a noun referring to a Pathway as their accusative object. In French, the verbs monter/ descendre (‘move up/ down’) accept a noun denoting a vertically-oriented entity as their direct object and this entity can also be conceptualized as a Pathway. This helps to confirm the inclusion of “roads” as a distinct “spatial entity” type in Stosic’s work in this volume.

References Aurnague, Michel (1996). Les noms de localisation interne, tentative de caractérisation sémantique à partir de données du basque et du français. Cahiers de Lexicologie, 69, 1996–2, 159–192. Aurnague, Michel (2004). Les structures de l’espace linguistique: Regards croisés sur quelques constructions spatiales du basque et du français [Bibliothèque de l’Information Grammaticale 56]. Leuven & Paris: Peeters.

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 Injoo Choi-Jonin and Laure Sarda

Aurnague, Michel & Laure Vieu (1993). A three-level approach to the semantics of space. In C. Zelinsky-Wibbelt (Ed.), The semantics of prepositions: From mental processing to natural language processing (pp. 345–439). Berlin: Mouton de Gruyter. Chae, Hee-Rahk (1999). Adverbial nominals and the -ul/-rul marker. Havard Studies in Korean Linguistics, VIII, 223–234. Choi, Soonja & Melissa Bowerman (1991). Learning to express motion events in English and Korean: The influence of language-specific lexicalization patterns. Cognition, 41, 83–121. Choi-Jonin, Injoo & Laure Sarda (submitted). Transitive motion verbs in French and in Korean. In H. Cuyckens, W. De Mulder, M. Goyens, T. Mortelmans (Eds), Variation and change in adpositions of movement [Studies in Language Companion Series]. Amsterdam: John Benjamins. Dowty, David (1991). Thematic proto-roles and argument selection. Language, 67(3), 547–619. Herslund, Michael (1993). Transitivity and the Danish verb. In M. Herslund & F. Sørensen (Eds.), The Nordlex project. Lexical studies in the Scandinavian language [LAMBDA 18] (pp. 41–62). Copenhague: Copenhague Business School. Hopper, Paul & Sandra A. Thompson (1980). Transitivity in grammar and discourse. Language, 56, 2, 251–297. Sarda, Laure (1999). Contribution à l’étude de la sémantique de l’espace et du temps: Analyse des verbes de déplacement transitifs directs du français. PhD dissertation, Université de Toulouse le Mirail, Toulouse. Sarda, Laure (2001). Semantics of French direct transitive motion verbs. In Eniko Németh T. (Ed.), Cognition in language use, Selected papers from the Seventh International Pragmatics Conference, Vol. 1 (pp. 388–404). Antwerp: International Pragmatics Association. Spang-Hanssen, Ebbe (1963). Les prépositions incolores du français moderne. Copenhague: G.E.C., Gads Forlag. Svorou, Soteria (1994). The grammar of space [Typological studies in Language 25]. Amsterdam: John Benjamins. Talmy, Leonard (1985). Lexicalization patterns: Semantic structure in lexical forms. In T. Shopen (Ed.), Language typology and syntactic description (pp. 57–143). Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Talmy, Leonard (2000). Towards a cognitive semantics, Vol. 2 (Chap. 1: Lexicalization patterns). Cambridge, MA: The MIT Press. Tenny, Carol (1995). How motion verbs are special: The interaction of semantic and pragmatic information in aspectual verb meanings. Pragmatics & Cognition, 3(1), 31–73. Vandeloise, Claude (1986). L’espace en français: Sémantique des prépositions spatiales. Paris: Seuil. Vandeloise, Claude (1987). La préposition à et le principe d’anticipation. Langue Française, 76, 77–111. Vandeloise, Claude (1988). Les usages spatiaux statiques de la préposition à. Cahiers de Lexicologie, 53(2), 119–148.

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Orientation motion verbs in French and Korean 

Appendixes Table of abbreviations Abl: Acc: Adv: AS: Ass: AT: Caus: CS: DC: Det: Dir: Eng:

Ablative Accusative Adverbial Adnominal Suffix Assertion Aspectuo-Temporal Causative Conjunctive Suffix Direct Construction Determiner Directional English

Fr: Ger: Hon: Inst: Kr: Loc: MS: N: Nom: NP: Obj: Pas:

French Gerund Honorific Instrumental Korean Locative Modal suffix Noun Nominative Noun Phrase Object Past tense

PP: Prep: Pres: Prog: Pst: RN: Subj: Test: Th: TS: V: VR:

Prepositional Phrase Preposition Presumptive Progressive Present Relational Noun Subject Testimonial Topic (or Theme) Terminal Suffix Verb Verbal Root

Source of exemples Shy lover (scenario): http://www.imbc.com/tv/drama/shylover Life (scenario): http://www.kbs.co.kr/drama/life/scenario Imp, The death of a salt merchant, Magic stick, Idiot: in Korean traditional tales, by Kim Hae-Ran, 1992, Ed. Thesô, Seoul.

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 

Spatial categorization in language and cognition: Psycholinguistic and developmental studies

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Categorizing spatial entities with frontal orientation The role of function, motion and saliency in the processing of the French Internal Localization Nouns avant/devant Michel Aurnaguei , Maud Champagneii , Laure Vieuiii, iv , Andrée Borilloi , Philippe Mulleriii , Jean-Luc Nespoulousii and Laure Sardav i

Equipe de Recherche en Syntaxe et Sémantique (ERSS–UMR 5610) CNRS & Université de Toulouse-Le Mirail, ii Laboratoire Jacques Lordat (EA 1941 & INSERM U455) Université de Toulouse-Le Mirail, iii Institut de Recherche en Informatique de Toulouse (IRIT–UMR 5505) CNRS, Université Paul Sabatier, INPT & UT1, iv Laboratory of Applied Ontology (LOA) ISTC–CNR, Trento (Italy), v Laboratoire Langues, Textes, Traitements Informatiques et Cognition (LaTTICe–UMR 8094) CNRS, Ecole Normale Supé rieure & Université de Paris 7

This chapter presents the results from a pointing task that examined French adult’s processing of Internal Localization Nouns (ILNs), with particular attention to avant (‘front’) and devant (‘front surface’). Performance in this task shows that the parameters governing the frontal orientation(s) implied by these markers (“static function”, “dynamic function”, “aerodynamicity” and “saliency”) can be ordered according to their importance during processing. It is then shown that each ILN favors a particular property: whereas avant is tightly linked to motion, the processing of devant is more sensitive to static function. Additional results based on a judgment task also throw some light on subjects’ behavior and strategies. In conclusion, we discuss the properties singled out and their potential role in the categorization of spatial entities.

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 Michel Aurnague et al.

.

Introduction1

For years, linguists and psycholinguists have studied in depth the different kinds of “orientation strategies” that may be involved in language use (Hill 1982; Kleiber 1988; Klein 1983; Levinson 1996; Miller & Johnson-Laird 1976; Vandeloise 1986). Consider a few illustrations of some of these observed patterns. When the orientation that is associated with an entity directly derives from the “internal” properties of this entity, an “intrinsic”/“object-centered” orientation is at work. If the orientation depends on factors that are not related to the entity itself, the orientation is called “contextual”. An important subgroup of contextual orientations comprises situations in which the speaker/viewer applies his/her own (intrinsic) orientation to the entity being oriented (“deictic”/“viewer-centered” orientation). The following examples involving the French preposition devant (‘in front of ’) illustrate these three cases: (1) La poubelle est devant la maison. ‘The trash-can is in front of the house.’ (2) La poubelle est devant l’arbre au/du coin de la cour. ‘The trash-can is in front of the tree at/in the corner of the yard.’ (3) Regarde cette poubelle devant l’arbre ! ‘Look at this trash-can in front of the tree!’

Whereas the reference entity or landmark (the house) in sentence (1) determines an intrinsic frontal orientation (because a house usually has a façade), the landmark in (2) is contextually oriented, the front of the tree being the side facing the center of the yard (contextual front and back). Finally, in (3) it is the speaker who makes use of his/her own frontal orientation to give a deictic front to the entity (in a “mirror” fashion).2

. This research was carried out within the project “Spatial entities and their categorization in language and cognition” (COG135; 1999–2001) that was financially supported by the Program “Cognitique” of the French Ministry of Research. We would like to thank Harriet Dunbar, Maya Hickmann and two anonymous reviewers for their stylistic advice and comments on a previous draft of this paper. . Thus, deictic cases are sensitive to possible rotations of the viewer who orients the landmark, whether they involve three elements (trajector, landmark, viewer) as in (3) or two elements (trajector/viewer, landmark) as in Je suis devant l’arbre (‘I am in front of the tree’). These cases differ from (other) contextual situations in which the orientation of the landmark is based on parameters which are independent of the viewer, like the configuration of the yard in sentence (2). Indeed, (2) is not very different from “absolute” contextual orientations which call for properties or elements of the geographical framework (mountains, sea, winds, compass points, etc.). Note that in some (contextual) viewer-free descriptions such as La tente est devant l’arbre (‘The tent is in front of the tree’, for a tent whose entry is facing the tree), the orientation of the landmark can directly follow from the (inanimate) trajector.

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Categorizing spatial entities with frontal orientation

As the above comments suggest, interpreting orientational prepositions imply being able to associate a part of the reference entity or landmark with a suitable orientation. As a result, it is not surprising to find several nouns pointing to the oriented parts of spatial entities in many languages (e.g., avant (‘front’), derrière (‘back surface’), bas (‘bottom’), gauche (‘left’), côté (‘side’)). These markers belong to a bigger class of nouns (hereafter Internal Localization Nouns or ILNs) which designate parts of spatial entities on the basis of various properties, that may be orientational (see the examples above), topological (e.g., intérieur (‘interior’), bord (‘edge’)) or distance-related (e.g., extrémité (‘extremity’), centre/milieu (‘centre/middle’)) (Aurnague 1996, 2004; Borillo 1988, 1999). Although the different ways of processing orientation in language have been widely studied (see above), the factors that make the emergence of each kind of orientation possible, as well as those that condition the choices between different potential strategies, have not been fully described (Carlson-Radvansky & Irwin 1993; Schober 1993; Tversky 1996). This paper attempts to contribute to this issue by focusing on the French ILNs avant (‘front’)/devant (‘front surface’), whose intrinsic and deictic interpretations are analyzed in depth (contextual interpretations other than deictic ones are left aside). As will be shown, four factors, that have not been much discussed in the literature (Vandeloise 1986), underlie the emergence of intrinsic or deictic frontal orientations when processing the ILNs avant and devant. The first two factors concern the internal/intrinsic properties of spatial entities which are related to their function. These functional properties may have to do with the static use of entities by human beings (e.g., selecting the side we interact with when opening a cupboard, when watching television, etc.) which is often reflected in the shape and the internal arrangement of the parts (“static function”). In other cases, they are more clearly related to the canonical way in which dynamic entities move (“dynamic function”) – a feature that is also exhibited by their internal structure –, whether this motion is autonomous (e.g., animate) or guided/caused (e.g., car, bicycle). The third and fourth factors are not strictly internal or intrinsic and partly rely on contextual parameters which combine with geometrical (internal) properties. The “aerodynamicity” of shape characterizes the fact that elongated entities, presented horizontally, evoke motion. When the largest dimension of the entity is localized on the horizontal plane (as with a parallelepiped lying down), one of the ends along this axis (e.g., one of the small sides of a parallelepiped lying down) is selected as the front, as if it were ahead in a possible motion. Finally, the “saliency” of a side may induce its selection as the front, depending on its orientation with respect to the viewer and more precisely on the relative size of its visible area and the degree to which it faces him/her (angle of presentation). We examined the role of these factors in a psycholinguistic experiment on orientational ILNs (in addition to avant and devant, other markers were also analyzed



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 Michel Aurnague et al.

such as haut (‘top’), bas (‘bottom’), gauche (‘left’), droite (‘right’), côté (‘side’), etc.). Fifty French-speaking subjects participated in the experiment (mean age: 21 years, 8 males, 42 females, all students or staff members of the “Université de Toulouse-Le Mirail”). The processing of frontal orientation was assessed for the ILNs avant and devant applied either to purely geometrical shapes (e.g., parallelepiped standing up #2 (Figure 1c), parallelepiped lying down #2 (Figure 1d), cube (Figure 1e)) or to functional entities (e.g., parallelepipedic houses with a right/left façade (Figure 2b/c), square houses with a right/left façade (Figure 2d/e), standard and open-sided vans (Figure 3a/b)).

Figure 1. a. Paral. standing up #1, b. Paral. lying down #1, c. Paral. standing up #2, d. Paral. lying down #2, e. Cube

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Categorizing spatial entities with frontal orientation 

Figure 2. a. Paral. house right faç. #1, b. Paral. house right faç. #2, c. Paral. house left faç., d. Square house right faç., e. Square house left faç.

Figure 3. a. Standard van, b. Open-sided van

The experiment consisted of a pointing task.3 The subjects were facing a tactile computer screen which displayed a series of stimuli, each consisting of a spatial entity (black-and-white drawing) and an ILN. These stimuli (entity + ILN) were presented in a random order, each only once. With each stimulus the subjects were . Before this experiment, a first series of tests was carried out with exactly the same protocol (pointing task) (Aurnague et al. 2000). This previous series – that was submitted to 47 subjects from the “Université de Toulouse-Le Mirail” (mean age: 31.17 years, 18 males, 29 females) – only differs from the present experiment in the nature of the geometrical and functional entities that were presented as stimuli (e.g., parallelepiped standing up #1 (Figure 1a), parallelepiped lying down #1 (Figure 1b), parallelepipedic house with a right façade (Figure 2a)). A few results from this previous series of tests will be used here.

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Michel Aurnague et al.

asked (a) to point as quickly as possible – from a fixed spot on the table (located 25cm from the bottom of the screen) – to the part of the entity corresponding to the word and (b) to put their finger back on the spot immediately afterwards. The next stimulus automatically appeared two seconds after the hit. The x/y positions of the hits were recorded, as well as the latencies between the presentation of the stimulus and the moment when the finger hit the screen. Since the latencies included different underlying processes (visual information intake + decision + finger moving time), immediately after the first part of the experiment (described above) the subjects were presented with 1 cm square targets which appeared on the screen precisely where the finger hits had taken place (in the first part). Again, they were asked to point as quickly as possible to these targets. This elementary pointing task allowed us to subtract the moving time from the overall latency (latencies in Tables 1, 2 and 3 take into account this subtraction). In order to ensure that the subjects had correctly understood what they had to do in the two parts of the experiment, a set of five stimuli was presented for each subset before the beginning of the experiment proper.4 After isolating and ordering the factors which underlie the frontal orientations involved in the interpretation of avant and devant (Section 2), we show below that the semantic content of an ILN can sometimes strengthen the role of a given factor or property (Section 3). We then mention the results of an additional judgment task which provide complementary information about the processing of avant and devant (Section 4). Finally, we consider some outcomes of this research for the classification of spatial entities in language and cognition (Section 5).

. Isolating and ordering the factors . Isolating the factors We first examine the distribution of responses obtained in the pointing task in order to isolate the factors which underlie the frontal orientation involved in the semantics of avant and devant. It should be noted that for each stimulus (entityILN pair) the recorded x/y positions of the hits were grouped together according to the sides or faces they identified. The division into zones resulting from these

. A first series of tests (see Note 3) and a preliminary testing of the present experiment allowed us to check that the representations/drawings of spatial entities (2 dimensions) were correctly interpreted (in 3 D) and that the functional properties of the computer (in particular its orientation) did not interfere with the task of assigning orientations to the displayed entities.

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Categorizing spatial entities with frontal orientation 

groupings allowed us to distinguish the different interpretations that were made for the concerned ILN-entity pair.5 The best way to show that a given factor affects subjects’ strategies is to compare a (“neutral”) situation in which none of the four factors studied are present with a configuration that only differs from it by virtue of this factor (0 factor/1 factor). For example, this is the case of the parallelepiped standing up #1 (Figure 1a; no areodynamicity, two equally salient (vertical) sides, no function (geometrical entity)) as compared to the parallelepiped standing up #2 (Figure 1c; no aerodynamicity, no function, but saliency) whose right vertical side is more “salient” than its left side because of the angle of presentation of these two elements.6 If a particular factor is effective, its introduction has to modify the distribution in a significant way, since the interpretation that involves this factor should “attract” most of the hits. However, it is not always easy to find configurations that avoid all the factors studied (neutral configurations) and that can therefore serve as reference points for the comparisons. In particular, this is true for functional properties and configurations. For instance, the “standard” van in Figure 3a is geometrically similar to the parallelepiped lying down #2 in Figure 1d – and only differs from it by the presence of a “dynamic function” –, but the latter already involves aerodynamicity (in other words, dynamic function very often co-occurs with aerodynamicity). In such cases, even if it is not entirely neutral, the configuration that lacks the factor analyzed (e.g., the dynamic function in the parallelepiped lying down) will be taken as reference point and compared with the entity presenting this factor (e.g., van; n factors/n + 1 factors). Here again, the presence of the factor should modify the distribution of responses in a significant way. .. Aerodynamicity We can show the role of aerodynamicity by comparing the parallelepiped standing up #1 (Figure 1a), which does not involve any of the four factors studied (neutral configuration), with the equivalent entity lying down (parallelepiped lying down #1: Figure 1b), which only involves aerodynamicity. The aerodynamic nature of . Functional entities (houses (Figure 2), vans (Figure 3)) led to intrinsic or deictic interpretations of avant and devant, whereas geometrical shapes (parallelepipeds and cube (Figure 1)) gave rise to two distinct deictic choices (right front, left front). The latter point follows from the fact that most entities were displayed slantwise, with a vertical edge and two sides facing the subject. . Differences in saliency between the two parallelepipeds standing up can be grasped by comparing in each case the angles formed by the vertical/central edge with the inferior (horizontal) edges of the right and left sides. While these two angles are roughly equal for the parallelepiped standing up #1, the right angle is greater than the left one for the parallelepiped standing up #2.

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Table 1. Geometrical entities (pointing task) N

RF† RL (ms)

N

23 8 35 41 19 22 2 5

1004 815 645 613 902 675 532 673

19 32 3 3 26 23 44 44

Entity Paral. standing up #1 avant Paral. lying down #1 avant Paral. standing up #2 avant Paral. standing up #2 devant Paral. lying down #2 avant Paral. lying down #2 devant Cube avant Cube devant †

LF RL (ms) 901 768 827 656 698 681 670 570

EL N 5 7 12 6 5 5 4 1

RF: right front, LF: left front, EL: eliminated, N: number of responses, RL: response latency.

the parallelepiped lying down results from the positioning of its largest dimension on the horizontal plane.7 In the case of the parallelepiped standing up #1, the interpretations of the ILN avant (devant was not tested) were relatively well-balanced between the right and left sides facing the subjects (Table 1; RF: 23, LF: 19, EL: 5).8 When the parallelepiped was displayed lying down, this pattern no longer existed and most subjects chose the left side – located at the end of the “aerodynamic” dimension very close to them (Table 1; RF: 8, LF: 32, EL: 7). These two distributions (parallelepiped standing up #1, parallelepiped lying down #1) were significantly different (χ2 (1) = 10.52, p < .0012), attesting the role of aerodynamicity in the processing of frontal orientation. No other comparison with a neutral configuration was available for aerodynamicity. .. Geometrical saliency We can show the role of saliency by examining the distributions obtained for a cube (Figure 1e) whose left side is more salient than its right side because of the way these two parts are presented to the subjects (factors other than saliency are

. In a study of dimensional nouns, Vandeloise (1988: 411–412) described the various uses of the word longueur (length) and proposed the existence of a “pragmatic bridge” between uses which designate the entity’s largest dimension on the horizontal plane and those which refer to the direction of a mobile entity: “this [pragmatic] bridge. . . is based on the aerodynamic character of moving objects. Indeed, an object offers less resistance to air if its longer dimension is parallel to movement”. . The hits/responses that did not match any of the possible interpretations (in terms of x/y positions), as well as those whose latencies were higher than 4000 ms or lower than 200 ms, were eliminated (EL).

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missing).9 Although, in this example, the angle of presentation is the only variable which determines saliency, note that in some cases the visible surface area of the parts/sides can operate as an additional parameter (here the two appearing areas are practically equivalent). A large majority of subjects pointed to the salient side of the cube (left side) for both avant and devant (Table 1; avant RF: 2, LF: 44, EL: 4; devant RF: 5, LF: 44, EL: 1) and these two distributions appeared as significantly different from a random choice (avant χ2 (1) = 24.22, p < .0001; devant: χ2 (1) = 18.55, p < .0001). Therefore, saliency seems to be responsible for these results. The role of this parameter also appears when we compare the parallelepiped standing up #1 (Figure 1a; neutral configuration) and the parallelepiped standing up #2 (Figure 1c): as noted above, the latter mainly differs from the former by virtue of the angle of presentation of the two sides (saliency: the right side is more salient than the left one). Whereas the distributions recorded for the parallelepiped #2 showed a marked preference for the right (salient) side (Table 1; avant RF: 35, LF: 3, EL: 12; devant RF: 41, LF: 3, EL: 6), a comparison with the parallelepiped #1 (for avant) indicated that the corresponding distributions were significantly different (χ2 (1) = 13.95, p < .0002). The introduction of saliency has, here again, a direct effect on the processing of frontal orientation. These configurations (cube, parallelepiped standing up #1 and #2) were the only neutral and/or “salient” situations (saliency alone) in the experiment. .. Static function The analysis of functional factors is also based on two-by-two comparisons although, for the reasons previously given, it is usually not possible to take a neutral configuration as a reference point. We can test the role of static function by comparing the parallelepiped lying down #2 (Figure 1d) with the second parallelepipedic house whose façade coincides with the right side (Figure 2b). These two entities, as they are presented to the subject, are geometrically similar (aerodynamicity (left side), saliency (right side)) and their only difference lies in the (static) functional properties entailed by the presence of the main entrance, i.e., the “front” door and the façade (the function of “letting in”). Whereas the distributions obtained for the parallelepiped lying down #2 were quite well balanced, a result which is due to the opposite role of aerodynamicity and saliency (Table 1; avant RF: 19, LF: 26, EL: 5; devant RF: 22, LF: 23, EL: 5), the introduction of a static function (façade of the house) drastically changed this equilibrium by attracting most of the hits to the right side of the . An equivalent cube without saliency (neutral configuration) was not available in the experiment. As a consequence, the distributions of the “salient” cube are examined with respect to a virtual neutral cube with a 50%–50% distribution.

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Table 2. Houses (pointing task) N

IT† RL (ms)

N

DT RL (ms)

34 36 38 42 45 42 30 36 46 46

1043 852 746 684 664 620 629 760 662 645

13 10 7 5 3 6 17 10 0 0

764 640 1069 511 766 721 844 738 0 0

Entity Paral. house right faç. #1 avant Paral. house right faç. #1 devant Paral. house right faç. #2 avant Paral. house right faç. #2 devant Paral. house left faç. avant Paral. house left faç. devant Square house right faç. avant Square house right faç. devant Square house left faç. avant Square house left faç. devant †

EL N 0 1 5 3 2 2 3 4 4 4

IT: intrinsic, DT: deictic, EL: eliminated, N: number of responses, RL: response latency.

house – intrinsic interpretation – (Table 2; avant IT: 38, DT: 7, EL: 5; devant IT: 42, DT: 5, EL: 3). These differences between the distributions (parallelepiped lying down #2 and parallelepipedic house right façade #2) were statistically significant (avant χ2 (1) = 17.3, p < .0001; devant: χ2 (1) = 17.8, p < .0001). We also compared the parallelepiped lying down #2 with the parallelepipedic house “left façade” (Figure 2c), on the one hand, and the cube (Figure 1e) with the square house “right façade” (Figure 2d), on the other hand. The results of these comparisons were similar to the above mentioned ones and confirmed the influence of the static function on the interpretation of avant and devant. .. Dynamic function Finally, we can show the role of the last factor in this experiment, dynamic function, by comparing the parallelepiped lying down #2 (Figure 1d) with a “standard” van (Figure 3a). Here again, these two entities are geometrically similar (aerodynamicity (left side), saliency (right side)). The only difference between them lies in the fact that the van is “dynamic” or mobile (detected in the very recognition of the entity, that is in the internal arrangement of its parts), which gives a particular predominance to the left side as a front. Indeed, the relative balance observed for the parallelepiped lying down #2 (Table 1; avant RF: 19, LF: 26, EL: 5; devant RF: 22, LF: 23, EL: 5) was not preserved for the van, whose distribution revealed a marked tendency for the subjects to choose the left side – i.e., the intrinsic interpretation – (Table 3; avant IT: 37, DT: 3, EL: 10; devant IT: 45, DT: 1, EL: 4). These changes, entailed by the introduction of a dynamic function, were significant (avant χ2 (1) = 13.3, p < .0003; devant χ2 (1) = 28.1, p < .0001). The experiment provided no other possibility to compare a mobile entity and an equivalent geometrical entity, that is two configurations that only differed by virtue of a dynamic function.

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Table 3. Vans (pointing task) IT†

Entity Standard van avant Standard van devant Open-sided van avant Open-sided van devant

N

RL (ms)

N

37 45 37 32

591 589 682 596

3 1 6 14

DT-IL RL (ms) 1189 576 953 755

EL N 10 4 7 3

†

IT: intrinsic, DT: deictic, IL: intrinsic lateral (right side), EL: eliminated, N: number of responses, RL: response latency.

. Ordering the factors Having identified the factors that govern frontal orientation in subjects’ interpretations of the ILNs avant and devant, we now assess their respective “weights” in the process. Ordering two factors consists in observing the stimuli in which they are both present and yield different “fronts”, in the absence of other parameters. If the interpretation of an ILN that calls for a given factor A is systematically and significantly more frequent than the interpretation calling for another factor B, then factor A can be considered to be stronger than the competing parameter. However, it is not always easy to find situations where only a given pair of factors is present: for instance, as noted above, dynamic function generally coincides with aerodynamicity, and comparisons involving the former also entail the presence of the latter. Of course, such cases will be pointed out. In the following sections (2.2.1 and 2.2.2), we successively compare static and dynamic functions with aerodynamicity and saliency (geometric-contextual factors). The results of the experiment show that these geometrical parameters are not totally ordered (Section 2.2.3). The comparison between static and dynamic functions will be discussed subsequently (Section 3). .. Static function and geometrical factors Static function > aerodynamicity. The relative weights of static function and of aerodynamicity are assessed by means of a house which is geometrically similar to the parallelepiped lying down #1 and whose façade is located on the right face (parallelepipedic house right façade #1; Figure 2a). Whereas a frontal orientation based on aerodynamicity is likely to favor the left side of the house (deictic front), a calculation involving the static function of the house (here revealed by the façade) will result in designating its right side (intrinsic front).10 The distributions ob. Although one would expect that the right side of the parallelepipedic house (right façade #1) combines static function with saliency, this does not seem to be the case. The angle of presentation of the sides is crucial in assessing geometrical saliency (angles formed by the vertical edge

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tained show that a larger number of subjects resorted to the static function (right side/intrinsic interpretation) than to aerodynamicity (left side/deictic orientation) when interpreting avant and devant (Table 2; avant IT: 34, DT: 13, EL: 0; devant IT: 36, DT: 10, EL: 1). These results were significantly different from a random choice (avant χ2(1) = 4.98, p < .0256; devant (χ2(1) = 7.98, p < .0047) and consequently static function can be considered to have a stronger effect on frontal orientation than aerodynamicity. The experiment included no other stimulus in which static function was competing with aerodynamicity (other factors excluded). Static function > saliency. The relations between static function and saliency can be examined with the square house in Figure 2d which has a salient left side and a façade located on the right side (static function). The distributions corresponding to avant and devant indicate that the side associated with the static function (right side/intrinsic interpretation) was chosen by more subjects than the salient side (left side/deictic interpretation) (Table 2; avant IT: 30, DT: 17, EL: 3; devant IT: 36, DT 10, EL: 4). These results were significant for devant (χ2 (1) = 7.98, p < .0047), but not for avant (χ2 (1) = 1.85, p < .1736). Although not entirely satisfactory, these data indicate a clear trend suggesting that static function outmatches saliency. This configuration was the only one where static function and saliency were opposed without the presence of additional factors. .. Dynamic function and geometrical factors Dynamic function > aerodynamicity. As noted above, entities intended to move very often fulfill aerodynamic constraints (in particular, their largest dimension is aligned with the usual direction of motion). As a consequence, dynamic function and aerodynamicity coincide most of the time. Indeed, there was no entity in the experiment which dissociated these two elements and the question of their relative weights could not be directly addressed.11 However, a closer look at the data provides some indirect evidence. The dominance of the static function over aerodynamicity (cf. Section 2.2.1) and the fact (which will be shown in Section 3.2) that the dynamic function seems to outmatch near the viewer and the horizontal edges of the right/left sides). On this basis, the parallelepiped lying down #1 (geometrically equivalent to the house; Figure 1b) appears to be closer to the parallelepiped standing up #1 (no saliency; Figure 1a) than to the parallelepiped lying down #2 (right salient side; Figure 1d) which can be related to the parallelepiped standing up #2 (right salient side; Figure 1c). Recall that the parallelepiped standing up #1 and the parallelepiped standing up #2 differed by virtue of saliency (on the right side) and gave rise to significantly different distributions (cf. Section 2.1.2). . Even so, configurations that distinguish dynamic function and aerodynamicity might be devised (such as a special vehicle whose largest dimension would be perpendicular to the direction of motion) so as to tackle the interaction between these properties.

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the static function suggests that the dynamic function very probably has a stronger effect on the calculation of frontal orientation than aerodynamicity. Dynamic function > saliency. The standard van previously examined (Figure 3a) presents a pattern in which dynamic function and saliency are opposed and competing parameters. While the internal arrangement of parts indicates that the left side is canonically orientated towards the direction of motion (dynamic function), the right side of the van is the most salient (angle of presentation). For both avant and devant, the distributions showed that a great majority of subjects chose a frontal orientation based on the dynamic function (left side/intrinsic interpretation) rather than on saliency (right side/deictic interpretation) (Table 3; avant IT: 37, DT: 3, EL: 10; devant IT: 45, DT: 1, EL: 4). These distributions were significantly different from a random choice (avant χ2 (1) = 17.63, p < .0001; devant χ2 (1) = 27.28, p < .0001), suggesting that dynamic function is a stronger factor than saliency. Following our previous remarks, it could be argued that the standard van associates a dynamic function with aerodynamicity, so that our results show the superiority of both dynamic function and aerodynamicity on saliency. However, the relations between dynamic function, static function, and saliency (dynamic function > static function (Section 3.2), static function > saliency (Section 2.2.1)) suggests that dynamic function is indeed a stronger factor than saliency. No other stimulus was used in which dynamic function (with aerodynamicity) would be competing with saliency alone. .. Geometrical factors: Aerodynamicity and saliency ¬(aerodynamicity > saliency) and ¬(saliency > aerodynamicity). The parallelepiped lying down #2 (Figure 1d) previously examined (Section 2.1.3) displays a left “aerodynamic” side and a right “salient” side. As already pointed out, the processing of avant and devant by the subjects resulted in a well-balanced distribution between a frontal orientation based on aerodynamicity (left side) and a frontal orientation involving saliency (right side) (Table 1; avant RF: 19, LF: 26, EL: 5; devant RF: 22, LF: 23, EL: 5).12 These distributions were not statistically different from a random choice (avant χ2 (1) = 0.55, p < .4568; devant χ2 (1) = 0.11, p < .9156). On the basis of these results, no predominance or priority of one factor over the other can be deduced. Although the parallelepiped lying down #2 was the only configuration that exclusively involved aerodynamicity and saliency, other observations allowed us to strengthen our conclusion that these factors may not be ordered. In particular, it is revealing to examine the parallelepipedic house with a right façade #2 (Figure . A certain tendency to favor aerodynamicity could be noted (in particular for avant) but it was not significant.

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2b) and the parallelepipedic house whose façade occupies the left side (Figure 2c). The former has a right face associating saliency and static function, as well as a left “aerodynamic” face (parallelepipedic house right façade #2: saliency + static function versus aerodynamicity). The latter has a left face which combines aerodynamicity with static function, its right face being salient (parallelepipedic house left façade: aerodynamicity + static function versus saliency). If aerodynamicity and saliency had different relative “weights”, one would expect their combination with static function – together with their opposition to the competing factor – to give rise to different ways of calculating frontal orientation. However, the results recorded for the two parallelepipedic houses for both avant (Table 2; “right façade #2” IT/right: 38, DT/left: 7, EL: 5; “left façade” IT/left: 45, DT/right: 3, EL: 2) and devant (Table 2; “right façade #2” IT/right: 42, DT/left: 5, EL: 3; “left façade” IT/left: 42, DT/right: 6, EL: 2) do not support this hypothesis, as the compared distributions are not significantly different (avant χ2 (1) = 2.096, p < .1477; devant χ2 (1) = 0.8, p < .7768).

. ILNs and factors: Avant/devant and dynamic versus static function ILNs identify parts by selecting specific properties of entities. It has already been mentioned (Section 1) that these properties may have to do with orientation (e.g., avant (‘front’), derrière (‘back surface’), bas (‘bottom’), gauche (‘left’), côté (‘side’), etc.), topology (e.g., intérieur (‘interior’), bord (‘edge’)) or distance (extrémité (‘extremity’), centre/milieu (‘centre/middle’)). However, beyond these differences concerning categories of spatial information, ILNs that belong to the same “domain” (e.g., orientation) turn out to significantly diverge in the properties they select and/or the kind of processes these properties give rise to. For instance, data on ILNs related to vertical orientation (haut (‘top’), dessus (‘top surface’), bas (‘bottom’), dessous (‘underside’)) and to lateral orientation (gauche (‘left’), droite (‘right’), côté (‘side’))13 show that these markers call for semantic parameters that differ from those underlying frontal orientation (e.g., degree of lateralization) and/or bring into play calculi that are peculiar to the considered orientational axes (e.g., functional interaction and use, saliency/accessibility of a part).14 More crucially, ILNs falling within the same “domain” (e.g., orientation) and that are even related to the same “notion” (e.g., frontal orientation) can diverge in . These data stem from a previous series of tests (Aurnague et al. 2000) and a preliminary analysis of the considered ILNs in the present experiment. . This does not preclude cases of (indirect) interaction between ILNs. In particular, it is well-known that the calculation of a lateral orientation implies to identify an associated frontal direction (Aurnague et al. 2000).

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the way they select properties. We showed in Section 2 that interpreting the ILNs avant and devant presupposes the calculation of a frontal orientation relying on four (possibly competing) parameters – aerodynamicity, saliency, static function and dynamic function – which can be partially ordered according to their influence in the process. Although both markers are sensitive to these factors, a thorough examination of avant and devant reveals noteworthy differences concerning their processing. This section aims precisely at highlighting some of these differences. As shown below, avant is more tightly related to dynamic function and devant to static function. We demonstrate this difference between avant and devant with respect to static and dynamic functions by comparing the results obtained for the “standard” van previously mentioned (Figure 3a) to those corresponding to an “open-sided” van (Figure 3b). . Standard van and dynamic function We saw in Section 2.2.2 that, when presented with the standard van (Figure 3a) and with either avant or devant, many more subjects designated the left intrinsic side of this entity (dynamic function + aerodynamicity) than its right deictic side (saliency). These results show that the frontal orientations underlying both avant and devant give greater importance to dynamic function (and aerodynamicity) than to saliency. Therefore, avant and devant could be seen as behaving in a similar way with respect to dynamic function. However, the analysis of an open-sided van allowed us to throw new light on this question. . Open-sided van: Introducing static function The open-sided van (Figure 3b) has an opening on the right face, suggesting that it can be used as selling counter. The main difference with the standard van thus concerns the combination of a static (selling) function and saliency on this right side, the left side remaining unchanged (dynamic function + aerodynamicity). Here again a majority of subjects chose a frontal orientation based on the dynamic function (and aerodynamicity; left side/intrinsic interpretation) for both avant and devant (Table 3; avant IT: 37, IL: 6, EL: 7; devant IT: 32, IL: 14, EL: 3). However, this kind of “dynamic” orientation proved to be more massive for avant (37) than for devant (32). Conversely, the use of a frontal orientation based on the static function (and saliency; right side/ “intrinsic lateral” interpretation) occurred more frequently for devant (14) than for avant (6). The comparison of each distribution with a random choice revealed a clear difference in the case of avant (χ2 (1) = 12.94, p < .0003) and a result approaching significance for devant (χ2 (1) = 3.66, p < .0557). Moreover, comparing the two distributions (avant and devant) showed that they were significantly different (χ2 (1) = 5.35, p < .0207). The

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latter result strengthens the divergences noted above: while avant is more closely related to the dynamic function than devant, devant is more sensitive to the static function than avant. Beyond these differences between avant and devant, recall that dynamic function (and aerodynamicity) is dominant over static function (and saliency) when these ILNs are applied to the open-sided van. If we take into account the probable balance between aerodynamicity and saliency (no order; Section 2.2.3), it follows that the dynamic function outmatches the static function. This outcome complements the ordering of the factors already established in Section 2.2. . Standard and open-sided vans Bringing together the results of the standard van (Table 3; avant IT: 37, DT: 3, EL: 10; devant IT: 45, DT: 1, EL: 4) and those of the open-sided van (Table 3; avant IT: 37, IL: 6, EL: 7; devant IT: 32, IL: 14, EL: 3) provides further evidence that avant is more sensitive to the dynamic function (than devant), while devant is more sensitive to the static function (than avant). Indeed, comparing the distributions obtained with the standard versus open-sided vans for avant and devant showed that they were not significantly different for avant (χ2 (1) = .89, p < .3447), whereas they were for devant (χ2 (1) = 13.46, p < .0002). This means that the static function added by the selling counter in the open-sided van influences the interpretation of devant but not that of avant.

. Judgment task Although the observations made so far were exclusively based on analyses of response distributions, the analysis of response latencies showed that the pointings were significantly less costly when a single interpretation arose (coinciding factors) than when more responses were possible (competing factors) (t test, mean diff. = 73.96 ms, diff. at p < .05 = 50.58 ms, p < .0042). This can be easily explained by the fact that, in situations of “conflict”, subjects have to make a choice between several interpretations. However, in such situations, do all the subjects take into account the entire range of available interpretations? Our subjects participated in a second experiment, which is briefly described below. This complementary experiment consisted of a judgment task in which subjects saw the following type of stimuli on a computer screen: an ILN together with a spatial entity in which a part had been highlighted (the pairs entity/ILN were

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exactly the same as in the pointing task).15 The subjects were asked to indicate by means of specific keys on the keyboard whether the visually highlighted portion of the entity did or did not correspond to the associated ILN.16 They then had to put their finger back on a fixed point situated on the lower edge of the keyboard. The following stimulus (entity + ILN) appeared two seconds after they had pressed the key (stimuli were displayed in random order and each only once). For each pair entity/ILN, the true/false answer (key) and the response latency were recorded. . Response latencies The most spectacular phenomenon that emerges when comparing the two experiments is the sharp increase of the response latencies in the judgment task. For example, if we observe the parallelepipedic house with a right façade #2, the parallelepipedic house with a left façade, as well as the different square houses (right or left façade), the average response latency obtained in the pointing task (for avant and devant) was 691 ms whereas this average value rose to 1398 ms in the case of the judgment task. In other words, response latencies were multiplied by two from one task to the other. This increase in response latency is not surprising, given the nature of the tasks, particularly the fact that making judgments involves a more “metalinguistic” type of response than pointing. In particular, in the judgment task the subjects are faced with interpretations that they would (possibly) not have been led to make, whereas pointing leaves them free to process the ILNs in whatever way they wish (possibly not taking into account some plausible interpretations). The data discussed below give some insights into the processing which underlies these two kinds of tasks and allow a better understanding of this increase in response latency. . Distributions The distributions obtained in the judgment task clearly showed that a very large majority of subjects agreed with the intrinsic interpretation of the ILNs. The square house with a right façade (Figure 2d) is a good example of this finding (Table 4 (avant); Square house right faç. IT T: 45 (90%), F: 5 (10%), EL: 0; Table 5 (devant); Square house right faç. IT T: 46 (92%), F: 3 (6%), EL: 1 (2%)). The . However, the total number of stimuli was higher than in the pointing task because, for each pair entity/ILN, the different possible interpretations (highlighted parts of the entity) had to be introduced, giving rise to several stimuli. Moreover, in order to include distractors, parts of entities that could not be designated by an ILN (whatever its interpretation) were also presented during the task. . The specific keys were “V” for True and “N” for False on a French “azerty” keyboard.

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Table 4. Houses avant (judgment task) T†

Entity Paral. house right faç. #2 IT Paral. house right faç. #2 DT Paral. house left faç. IT Paral. house left faç. DT Square house right faç. IT Square house right faç. DT Square house left faç. IT Square house left faç. DT

N

RL (ms)

N

F RL (ms)

EL N

49 10 44 17 45 15 50 4

1327 1374 1369 1341 1492 1415 1321 2174

1 40 3 32 5 34 0 45

2373 1459 1975 1457 1431 1544 0 1557

0 0 3 1 0 1 0 1

†

T: true, F: false, EL: eliminated, IT: intrinsic, DT: deictic, N: number of responses, RL: response latency.

Table 5. Houses devant (judgment task) T†

Entity Paral. house right faç. #2 IT Paral. house right faç. #2 DT Paral. house left faç. IT Paral. house left faç. DT Square house right faç. IT Square house right faç. DT Square house left faç. IT Square house left faç. DT

N

RL (ms)

N

F RL (ms)

EL N

50 9 45 14 46 13 49 4

1196 1682 1315 1355 1378 1480 1206 1794

0 41 5 36 3 35 1 46

0 1450 1614 1462 1220 1270 973 1457

0 0 0 0 1 2 0 0

†

T: true, F: false, EL: eliminated, IT: intrinsic, DT: deictic, N: number of responses, RL: response latency.

percentage of accepted IT interpretations recorded for the previously examined group of houses (Section 4.1) – parallelepipedic house right façade #2, parallelepipedic house left façade, square houses – confirmed this observation (Table 4 and 5 (avant/devant); IT T: 378 (94.5%), F: 18 (4.5%), EL: 4 (1%)). In contrast, a majority of subjects rejected a deictic interpretation of ILNs. Once again, the square house with a right façade is a good illustration of this point (Table 4 (avant); Square house right faç. DT T: 15 (30%), F: 34 (68%), EL: 1 (2%); Table 5 (devant); Square house right faç. DT T: 13 (26%), F: 35 (70%), EL: 2 (4%)). The percentage of rejected DT interpretations corresponding to the group of houses also supported the conclusion that most subjects ignored deictic interpretations (Table 4 and 5 (avant/devant); DT T: 86 (21.5%), F: 309 (77.25%), EL: 5 (1.25%)).17 . As proposed by a reviewer, and following our previous remark about the possible “metalinguistic” nature of the judgment task, it could be the case that in this second experiment some

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In the judgment task, then, we find that subjects overwhelmingly accept intrinsic interpretations while most of them reject deictic readings. These findings allow us to partially answer our previous questions concerning the nature of the two tasks (pointing versus judgment) and the kind of processes which underlie situations of “conflict” (multiple responses) during the pointing task. Indeed, the fact that subjects accept intrinsic interpretations suggest that those who made a deictic choice in the pointing task also had in mind the intrinsic reading of the corresponding ILN. Furthermore, the fact that many subjects reject deictic interpretations seems to indicate that most of those who had interpreted an ILN in an intrinsic manner were not aware of its possible deictic processing. More generally, it turns out that in cases of conflicts during the pointing task (e.g., intrinsic/deictic choice), a majority of subjects did not take into account the entire range of existing interpretations.

. Perspectives: Frontal orientation and categorization of spatial entities . ILNs, component nouns and the distinction “location”/“object” As mentioned in Section 1, ILNs constitute a full-fledged category of spatial markers (Aurnague 1996, 2004; Borillo 1988, 1999). An important property of these linguistic units is their ability to denote a “space portion” adjacent to the material part they carve up in spatial entities. This phenomenon is illustrated by sentences like (4a) and (5a) in which the localized entity/trajector can be situated near the reference entity/landmark without these two elements being in contact (e.g., dirt on the wall above the door (4a), fly next to the rug (5a)): (4) a/b. Le haut de la porte est sale/La poignée de la porte est sale ‘The top of the door is dirty/The door handle is dirty’ (5) a/b. La mouche est au coin du tapis/La mouche est sur la ganse du tapis ‘The fly is at/on the corner of the rug18 /The fly is on the rug braid’

subjects did not consider themselves part of the communicative situation (they would have acted as if they were merely part of the experiment, with a more “external” point of view with respect to the localization process), leading to this higher level of rejection of deictic interpretations. However, this assumption cannot be easily checked and we prefer not to take it into account. . For most speakers, the English translation based on the preposition on implies the existence of a contact between the trajector and the landmark. However, spatial descriptions associating an ILN with the preposition at (e.g., The lamp is at the end of the table, The cloud is at the top of the mountain) usually admit both an interpretation in which the trajector and the landmark are in contact and an interpretation in which they are not.



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Moreover, the parts denoted by ILNs appear to be stable or fixed in the framework that is defined by the “whole” entity. Due to these properties (stability + adjacent space portion), spatial entities designated by ILNs have proven to match a general definition of “location” which also applies to geographical locations. The analysis of ILNs also revealed the localizing character of these markers: their semantic content specifies the location of the designated part by means of topological, orientational or distance-related information (see Sections 1 and 3). As a consequence, ILNs seem to refer to “specified locations” like proper nouns denoting geographical entities. These two categories of nouns turned out to have closely related syntactico-semantic patterns, as shown by their comparison in French and Basque (Aurnague 1996: 165–166, 2004: 96). “Component nouns” referring to functional parts of spatial entities (e.g., pied (‘leg’), poignée (‘handle’), porte (‘door’), roue (‘wheel’)) differ from ILNs with respect to most of these points. Although they also denote stable elements (within the whole entity), they are not usually able to designate a space portion next to this material part as illustrated in (4b) and (5b) (dirt cannot be somewhere near the handle (4b) and the fly (5b) is necessarily in contact with the braid (à (‘at’) not possible)). So, functional parts do not fulfill the definition of locations previously mentioned (stability + space portion) and are better characterized as “objects”.19 Furthermore, the semantic content of component nouns mostly underlines the function of the described parts and does not directly inform of their location.20 This clearly contrasts with the spatial and localizing nature of ILNs. Beyond these oppositions, ILNs and component nouns seem to define in many languages a synchronic and diachronic continuum, the former markers deriving from the latter through different semantic and cognitive patterns (e.g., anthropomorphic, zoomorphic, environmental models) (Svorou 1994: 70–89). This evolution often entails some kind of grammaticalization process, ILNs being more “fossilized” than component nouns (Aurnague 1996: 180–185, 2004: 101–104; Borillo 1999: 73–75; Svorou 1994: 100–109). . Factors/properties and categorization of spatial entities Linguistic and psycholinguistic studies, such as the one presented here, aim at better understanding how the nature of spatial configurations conditions the interpretation of the spatial lexicon (here ILNs and, to a lesser extent, component . As a probable consequence of their functional nature and their lack of associated space portions, components are very often better delimited than parts denoted by ILNs. . However, location can sometimes be “pragmatically” deduced from knowledge about the typical (internal) structure of an entity, its canonical position, etc.

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nouns). Within such a framework, one could rightfully question whether all the conditioning factors or properties brought to the fore are likely to give rise to classes or categories of spatial entities. Owing to their contingent character, it seems reasonable to think that the factors which partially or totally rely on contextual elements do not really categorize spatial entities. This is the case of aerodynamicity and geometrical saliency which depend on some internal characteristics of entities (e.g., existence of a larger dimension, surface area of sides), but are also conditioned by more ephemeral parameters from the context (e.g., largest dimension in the horizontal plane, angle of presentation of sides). On the contrary, factors such as static or dynamic functions, which mostly involve the intrinsic properties of entities, appear to be better candidates for a possible categorization. Hence, a first answer to the question previously raised is that not all of the factors that play a role in the semantic content of spatial expressions systematically lead to the emergence of a class of entities. However, beyond the contextual/non contextual opposition mentioned above, are there some additional criteria available to differentiate internal (non contextual) properties according to their categorizing ability? Following studies on grammaticalization (Heine et al. 1991) and analyses concerning the structures of spatial descriptions (Talmy 1983, 2000), a promising direction of research may consist in exploiting the distinction between lexical (open-class) and grammatical (closed-class) elements. From this viewpoint, component nouns appear to constitute an open and possibly unlimited class of lexical units (additional lexemes can always be created for referring to parts of new entities). The functional properties they select often apply to a (more or less) narrow range of entities (e.g., lid → container; switch → electrical appliance/system; wheel → vehicle, mobile entity) and thus it is not possible to combine these markers with any kind of whole (Aurnague 1996: 176, 2004: 97). As a consequence of these characteristics (numerous lexemes, possibly unlimited creations, specific content), component nouns split the domain of entities into a large number of subclasses (entities with lids, switches, wheels, doors, handles, legs, etc.) and the corresponding (internal) properties do not seem to be good candidates for cognitive and semantic categorization. In contrast to component nouns, ILNs constitute a semi-closed class of spatial markers (Aurnague 1996, 2004; Borillo 1988, 1999). This peculiarity of ILNs is strengthened by their limited number (and restricted emergence process) and is also reflected in their ability to enter into grammatical constructions such as prepositional phrases containing à (at) in French (e.g., à gauche de (‘on the left of ’), à l’angle de (‘at the corner of ’), au milieu de (‘in the middle of ’)). From a semantic point of view, it was underlined that ILNs apply to entities according to a restricted set of topological, orientational and distance-related properties

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(Sections 1 and 3). The range of whole entities to which these markers can be associated – through the fulfillment of the properties mentioned – is much wider than in the case of component nouns: an ILN like haut (‘top’) combines, for instance, with nouns denoting geographical locations (montagne (‘mountain’)), buildings (maison (‘house’)), artefacts (chaise (‘chair’)), natural objects (rocher (‘rock’)), etc. To sum up, ILNs are based on a limited number of internal properties which can apply to a large range of elements (a pattern that clearly contrasts with component nouns). Due to these two characteristics (limitedness and generality), the semantic properties underlying ILNs are more likely to play a part in a possible categorization of spatial entities. Among the notions shared by ILNs, we have already pointed out the immaterial/material opposition as well as the property of being stable or fixed in a given frame of reference (notions which underlie the opposition between “locations” and “objects”). Internal factors like dynamic function (specific arrangement of parts according to the usual direction of motion) or static function (interactive side with features) revealed by the study of avant/devant could also be considered as possible parameters in cognitive and semantic categorization of spatial entities (these two factors being subsumed by the notion of intrinsic front). More generally, using the opposition between lexical and grammatical elements as a criterion by which to isolate categorizing factors leads to the selection of high-level or general properties (e.g., topological, orientational or distance-related parts) rather than more specific ones (e.g., components). The synchronic and diachronic continuum from component nouns to ILNs provides a good illustration of how high-level notions (e.g., intrinsic front) can emerge from quite specialized ones (e.g., face, eye, forehead). Grammaticalization and “abstraction” seem here to be intimately related phenomena. The preference for a restricted set of general properties (rather than for a wide range of specific parameters) demonstrated by grammaticalization coincides, in any case, with the theoretical choice of parsimony guiding many ontological studies in philosophy or, even, in artificial intelligence (e.g., see Varzi’s paper in this volume). In the long run cross-linguistic research on grammatical markers of space should provide an inventory of the concepts governing the categorization of spatial entities through languages (this collection of concepts should be limited (Talmy 2000: Vol. 1, Ch. 1)). It should also give some clues about the degree of generality (more or less widespread, universal, etc.) of each concept in language and cognition.

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References Aurnague, Michel (1996). Les noms de localisation interne: Tentative de caractérisation sémantique à partir de données du basque et du français. Cahiers de Lexicologie, 69, 159– 192. Aurnague, Michel (2004). Les structures de l’espace linguistique: Regards croisés sur quelques constructions spatiales du basque et du français [Bibliothèque de l’Information Grammaticale 56]. Leuven & Paris: Peeters. Aurnague, Michel, Kader Boulanouar, Jean-Luc Nespoulous, Andrée Borillo, & Mario Borillo (2000). Spatial semantics: The processing of internal localization nouns. Cahiers de Psychologie Cognitive/Current Psychology of Cognition, 19(1), 69–110. Borillo, Andrée (1988). Le lexique de l’espace: Les noms et les adjectifs de localisation interne. Cahiers de Grammaire, 13, 1–22. Borillo, Andrée (1999). Partition et localisation spatiale: Les noms de localisation interne. Langages, 136, 53–76. Carlson-Radvansky, Laura A. & David E. Irwin (1993). Frames of reference in vision and language: Where is above? Cognition, 46, 223–244. Heine, Bernd, Ulrike Claudi, & Friederike Hünnemeyer (1991). Grammaticalization: A conceptual framework. Chicago, IL: University of Chicago Press. Hill, Clifford (1982). Up/down, front/back, left/right: A contrastive study of Hausa and English. In J. Weissenborn & W. Klein (Eds.), Here and there: Cross-linguistic studies on deixis and demonstration (pp. 261–268). Amsterdam: John Benjamins. Kleiber, Georges (1988). Les prépositions spatiales devant/derrière ont-elles un sens ou deux? Cahiers de Lexicologie, 52, 97–116. Klein, Wolfgang (1983). Deixis and spatial orientation in route direction. In H. L. Pick & L. P. Acredolo (Eds.), Spatial orientation: Theory, research and application (pp. 283–311). New York, NY: Plenum. Levinson, Stephen C. (1996). Frames of references and Molyneux’s questions. In P. Bloom, M. A. Peterson, L. Nadel, & M. F. Garrett (Eds.), Language and space (pp. 109–169). Cambridge, MA: The MIT Press. Miller, Georges A. & Philip N. Johnson-Laird (1976). Language and perception. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Schober, Michael F. (1993). Spatial perspective-taking in conversation. Cognition, 47, 1–24. Svorou, Soteria (1994). The grammar of space [Typological Studies in Language 25]. Amsterdam: John Benjamins. Talmy, Leonard (1983). How language structures space. In H. L. Pick & L. P. Acredolo (Eds.), Spatial orientation: Theory, research and application (pp. 225–282). New York, NY: Plenum. Talmy, Leonard (2000). Towards a cognitive semantics, Vol. 1 & 2. Cambridge, MA: The MIT Press. Tversky, Barbara (1996). Spatial perspectives in descriptions. In P. Bloom, M. A. Peterson, L. Nadel, & M. F. Garrett (Eds.), Language and space (pp. 463–491). Cambridge, MA: The MIT Press. Vandeloise, Claude (1986). L’espace en français: Sémantique des prépositions spatiales. Paris: Seuil. Vandeloise, Claude (1988). Length, width and potential passing. In B. Rudzka-Ostyn (Ed.), Topics in cognitive linguistics (pp. 403–427). Amsterdam: John Benjamins.

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Containment, support, and beyond Constructing topological spatial categories in first language acquisition Melissa Bowerman Max Planck Institute for Psycholinguistics

Among children’s earliest spatial words are topological forms like ‘in’ and ‘on’. Although these forms name spatial relationships, they also presuppose a classification of ground objects into entities such as “containers” and “surfaces”; hence their relevance for a volume on “spatial entities”. Traditionally, researchers have assumed that semantic categories of space are universal, reflecting a human way of nonlinguistically perceiving and cognizing space. But, as this chapter discusses, spatial categories in fact differ strikingly across languages, and children begin to home in on language-specific classifications extremely early, before age two. Learners do not, it seems, draw only on purely nonlinguistic spatial concepts; they can also actively construct spatial categories on the basis of the linguistic input. Evidence is drawn primarily from research on children learning Korean vs. English.

Introduction If you had been strolling in the woods behind the Max Planck Institute in Nijmegen a few years ago, you might have observed some scenes like those shown in Figure 1. Probably you never would have seen situations exactly like these before, but, if asked, you could readily describe them, using phrases like a folded tablecloth in a tree, a pot on a branch, tubers leaning against a stump, or a rope around a rock. How is it that we can classify an open-ended number of spatial situations as instances of a limited set of relational concepts such as in, on, against, or around? One possibility is that such concepts come built in, as part of our human capacity for understanding space. Weighing in on the side of this explanation is a long tradition of philosophical, linguistic, and psychological research that emphasizes universals of spatial perception, cognition, and language (see Levinson 2003 for a review). Drawing from and also contributing to this tradition, developmen-

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Figure 1. Some unusual spatial situations (Ameka, de Witte, & Wilkins 1999)

talists have typically assumed that concepts like “containment” and “support” are the universal outcome of spatial cognitive development, and that learning how to talk about space is a matter of connecting words to these established concepts – for example in to containment and on to support (E. Clark 1973; Johnston & Slobin 1979; Slobin 1973; see Bowerman 1996a for discussion). In contrast with the traditional stress on universals of spatial cognition and development, there is now growing interest in the possibility that the spatial concepts

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associated with words are, at least in part, a linguistic invention – a particular way of structuring space for purposes of talking about it (Bowerman 1989, 1996a, b; Levinson 2003). According to this way of thinking, every spatial situation has multiple properties that could serve as the basis for equating it with or distinguishing it from other spatial situations. Different languages are sensitive to different properties, and they make different “choices” about how to construct a manageable number of basic categories to associate with spatial morphemes (prepositions and postpositions, particles, locative case-endings, spatial nominals, etc.). This means that in order to be able to talk about space, children must work out how to classify space according to the criteria that are conventional for their linguistic community (Bowerman & Choi 2001, 2003). The focus of this chapter is on how children learn to talk about “topological” spatial relations – a term that in the literature is used loosely (following Piaget & Inhelder 1956) to denote situations to do with containment, contiguity, support, proximity, encirclement, and the like. Topological relations are of special relevance to questions about spatial entities, the focus of this book, because such relations – unlike notions such as ‘above’ and ‘below’ and (projective) ‘in front of ’ and ‘behind’ – often require an implicit classification of the reference point object as an instance of a particular kind of spatial entity, such as a container, volume, or surface. Topological notions are also a telling domain for exploring how language and nonlinguistic cognition interact, because they have often played a starring role in claims that spatial words map to pre-established spatial meanings – yet languages categorize topological relations strikingly differently. In this chapter, I argue that although the acquisition of topological words is clearly underpinned by a growing cognitive understanding of spatial relationships, the learning process is not simply a matter of figuring out how to express spatial concepts that are already known. Nor, however, is it a matter of passively receiving the imprint of the local language. Comparative evidence from children learning different languages suggests that in the course of acquiring spatial words, there is an interaction between children’s nonlinguistic conceptualization of space and their efforts to make sense of the use of spatial forms in the speech around them. Children do not get all the basic topological categories they need for their target language for free, courtesy of nonlinguistic development; to some extent they must construct them. But in this construction process they clearly draw on an underlying cognitive capacity for recognizing similarities and differences of various kinds among spatial situations and the entities that take part in them.

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Cognitive foundations of spatial semantic development

Children everywhere use their first spatial words for the same kinds of events: putting things into containers and taking them out, separating things and putting them back together, piling things up and knocking them down, opening and closing things, climbing on and off laps and furniture, putting on clothing and taking it off, being picked up and put down, and changes of posture like standing up, sitting down, and lying down. In line with these preferred topics, early-acquired spatial words revolve around relationships of containment (e.g., for English, in, out), contiguity and support (on, off ), accessibility (open, close, under), verticality (up, down), and posture changes (sit, stand, lie). Only later come words for proximity (next to, between, beside), and still later words for projective relationships (in front of, behind) (Bowerman & Choi 2001; Bowerman, de León, & Choi 1995; Choi & Bowerman 1991; Johnston & Slobin 1979; Sinha, Thorseng, Hayashi, & Plunkett 1994). This developmental sequence – in particular, the precedence of topological relations over projective relations – coincides with the order of emergence of spatial concepts as established through nonlinguistic testing by Piaget and Inhelder (1956). This correspondence led, in the early 1970s, to the influential hypothesis that it is the maturation of new spatial concepts that guides and paces children’s acquisition of spatial words (Johnston & Slobin 1979; Parisi & Antinucci 1970; Slobin 1973). Several other lines of evidence have also been adduced for the hypothesized primacy of nonlinguistic spatial cognition. One is that children often use spatial words differently from adults – e.g., for a more restricted or a broader range of situations. For instance, adults use words like up, down, in, out freely for both motion and static spatial relationships, but children at first use them only for motion (Smiley & Huttenlocher 1995). Adults use words like in front of and behind for the location of something with respect to a wide range of objects, but children use them initially only for things in front of or behind their own body, later for things in relation to other objects with inherent fronts and backs (e.g., behind the car), and still later for projective relationships involving objects without inherent fronts and backs (behind the bottle) (Johnston 1984). An example of use for a “too broad” range of situations is children’s common application of the English verb open to events like pulling two Frisbees apart, pulling the stem off an apple, and pulling a chair out from a table (Bowerman 1978; Bowerman et al. 1995; E. Clark 1993). Both underextensions and overextensions have been interpreted to mean that children are relying on their own nonlinguistic spatial concepts, since (so the reasoning goes; see E. Clark 2001 for discussion) if they were inducing concepts from adult uses of the words, they would use the words more like adults.

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Another line of evidence for the developmental priority of spatial cognition over spatial language is that young children often try to talk about the location of objects before they have acquired the conventional words they need. For example, they may combine nouns and verbs in a way that seems to express a locative intention; e.g., towel bed for a towel ON a bed, and sit pool for sitting IN a wading pool (L. Bloom 1970; Bowerman 1973; Slobin 1973). In these utterances we see once again the privileged position of topological spatial notions: in the speech of Brown’s (1973) three subjects, the prepositions most often needed but missing were in and on; at a later stage, these were the first two prepositions to be reliably supplied. These findings have suggested that the motor driving the acquisition of locative morphemes is the desire to communicate locative meanings that have already been conceptualized. Indeed, children clearly use their knowledge of the usual spatial relationships between objects in acquiring new spatial words. This was shown in a pioneering study by E. Clark (1973). Children were asked to place an object, X, in, on, or under another object, Y. The youngest subjects (age 1;6–1;11 – age is given in years; months) followed nonlinguistic strategies based on the perceptual properties of the objects. Regardless of the preposition in the instructions, they put X into Y if Y offered containment (e.g., a crib, a pickup truck), and they put X on top of Y if Y did not offer containment but had a flat, supporting surface (e.g., a table, a bridge). This meant that they were almost always correct when the instruction was in, correct with on unless Y was a container, and never correct with under. In analyzing the response patterns of children up to age 5;0, Clark concluded that prepositions whose meanings coincide with learners’ nonlinguistic spatial strategies are the first to be acquired; in other words, in is learned earlier than on, and on is learned earlier than under.

. How universal are spatial semantic categories? The cognitivist view that I have just sketched is that spatial language simply reflects the spatial concepts we use to think with nonlinguistically, and that children acquire spatial words to express concepts they have already formulated. Space does seem to have a strong a priori claim to language-independent perceptual and cognitive organization. The ability to maneuver in space is fundamental to human activity, and it is guided not only by vision and other highly structured biological systems, but also by the fit of our spatial representations to the environment (H. Clark 1973) – if we misrepresent where something is we can’t find it later, and if we put an object down in mid-air it falls. Now, to the extent that spatial language simply mirrors spatial cognition, we would expect the meanings of spatial words to be universal. Researchers have in-

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deed long assumed that spatial semantic categories differ only superficially across languages. But recent research has forced a re-evaluation of this assumption: languages turn out to vary much more than was previously realized. One important line of cross-linguistic work involves what is known as “frames of reference” – the coordinate systems speakers use to locate one object with respect to another on the horizontal plane, especially in “table-top” space (i.e., concrete objects not too far apart, as opposed to large-scale geographical constructs like “Boston” vs. “San Francisco”). In English and many other languages, speakers rely primarily on a “relative” frame of reference to talk about table-top space, i.e., a frame that is dependent on their own viewing perspective (e.g., ‘the salt is to the left of the pepper [from where I am]’; ‘the boy is hiding behind the tree’). Philosophers and psychologists have long assumed that this system is universal – that spatial thinking everywhere is relative, egocentric, and anthropomorphic, based on the three planes through our body distinguishing left from right, front from back, and up from down (see Levinson 2003 for review). But some languages entirely lack “relative” words comparable to ‘left, right’, ‘in front of ’, and ‘behind’. Instead, their speakers may rely on an “absolute” system calculated on the basis of fixed (i.e., non-relative, non-egocentric) coordinates (e.g., ‘the salt is to the north of the pepper; the boy is hiding inland of the tree’; ‘the stool is downhill of the chair’ [with ‘up/down’ determined by the prevailing slope of the land, even for objects on a flat surface]). Speakers of “absolute” languages have been shown to differ from speakers of ‘relative’ languages not only in their characteristic linguistic ways of classifying space on the horizontal plane, but also in various nonlinguistic tasks involving rotation, and in spontaneous gestures about the direction of motion in a past event (Levinson 2003; Majid et al. 2004; Pederson et al. 1998). In addition to frames of reference, a second critical focus of cross-linguistic research on spatial semantics is the semantic classification of topological relations. Do all languages have words for the concepts of “containment” and “support” that we associate with the English prepositions in and on? It turns out that they do not. Empirical data collected from speakers of a wide range of languages show that languages differ in the number of topological categories they recognize, and in where they draw the boundaries between categories. In what follows, we look at some differences in the categorization of topological relations in the encoding of actions such as putting something into a container or onto a surface, or taking something out of a container or off a surface. These dynamic causal events warrant our particular attention because they are among the situations that children’s first spatial words are used to encode. But note that languages also differ strikingly in their classification of static topological relations. For example, English treats “a picture on the wall” as an instance of the same kind

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of relation as “a cup on a table” (both on – contact and support), whereas Dutch distinguishes these two situations with two different prepositions, op ‘on1 ’ and aan ‘on2 ’, which capture situations with different force-dynamic properties. (Roughly, “X is resting comfortably in contact with Y” vs. “X is subject to a force that would separate it from Y if it were not somehow restrained”; Bowerman 1989; Bowerman 1996b. See also Ameka 1995; Bowerman & Choi 2001; Bowerman & Pederson 1992, 2003; P. Brown 1994; Kita 1999; Levinson & Meira 2003; and Wilkins & Hill 1995 for other examples of cross-linguistic differences in the classification of topological and other spatial relationships.). Research on frames of reference and topological relationships establishes clearly that spatial situations can be construed in different ways, and that languages provide different conventions for how to do it. But given the traditional emphasis on nonlinguistic cognition, we might still expect that children would start out universally relying on the same set of basic locative relations, and only later gradually diverge in the direction of the input language (as proposed, for example, by Slobin 1985). However, this expectation is not met: differences among languages turn out to have an impact on children’s semantic categorization of space from the very beginning of language production, and even before.

. Categorization of topological relations in the acquisition of English and Korean Much of the evidence for cross-linguistic variation in early semantic categorization comes from comparisons of children learning English and Korean (Bowerman & Choi 2001, 2003; Choi & Bowerman 1991; Choi, McDonough, Bowerman, & Mandler 1999; for related evidence from Tzotzil Maya see also Bowerman, de Léon, & Choi 1995; de Léon 2001). These comparisons focus on the encoding of actions to do with spontaneous and caused motions with respect to containers and surfaces – actions that would typically be encoded in English with words like in, on, together, around; or out, off, apart. Following Talmy (1985), the moving or moved object will be termed the figure, the object with respect to which it moves the ground, and the path or trajectory along which it moves the path. . Topological spatial categories in adult English and Korean English makes a fundamental distinction between putting a figure into an enclosure, container, or volume of some kind (put in) and putting an object into contact with an exterior (i.e., flat or convex) surface of the ground object (put on). (Verbs other than put may also be used with in and on, e.g., throw, stuff, shove

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in; set, smear, stick on.) This is of course the basic topological distinction between “containment” and “contact and support” – see Figure 2a for a simple illustration. Korean has no forms comparable to the spatial prepositions/particles of English; most of the work of expressing spontaneous or caused motion along a path is done by so-called “path” verbs, with semantics suggested by glosses such as ‘enter’, ‘exit’, ‘ascend’, ‘insert’, and ‘extract’.1 Some of the semantic categories associated with everyday Korean path verbs differ strikingly from the path categories associated with the prepositions and particles of English and other well-known languages, especially for caused motions of putting something somewhere (Choi & Bowerman 1991). This is illustrated in Figure 2b. Note in particular the category of kkita, loosely glossable as ‘interlock, fit tightly’. This verb, which is the first spatial word of many children acquiring Korean, encodes actions of joining three-dimensional objects that have an a priori complementary shape relationship, in this case putting a cassette into a cassette case or putting a Lego block onto a stack of Legos. Additional actions denoted by kkita include putting two nesting cups together, putting the cap on a pen or a pen into its cap, putting a ring on a finger or a finger into a ring, buttoning a button, putting a snugly fitting lid on a pot, and closing a tightly latching door. Kkita has no direct English counterpart, and English speakers who try to use the notion of “tight fit” to guess which actions qualify for kkita are often mistaken. One candidate translation equivalent, the verb fit, is far too general, since it applies to many actions in addition to putting together three-dimensional objects with a priori complementary shapes – e.g., manipulations involving flat objects (e.g., “does this bandaid fit over the wound?”), or flexible objects that achieve a complementary shape only as the action is carried out (e.g., “see if this belt fits”), or three-dimensional objects that lack complementary shapes (e.g., stuffing a pair of shoes into a small box). Kkita is not used for actions like these. Another candidate translation, interlock, does capture the idea of pre-existing complementary shapes, but it would never be used for many of the actions labelled kkita in Korean, such as putting a cassette into a cassette case or a ring on a finger, since it suggests the presence of multiple intermeshing parts – not needed for the felicitous use of kkita. . In Talmy’s (1991) typological classification of how languages characteristically express path meanings, English is “satellite-framed” and Korean is “verb-framed”. In satellite-framed languages, path meanings are typically expressed by particles, prepositions, or affixes (e.g., go in/ out/up/down/across and put in/on/together, take out/off/apart), while in verb-framed languages, they are characteristically specified by verbs with meanings suggested by English verbs like enter, exit, ascend, descend, insert, extract. These verbs are not native to English, but borrowed from Romance, where they represent the dominant pattern.

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Containment, support, and beyond a. English

b. Korean

Figure 2. Categorization of some topological actions in English and Korean

With speakers’ use of kkita for everyday activities like those in Figure 2, Korean bisects what English treats as a unified concept of “containment” events into two distinct categories: “tight-fitting” containment like putting a cassette into a cassette case (kkita) and “loose-fitting” containment like putting an apple into a bowl (nehta).2 On the other hand, the English insistence on “containment” means that from the point of view of Korean, English overlooks a commonality between events involving a snug fit between objects, regardless of whether the figure ends up “in,” “on,” or in some other relation to the ground. Just as the Korean verb kkita splits the domain of English put in, it also subdivides the large territory of put on (put into contact with an exterior surface). For example, kkita is used for attaching a figure to the outside surface of an object in a “three-dimensional way” (e.g., putting a Lego block on a stack of Legos, . The category of nehta encompasses not only loose containment events but also loose encirclement events, such as putting a loose ring on a pole; in this way it is parallel to kkita, which is indifferent to whether the action involves putting something in or putting something on or over something else.

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a top on a pen, a tight-fitting lid on a pan, a ring on a pole), while pwuchita is used for juxtaposing objects with flat surfaces (e.g., magnet on refrigerator), and nohta for depositing a figure on a roughly horizontal surface (e.g., cup on table). For putting clothing onto the body, Korean offers multiple verbs specific to the domain of dressing, such as ssuta ‘put clothing on head’, ipta ‘. . .on trunk’, and sinta ‘. . .on feet’. Notice that all the words shown in Figures 2a and 2b pick out topological relationships – i.e., situations of the sort encoded in English by words like in, on, and around – but they focus on different properties of the figure and ground objects. For example, put in requires the figure to end up in an interior space or volume of the ground, but disregards whether the fit between figure and ground is tight or loose. Kkita focuses on bringing about a snug fit between the surfaces of a figure and a ground object with complementary shapes, but it is indifferent to whether this event involves insertion, covering, attachment, or encirclement. . Categorization of topological relationships in young children’s spontaneous and elicited speech If language learners conceive of spatial situations in terms of a universal nonlinguistic set of basic locative notions, and first acquire words as devices for expressing these notions, these differences between English and Korean should not matter. Toddlers exposed to the two languages should use their early spatial words to classify events in a similar way, i.e., implicitly recognizing situations to be instances of the same spatial category, or of different categories, without regard to their classification in the target language. But this is not the case. In studying how children age 1–3 years use spatial words, Choi and I found clear-cut language-related differences along the lines of Figure 2 by as early as 17–20 months (Choi & Bowerman 1991; Bowerman 1994; Bowerman & Choi 2001, 2003). As soon as learners of English used the words in and on productively, they distinguished systematically between placements involving containment (in) and placements involving surface contact/support (on), regardless of fit.3 Some examples from the two children studied by Choi and Bowerman (1991) are shown in Table 1. Most of these uses are appropriate from the adult point of view, even though the “containers” and “exterior surfaces” are often unconventional – e.g., for in, a piece of cellophane, a hand puppet, a pile of carrots, a bead, a pea; and for . Evidence for productivity (e.g., uses of a word for novel referents, including referents for which adults would not use it) is important in order to rule out a “boring” interpretation for early language-specific word use: that children simply repeat what they have often heard adults say in particular contexts (see Choi & Bowerman 1991: 110).

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Table 1. Some productive early uses of in and on for containment and contact/support In Monies. In. (Looking under couch cushions in search of coins she has just put down the crack between the cushions.) (1;8) In. Miaow in. (From behind, peering through the slatted back of a chair at a cat lying on the seat; it looks as if it is in a cage.) (1;8) Cracker in. (Inspecting a piece of cellophane that M had just ripped open and taken a cracker from.) (1;8) Baby in ... feet out. (After she has fitted a small doll into a hand puppet; its feet are dangling out.) (1;8) Holes in. (Inspecting the peas she’s eating; they have dented surfaces.) (1;9) Back in. (Poking a string through a hole in a bead from a broken necklace.) (1;9) In. Toy in. (Trying to fit a piece of plastic from a broken camera into the loop formed by a drawer handle. (1;10) In my carrot! Get all dirty! (Indignant when M puts a spoonful of food right next to raw carrots on her plate.) (1;10) My knees! see, Mommy? I’m putting in. (Holding a ping pong ball between her knees with her hand.) (1;7)

On On. (Wants broken-off knob put back on the TV.) On. (Attaching a ladybug magnet to a bottle opener.) On. (With negative head shake. Doesn’t like the bit of paper sticking to F’s freshly-shaved face.) (1;6) On sock. (After trying unsuccessfully to hang a sock on a clothes hanger.) (1;7) On. (Fingering a piece of cellophane tape she finds stuck on the back of her highchair.) (1;8) Peanuts pants. On pants. (Brushing off pieces of peanut shell that have fallen on her lap.) (1;9) On f tie. (Trying to fit a tie onto a tie-holder clip.) (1;9) Want Christy on. (Wants clip-on dark glasses fixed on her (Christy’s) own glasses frame.) (1;10) On knee. (Hooking her (eye)glasses over her knee.) (1;3) (1;4) (1;6)

(Data from two longitudinally-followed children; Bowerman 1978, 1996a, and unpublished diary records. Age in years; months)

on, the front of a TV, the handle of a bottle-opener, a face, the back of a highchair, a tie clip. In contrast to toddlers learning English, Korean-speaking children ignored the division between “containment” and “contact/support” in favor of a distinction between placement events involving tight fit, with or without containment (kkita) and those involving various kinds of loose fit and loose contact, such as loose containment/encirclement (nehta), loose surface contact (nohta), and putting clothing onto various body parts (ssuta ‘put on head’, ipta ‘put on trunk’, sinta ‘put on feet’) (see Table 2 for a schematic comparison to English). The two sets of children also treated actions of “taking out” and “taking off ” differently: learners of English discriminated between taking things out of a container (out) vs. off a surface (off ),

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 Melissa Bowerman

Table 2. Schematic comparison of the expression of containment and contact/support by children learning English vs. Korean. (Korean examples show only the citation form of the verb, not the whole utterance.) Containment: English: 1;6 Korean: 1;5

English: 1;7 Korean: 1;8

Tight: In ’gain. (Trying to shove toy chair through narrow door of doll house.) Kkita. (Putting peg doll into perfectly-fitting niche-seat on small horse investigator has brought.) Loose: In. (When mother dips her foot into the washtub of water.) Nehta. (Putting blocks into a pan.)

Contact/support: English: 1;5 Korean: 2;3 English: 1;11 Korean: 2;4

Tight (attachment): On. Horsie on. (Looking for rein of rocking horse; it has come off and she wants to attach it back on to the edge of the horse’s mouth.) Kkita. (Attaching a magnetic fish to magnetic beak of duck.) Loose: Can’t wow-wow on. (Having trouble putting a small toy dog on a spinning phonograph record.) Nohta. (Putting one block on top of another.)

(Choi & Bowerman 1991; Bowerman 1994).

while learners of Korean used ppayta (the antonym of kkita ‘interlock, fit tightly’) for removing objects from a tight-fitting relation, kkenayta (the antonym of nehta ‘put loosely in or around’) for removing objects from loose containment or loose encirclement, and pesta ‘remove clothing item’ for taking clothing off of any body part. In short, when the children talked about spatial events, they classified them in language-appropriate, or near-appropriate, ways. Spontaneous speech provides valuable information about young children’s linguistic categorization of space, but it is hard to make direct comparisons across children and languages because speakers do not talk about exactly the same events. So Choi and I designed an elicited production study to allow us to examine, in a more carefully controlled way, how speakers of English and Korean (and an additional language, Dutch) talk about placement actions (Bowerman 1996a; Bowerman & Choi 2001; Choi 1997). In a play-like setting with real objects, we showed each participant a set of about 70 actions – putting things into tight and loose containers and taking them out, attaching and detaching things in various ways, putting objects down on surfaces, opening and closing, hanging and ‘unhanging’, buttoning and unbuttoning, and putting on various clothing items and taking them off. Participants were encouraged to describe what we were doing, or – for the children – to command the next move. For each language there was an adult group and three age groups of children ranging from 2 to 3 ½ years.

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In analyzing the data, Choi and I, in collaboration with Jim Boster, treated the elicited descriptions as similarity data, analogous to the kind of responses obtained in a sorting study (see Bowerman 1996a). In a typical sorting study, participants sort stimuli – e.g., a set of pictures – into groups of items that “go together”. In our elicited production task, each different verb (e.g., kkita, put) or particle (e.g., in, on) produced by a participant is taken to define a category for that speaker. Events that are often described with the same word can be considered more similar to each other – from the standpoint of linguistic categorization – than events described with different words. The data can be analyzed with multivariate statistics suitable for similarity data, such as multidimensional scaling, correspondence analysis, and cluster analysis, and the classification patterns of different subgroups of speakers can be compared regardless of whether they speak the same language. If the early use of spatial words is guided by basic spatial concepts that arise through non-linguistic cognitive development, children in at least the youngest age group (2–2 ½ years) could be expected to group and distinguish familiar and novel events, through their word use, more like same-age children learning other languages than like adult speakers of their own language (to the extent, of course, that the languages differ). If they classify instead more like adult speakers of their own language, we must conclude that their semantic categories of space are already language-specific, even though possibly not yet entirely adult-like. The outcome was unequivocal: from the youngest age group, children’s linguistic classifications were significantly more similar to the classifications of the adult speakers of their own language than to those of same-age children learning the other two languages (Bowerman 1996a). Like the findings from spontaneous speech, this outcome shows that toddlers are remarkably sensitive to the classification of spatial situations in the linguistic input they are exposed to. . Topological categories in comprehension To extend the study of topological relations under controlled conditions to children younger than 2;0, Choi and I, together with colleagues, conducted a preferential looking study in which infants age 18 to 23 months learning English or Korean sat on a parent’s lap and simply watched a number of pairs of videotaped actions (Choi, McDonough, Bowerman, & Mandler 1999). For some of the presentations of each pair, children heard a target word embedded in a carrier phrase, e.g. “Where’s she putting it in?’ for learners of English, and comparable sentences with kkita ‘interlock, fit tightly’ for learners of Korean. Recall that in adult speech, these two early-learned words are applied to partially overlapping sets of events (see Figure 2). According to parental report, most of the children were not yet producing the target word for their language. Nevertheless they were found to understand

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 Melissa Bowerman

Figure 3. Two pairs of scenes used to test comprehension of English put in and Korean kkita in Choi et al. (1999), showing the language-specific looking patterns obtained

the categories picked out by the target words: hearing put in directed the English learners’ attention to events involving containment, regardless of tightness of fit, whereas hearing kkita pulled the attention of the Korean learners toward events involving tight fit, regardless of containment. This cross-cutting looking pattern is illustrated in Figure 3 for two of the four event pairs used. This outcome allows us to reconcile two seemingly conflicting observations. On the one hand, once children produce a spatial word such as in, out, on, off, up, or down at all, they often generalize it rapidly to a wide range of referent situations – a finding that has been interpreted as evidence that the meaning the learner associates with the word has originated earlier, in nonlinguistic cognition (e.g., McCune-Nicolich 1981; Nelson 1974). On the other hand, children use spatial words to pick out language-specific spatial categories from their earliest productive uses of these words – a finding that suggests guidance from the input language (cf. the research reviewed in 3.2). Both inferences cannot be correct for the same word – what has to give? Apparently children can generalize a new word both rapidly and language-specifically because they have begun to work out its semantic category in comprehension, before production begins. Summarizing to this point: earlier work has suggested that children link the spatial morphemes of their language directly to notions like containment and support as these arise in the course of nonlinguistic cognitive development. At a coarse level of analysis, this view is not incorrect: all around the world, chil-

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dren undeniably concentrate first on words for topological relationships (along with words for events involving vertical motion; see Choi & Bowerman 1991; de León 2001); words for projective relationships come much later. This sequence is presumably cognitively determined. But at a more detailed level of analysis, the meanings children associate with their early spatial words are not universal, but are conditioned by the way space is categorized in their target language. In the next section I consider the implications of these findings for the learning process.

. The learning process One possible explanation for early sensitivity to language-specific spatial categories is that learners construct the categories they need by observing how words are used in the linguistic input. The proposal that young children can construct word meanings was deemed plausible before about 1970 (cf. R. Brown’s 1958 “Original Word Game”, in which he characterized early vocabulary learning as a game in which children hear adults use a word and make hypotheses about its meaning, correcting and tuning their conjectures in response to adult feedback). But in the cognitivist climate of the last several decades, the idea of construction was eclipsed in favor of the notion that words are mapped to pre-existing concepts in early lexical development. Only recently is the hypothesis again being explored (Bowerman 2005; Bowerman & Choi 2001, 2003; Casasola 2005a, b; Casasola, Wilbourn, & Yang 2006; Gentner 2003; Levinson 2001). Critics of this position argue that early language specificity is still compatible with the cognitivist explanation, as long we assume that children’s early repertoire of nonlinguistic spatial concepts is more extensive than had been supposed, and includes not only notions of containment and support corresponding to English in and on, but also a notion of tight fit corresponding to Korean kkita, and presumably additional concepts corresponding to early-learned spatial categories in other languages (Mandler 1992, 1996; see P. Bloom 2000: 252 for discussion). In this view, the learner’s task is to select, from among the concepts already made available through nonlinguistic development, the one that adult speakers intend when they use the word. Selection is not a trivial matter (see Gleitman 1990), but it is a different matter than constructing meanings as needed. Choosing between these explanations is controversial, with advocates on both sides. The likeliest scenario, in my view, is that both of them are true, some of the time: the meanings of some spatial words are learned by direct mapping to pre-existing concepts, and the meanings of others are learned by construction. Evidence bearing on the problem comes from infant lab studies of early spatial categorization and from spontaneous speech errors.



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 Melissa Bowerman

. Infant categorization of topological relations To be convincing, the claim that a spatial semantic category is learned by direct mapping to a nonlinguistic concept should be backed up by evidence for just this category in prelinguistic babies (P. Bloom 2000: 252). There have been many studies of containment and support in early infant development, but most have not asked how infants categorize topological relations; they focus instead on infants’ capacity to discriminate between physically possible and impossible events (Baillargeon 1995; Caron, Caron, & Antell 1988; Hespos & Baillargeon 2001; Needham & Baillargeon 1993; Sitskoorn & Smitsman 1995, among others). This situation has been rapidly changing, and there are now several categorization studies – most of them in direct response to the studies discussed in the previous section – that focus on precisely the topological relationships of interest to us in this chapter. .. Prelinguistic status of containment, support, and tight fit Casasola and Cohen (2002) used a looking-time procedure for studying infant categorization that relies on the tendency of babies to habituate to repeated instances of the same kind of event, and to look longer again when they see an event of a new kind. Whether or not babies look longer at the new event reveals whether they are sensitive to the similarity among the first, familiarization, set of events. Two groups of infants from an English-speaking environment, 9–11 months and 17–19 months old, were tested. In the first phase of the experiment, habituation, the babies saw four different videotaped events of placing varied objects into one of three different spatial relations. Children in the containment condition saw four containment events that would be described as put in in English; two of them were “loose” (putting an animal into a basket, putting a car into a container) and two of them “tight” (candle into same-shaped cookie-cutter, green peg into yellow block). Children in the support (put on) condition similarly saw four support events, two “loose” and two “tight”. For children in the tight fit condition, the four habituation events were comprised of the two “tight” containment events used in the containment condition, and the two “tight” support events used in the support conditions; these events would all be described in Korean with the verb kkita. The habituation events were repeated until the babies became habituated (their looking times dropped to a prespecified level), and then they were shown four test trials, one by one: (1) familiarized objects being put into the familiar relation (i.e., one of the habituation events again), (2) familiarized objects put into a novel relationship, (3) novel objects put into the familiarized relationship, and (4) novel objects put into a novel relationship. At both ages and in all conditions, infants’ attention revived, as expected, when they were shown novel objects (test trials 3–4), regardless of their spatial relation-

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ship. But only babies in the containment condition looked even longer when they saw novel objects in a new spatial relationship (a support event, test trial 4).4 In this way, the babies demonstrated that they were sensitive to the relationship that the habituation events had in common, i.e., containment, whether tight or loose. In contrast to the results with containment, the infants who had been habituated to support or tight fit relations did not at either age discriminate between the familiar relation and the novel relation (tight containment for the support condition, loose containment for the tight-fit condition). The older infants looked longer at the familiar objects in the novel versus the familiar relation, but not at the novel objects in the novel versus familiar relation; this suggests that they had not picked up on the abstract “support” or “tight-fit” property shared by the four habituation events, and so could not generalize it to situations involving novel objects. These results show that prelinguistic infants are sensitive to a category of “containment” events, but use of the same materials and procedures reveals no comparable appreciation of an abstract category of “support” or “tight fit” events.5 This suggests that English in, and similar words in other languages, may indeed be acquired – just as has long been presumed – by mapping them to a prelinguistically formulated concept of containment. But what about English on and Korean kkita ‘interlock, fit tightly’? Could the meanings of these words be constructed under guidance from language?

. See Casasola, Cohen, & Chiarello (2003) for evidence, using similar materials, that infants also show sensitivity to the containment relationship at an even younger age – 6 months. . Hespos and Spelke (2004) (see also Hespos & Spelke this volume) present evidence that they interpret as demonstrating the presence of the support and tight-fit categories in children as young as 5 months. This supports the cognitivist view, they argue, by demonstrating that the concepts that children associate with English on and Korean kkita are, after all, present prelinguistically. Why are the results of Casasola & Cohen (2002) and Hespos & Spelke (2004) so different? Several factors may play a role, but most important for our purposes is that, compared to Casasola and Cohen, Hespos and Spelke tested infants with an extremely restricted range of events (all events involved very similar hollow and solid cylinders). Restricting the variation in the objects used to instantiate spatial relationships may help babies in the course of habituation to home in on the one property that does vary in the test trials (Casasola 2005b; Gentner 2003). But the events infants encounter in the course of a normal day vary in many ways simultaneously. The objects used by Casasola and Cohen to illustrate support and tight-fit relationships in their familiarization trials approximate the range of variation in the objects instantiating the categories children associate with English on and Korean kkita much better than the objects used by Hespos and Spelke do. The abilities shown by Hespos and Spelke may be precursors on which children can build to formulate the categories of on and kkita, but they cannot be seen as equivalent to these categories.

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 Melissa Bowerman

.. Words as prompts to form categories Several recent studies have examined whether hearing labels prompts children to formulate categories. Relying on a familiarity/novelty-preference procedure, these studies have shown that providing labels (compared to no labels) when introducing objects does prompt categorization in infants as young as 9–13 months (Balaban & Waxman 1997; Waxman & Markow 1995). And by at least 18 months, these object categories can be completely novel ones – perceptually similar objects made up for the purposes of the experiment (Booth & Waxman 2002). Following up on Casasola and Cohen’s (2002) finding that prelinguistic infants do not display an understanding of the support category associated with English put on or the tight-fit category of Korean kkita, Casasola has examined whether linguistic labeling might stimulate infants to formulate these two categories. In one study (Casasola 2005a), she explored the effect of linguistic input on the ability of 18-month-olds to form an abstract categorical representation of support. The babies were habituated to four support events (one object placed on another), and were then shown a novel support event and a novel containment event. They looked significantly longer at the novel than the familiar relation when, during habituation, they had heard the actions paired with the word on (“Look. . . it goes on!”) than when they viewed the events in silence or heard general linguistic phrases or a novel spatial word. So hearing a familiar spatial word seems to heighten infants’ attention to an abstract spatial category that, in the absence of language input, they as yet show no sensitivity to. This study is suggestive, but not yet telling, since children learning English have already had experience with the word on, and so might already have started working on the “support” category prior to the experiment. But in a second, more compelling study (Casasola, Wilbourn, & Yang 2006), 21- and 22-monthold learners of English heard a novel word paired with instances of the tight-fit category of the Korean verb kkita. In the first, teaching phase of the experiment, the children saw an experimenter perform four sequential tight-fit actions, two involving containment and two support (Korean speakers agreed that these would all readily be described with kkita). For one group of children these actions were paired with a novel spatial word in syntactic contexts where particles like in and on often occur (“Watch, I am going to put the doggie keet. . .see? I put the doggie keet” [cf. “put it in/on”]). For another group, the actions were paired with more general attention-getting remarks about the events, but no novel word. In the second, testing phase of the experiment, the children saw eight test pairs of videotaped actions, each showing one “tight fit” and one “loose fit” event, and they were asked “Where is she putting it keet?”. The participants who had experienced the pairing between the novel word keet and tight-fit events looked significantly longer at the “tight-fit” member of the test pairs; those who had not heard the novel word did not.

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Recall that a slightly younger group of English learners, 17–19 months, had shown no evidence for the “tight fit” event category in a straightforward nonlinguistic habituation test (Casasola & Cohen 2002). Clearly, then, the children in the present experiment had attended to how the experimenter was using the word in the initial teaching phase, and had picked up on its pairing with events resulting in a tight fit. This outcome supports Roger Brown’s conjecture, from an earlier era of theorizing, that “the requirement that a child learn to make correct referential use of a morpheme... is sufficient to cause the child to form the governing concept if the physical world has not already imposed it upon him” (R. Brown 1965: 317). In fact, toddlers apparently can acquire and generalize a new spatial word for a new spatial relation on the basis of only a few minutes of exposure to the word.6 . Evidence for category construction from error patterns across languages In addition to the experimental evidence just reviewed, the hypothesis that children can construct the meanings of spatial words where needed finds further support from the kinds of errors children make in their spontaneous speech. Earlier, we saw that children often overextend spatial words to situations for which adults would use another word. These errors have typically been interpreted as evidence for learners’ reliance on their own nonlinguistic concepts of space – i.e., their sense that events of certain kinds are so similar that they should be described with the same words (Bowerman 1978; Griffiths & Atkinson 1978; McCune & Vihman 1997). If this view were correct, there should be a strong convergence across children learning different languages on the makeup of the categories picked out by their early uses of “translation equivalent” words. But this turns out not to be the case: whether or not children overextend a particular word, and the exact shape of their extension patterns, differ across languages in ways that are closely related to the semantic and statistical properties of the language (Bowerman 1996a, 2005; Bowerman & Choi 2001; Choi 1997). Here are two examples, both from a domain that is often subject to overgeneralizations (Bowerman et al. 1995): words for the separation of objects. .. Open The word open and its close translation equivalents in other languages are often overextended in the speech of children learning English and other well-known languages such as French (Bowerman 1978; E. Clark 1993; Schaefer 1979). Typical examples come from a child who used open between about 16 and 21 months . For related evidence about children’s sensitivity to word-action pairings at an even younger age, 14 months, see also Casasola & Wilbourn (2004).

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not only for actions on doors, windows, boxes, and the like, but also for separating two Frisbees, unscrewing a plastic stake from a block, spreading the handles of nail scissors apart, taking the stem off an apple, a piece out of a jigsaw puzzle, a handle off a riding toy, and a shoe off a foot, and also for turning on an electric typewriter, a light, and a water faucet (Bowerman 1978). Similar errors occurred in the cross-linguistic elicited production study I conducted with Choi (see §3.2): children from 2 to 3 ½ years who were learning English or Dutch often used open (Dutch open[–maken] ‘open[–make]’) for pulling Pop-beads and Lego blocks apart, undoing a velcro fastening, taking the top off a pen or a shoe off a foot, and other inappropriate actions (Bowerman 1996a; Bowerman & Choi 2001). Children learning Korean scarcely make this error. In Choi’s and my elicited production study there was only one such overextension (yelta ‘open’ for unhooking two train cars), and in the spontaneous speech data examined in Choi & Bowerman (1991) there was none. How can this difference be explained? A look at the classification of ‘opening’ events by Korean provides a clue. Korean lacks a word with a semantic range as broad as that of open in English. The conceptual glue that unifies ‘opening’ events for speakers of English (and Dutch, French, etc.) is absent, and the domain is divided up among a number of crosscutting categories that emphasize different aspects of the events, for example, yelta ‘remove barrier to interior space’ (open a door, box, window); ppellita ‘separate two parts symmetrically’ (e.g., open the mouth, a clamshell, a pair of shutters; spread legs); phyelchita ‘spread out a flat thing’ (open a book, a fan, a newspaper, a clenched hand); ttutta ‘tear away from base’ (open an envelope, remove wallpaper); and ppayta (the antonym of kkita) ‘separate two objects from a tight-fit relation’ (open a latching drawer, as well as take off a ring, take a cassette out of its case). The lack of a good translation equivalent for English open is by no means unique to Korean; many languages partition the “opening” events of English among a number of different verbs, but the criteria used to distinguish them differ strikingly from one language to another (Bowerman 2005). Let us assume that children indeed try to construct semantic categories to account for the distribution of words in the speech they hear. If they do, how would they be affected by these differences in the English versus Korean encoding of “opening” events? Learners of English hear the word open applied to many different kinds of actions. They are, in essence, invited and encouraged to generalize broadly; to ignore, for purposes of word use, object details that they might in fact notice, such as having symmetrically moving parts or being able to spread out flat. In contrast, learners of Korean hear a different word at every turn. They are encouraged to attend to precisely these differences that learners of English must generalize across. The result is that learners of English generalize broadly across objects in their use of open, often overshooting the mark (e.g., using open for

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separating Frisbees and puzzle pieces). Learners of Korean, in contrast, acquire multiple verbs, each with a much narrower range of application. .. “Out” and “off ” According to findings from Choi’s and my elicited production task (see §3.2), learners of English systematically distinguish, from at least 2–2 ½ years, actions of removal from containers (e.g., taking toys out of a bag, taking a doll out of a toy bathtub: take out) from actions of removal from surface contact (e.g., taking a lid off a pan or a ring off a pole: take off). Dutch makes a very similar distinction to that of English, using cognate words (uit ‘out’ versus af ‘off ’), yet this task showed that same-age learners of Dutch tend to massively overgeneralize uit ‘out’ to removal from both containment and surface contact (Bowerman 1996a; Bowerman & Choi 2001). Why is there this difference? It is instructive to compare the adult systems. In English, the distribution of (take) out and (take) off correlates closely with removal from a concavity vs. removal from a flat or convex surface (including body parts, in the context of taking off clothing). In Dutch, the distribution of uit ‘out’ and af ‘off ’ is similar, but with one important class of exceptions: English uses off for the removal of clothing like coats, pants, shoes, and socks, whereas Dutch uses uit ‘out’ (“take out your coat/pants/shoes”). When adult Dutch speakers are asked why they say (for example) “take out your shoes”, they are often surprised – suddenly they notice that it is the foot, after all, that comes out of the shoe, not the shoe that comes out of the foot! Apparently they store this clothing-removal sense of uit separately from from the canonical “out of containment” sense, and are unaware of the conflict; the word is polysemous for them. Children, however, do not have any way of knowing ahead of time that the clothing use of uit ‘out’ is “special”, and it misleads them; apparently they try to discover a meaning that encompasses both ‘removal from a container’ (the canonical sense) and removing clothing. The only meaning that qualifies is the notion of “removal” itself. Once children have linked uit ‘out’ to the notion of removal, there is nothing to stop them from applying it freely across the ‘out’/‘off ’ boundary, and this is exactly what they do. To summarize this discussion of errors, children learning English, Dutch, and many other languages overgeneralize the verb open and similar verbs to many acts of separation; children learning Korean extend no verb in the same way. On the other hand, children learning Dutch overgeneralize uit ‘out’ to actions of removal from surfaces, whereas children learning English do not use out in this way. Errors are, then, language-specific, which means they cannot be interpreted as guides to children’s purely nonlinguistic conceptualization of the similarities and differences among events. Rather, errors are selectively promoted or discouraged by particular properties of word use in the linguistic input.

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The kinds of properties that make a difference are the size and make up of the target word’s category, the frequency and consistency with which the word is used, the presence or absence of misleading polysemies in its meaning, the number of competing forms, and the semantic makeup of these forms. These are properties that have been singled out as important in “usage-based” approaches to adult linguistic competence, which emphasize the dynamic properties of linguistic knowledge, and posit that speakers of all ages can induce schemas and continually restructure them in response to the (sometimes gradually shifting) patterns of usage in the linguistic input (e.g., Bybee 1991; Croft 2001; Goldberg 1995; MacWhinney 1987). The usage-based view of how word meanings are acquired lends itself well to the computational modeling of schema induction, and Regier (1997) has in fact successfully modeled the differences discussed here in the use of out/uit vs. off/af by young learners of English and Dutch.

. Conclusions In this chapter, I have presented research showing that children’s very early semantic categories of topological relationships are language-specific, and I have considered the implications of these findings for our understanding of how spatial word meanings are learned. In particular, I have contrasted the widespread view that early spatial words are mapped directly to a basic set of prelinguistic spatial concepts such as “containment” and “support” with the alternative view that at least some early spatial semantic categories are constructed through observation of how adults use the words. Under both views, it is essential to recognize that children are able to detect many diverse properties of spatial situations, and that they have relatively accurate expectations about what will happen in these situations. The difference lies in whether early lexical development is seen purely as a process of matching words to pre-established concepts, or as a process in which this strategy may be complemented by another: the child’s implicit search for the properties shared by the diverse spatial situations that adults label with the same word. Some researchers have argued that what children are learning is not the concepts themselves, but simply which concept, from among a number of concepts that the children already know, is the one that that adult speakers intend when they use a word. But there is mounting evidence that children are capable not only of mapping words to concepts they already know, but also of building and fine-tuning new semantic categories by observing how adults use words. In closing, let me come back to a point raised briefly in the introduction to this chapter: the relevance of words like English in and on, and the Korean verb kkita ‘interlock, fit tightly’, for the larger topic of this volume, “spatial entities”.

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At first glance it might appear that these words are not in fact relevant: after all, spatial prepositions and verbs do not refer to “entities”, but to relational situations and events. But appearances are deceptive. Although “entities” may prototypically come equipped with a nominal label, every language weaves a complex system of covert categories of objects and other entities into the meanings of morphemes belonging to non-nominal word classes such as prepositions, postpositions, verbs, and numeral classifiers (Bowerman 2005). Sometimes a covert category corresponds to a category of entities that has an explicit name, such as the concept of “horse” that is associated with the verb neigh, and the notion of “liquids” associated with the verb drink. But other such categories have no everyday name, and speakers are often not consciously aware of them. For example, the felicitous literal use of the verb cut presupposes pressure from a linear entity, but this entity can be a knife, a potsherd, a wire, a fingernail, or a blade of grass – items that share no name and are not normally thought of as instances of the same kind of thing (Bowerman 2005). Like cut, topological spatial words like in, on, and kkita revolve around a covert classification of objects as instances of abstract spatial entities of various kinds. In this case, the grammatical object of the preposition or verb must refer to an entity that satisfies the requirements for the specified kind of topological relationship to be able to hold. For in, for example, this entity belongs to an unnamed class that includes not only objects such as “containers” and related “concavities” such as a bowl, a mouth, a room, or a gopher hole, but also filled “volumes” such as apples, puddles, and clouds. On has to do with contact with a “surface”, but this “surface” can be oriented in any direction (fly on the table/the wall/the ceiling), and in the limiting case can be dwindled down to the size of a point (leaf on a twig, kite on a string). Kkita presupposes an abstract conceptualization of pairs of objects as having complementary shapes that can join snugly, but does not further specify the details of these shapes. To use the topological spatial words of their language fluently, children must acquire an implicit feel for this shadow world of covert spatial entities. To the extent that these entities differ across languages, this process requires attention to the use of words in the local language to discover the appropriate classifications. Topological spatial semantic development is, then, more than a matter of simply learning the linguistic devices with which to express nonlinguistic conceptions of topological space. It is also a deeply social process of learning how to conceptualize spatial entities according to the conventions that the target language has established over time to allow speakers to communicate about space.

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References Ameka, Felix (1995). The linguistic construction of space in Ewe. Cognitive Linguistics, 6, 139– 181. Ameka, Felix, Carlien de Witte, & David P. Wilkins (1999). A picture series for positional verbs. In D. P. Wilkins (Ed.), A manual for the 1999 field season, Version 1.0 (pp. 48–56). Nijmegen: Max Planck Institute for Psycholinguistics. Baillargeon, Renée (1995). A model of physical reasoning in infancy. In C. Rovee-Collier & L. P. Lipsitt (Eds.), Advances in infancy research, Vol. 9 (pp. 305–371). Norwood, NJ: Ablex. Balaban, Marie T. & Sandra R. Waxman (1997). Do words facilitate object categorization in 9-month-old infants? Journal of Experimental Child Psychology, 64, 3–26. Bloom, Lois (1970). Language development: Form and function in emerging grammars. Cambridge, MA: The MIT Press. Bloom, Paul (2000). How children learn the meanings of words. Cambridge, MA: The MIT Press. Booth, Amy E. & Sandra R. Waxman (2002). Object names and object functions serve as cues to categories for infants. Developmental Psychology, 38, 948–957. Bowerman, Melissa (1973). Early syntactic development: A cross-linguistic study with special reference to Finnish. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Bowerman, Melissa (1978). The acquisition of word meaning: An investigation into some current conflicts. In N. Waterson & C. Snow (Eds.), The development of communication (pp. 263–287). New York, NY: Wiley. Bowerman, Melissa (1989). Learning a semantic system: What role do cognitive predispositions play? In M. L. Rice & R. L. Schiefelbusch (Eds.), The teachability of language (pp. 133–169). Baltimore, MD: Brooks. Bowerman, Melissa (1994). From universal to language-specific in early grammatical development. Phil. Trans. R. Soc. Lond. B, 346, 37–45. Bowerman, Melissa (1996a). Learning how to structure space for language: A crosslinguistic perspective. In P. Bloom, M. Peterson, L. Nadel, & M. Garrett (Eds.), Language and space (pp. 385–436). Cambridge, MA: The MIT Press. Bowerman, Melissa (1996b). The origins of children’s spatial semantic categories: Cognitive vs. linguistic determinants. In J. J. Gumperz & S. C. Levinson (Eds.), Rethinking linguistic relativity (pp. 145–176). Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Bowerman, Melissa (2005). Why can’t you ‘open’ a nut or ‘break’ a cooked noodle? Learning covert object categories in action word meanings. In L. Gershkoff-Stowe & D. Rakison (Eds.), Building object categories in developmental time (pp. 209–245). Mahwah, NJ: Lawrence Erlbaum. Bowerman, Melissa & Soonja Choi (2001). Shaping meanings for language: Universal and language specific in the acquisition of spatial semantic categories. In M. Bowerman & S. C. Levinson (Eds.), Language acquisition and conceptual development (pp. 475–511). Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Bowerman, Melissa & Soonja Choi (2003). Space under construction: Language-specific spatial categorization in first language acquisition. In D. Gentner & S. Goldin-Meadow (Eds.), Language in mind: Advances in the study of language and thought (pp. 387–427). Cambridge, MA: The MIT Press. Bowerman, Melissa & Eric Pederson (1992). Cross-linguistic studies of spatial semantic organization. Annual Report of the Max Planck Institute for Psycholinguistics 1992, 53–56.

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Bowerman, Melissa & Eric Pederson (2003). Cross-linguistic perspectives on topological spatial relationships. Eugene OR: University of Oregon and Nijmegen: Max Planck Institute for Psycholinguistics. Bowerman, Melissa, Lourdes de León, & Soonja Choi (1995). Verbs, particles, and spatial semantics: Learning to talk about spatial actions in typologically different languages. In E. V. Clark (Ed.), Proceedings of the Twenty-seventh Annual Child Language Research Forum (pp. 101–110). Stanford, CA: CSLI. Brown, Penelope (1994). The INs and ONs of Tzeltal locative expressions: The semantics of static descriptions of location. Linguistics, 32, 743–790. Brown, Roger (1958). Words and things. New York, NY: The Free Press. Brown, Roger (1965). Social psychology. New York, NY: Free Press. Brown, Roger (1973). A first language: The early stages. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Bybee, Joan L. (1991). Natural morphology: The organization of paradigms and language acquisition. In T. Heubner & C. A. Ferguson (Ed.), Crosscurrents in second language and linguistic theories (pp. 67–91). Amsterdam: John Benjamins. Caron, Albert J., Rose F. Caron, & Sue E. Antell (1988). Infant understanding of containment: An affordance perceived or a relationship conceived? Developmental Psychology, 24, 620–627. Casasola, Marianella (2005a). Can language do the driving? The effect of linguistic input on infants’ categorization of support spatial relations. Developmental Psychology, 4, 183–192. Casasola, Marianella (2005b). When less is more: How infants learn to form an abstract categorical representation of support. Child Development, 76, 279–290. Casasola, Marianella & Leslie B. Cohen (2002). Infant categorization of containment, support, and tight-fit spatial relationships. Developmental Science, 5, 247–264. Casasola, Marianella, Leslie B. Cohen, & Elizabeth Chiarello (2003). Six-month-old infants’ categorization of containment spatial relations. Child Development, 74, 679–693. Casasola, Marianella & Makeba P. Wilbourn (2004). Fourteen-month-old infants form novel word-spatial relation associations. Infancy, 6, 385–396. Casasola, Marianella, Makeba P. Wilbourn, & Sujin Yang (2006). Can English-learning toddlers acquire and generalize a novel spatial word? First Language, 26, 187–205. Choi, Soonja (1997). Language-specific input and early semantic development: Evidence from children learning Korean. In D. I. Slobin (Ed.), The crosslinguistic study of language acquisition, Vol. 5: Expanding the contexts (pp. 41–134). Hillsdale, NJ: Lawrence Erlbaum. Choi, Soonja & Melissa Bowerman (1991). Learning to express motion events in English and Korean: The influence of language-specific lexicalization patterns. Cognition, 41, 83–121. Choi, Soonja, Laraine McDonough, Melissa Bowerman, & Jean Mandler. (1999). Early sensitivity to language-specific spatial categories in English and Korean. Cognitive Development, 14, 241–268. Clark, Eve V. (1973). Nonlinguistic strategies and the acquisition of word meanings. Cognition, 2, 161–182. Clark, Eve V. (1993). The lexicon in acquisition. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Clark, Eve V. (2001). Emergent categories in first language acquisition. In M. Bowerman & S. C. Levinson (Eds.), Language acquisition and conceptual development (pp. 379–405). Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Clark, Herbert H. (1973). Space, time, semantics, and the child. In T. E. Moore (Ed.), Cognitive development and the acquisition of language (pp. 27–64). New York, NY: Academic Press. Croft, William (2001). Radical construction grammar: Syntactic theory in typological perspective. Oxford: Oxford University Press.

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de León, Lourdes (2001). Finding the richest path. In M. Bowerman & S. C. Levinson (Eds.), Language acquisition and conceptual development (pp. 544–565). Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Gentner, Dedre (2003). Why we’re so smart. In D. Gentner & S. Goldin-Meadow (Eds.), Language in mind: Advances in the study of language and thought (pp. 195–235). Cambridge, MA: The MIT Press. Goldberg, Adele (1995). Constructions: A construction grammar approach to argument structure. Chicago, IL: University of Chicago Press. Gleitman, Lila (1990). The structural sources of verb meanings. Language Acquisition, 1, 3–55. Griffiths, Patrick & Martin Atkinson (1978). A ‘door’ to verbs. In N. Waterson & C. Snow (Eds.), The development of communication (pp. 311–319). New York, NY: Wiley. Hespos, Susan J. & Elizabeth S. Spelke (2004). Conceptual precursors to language. Nature, 430, 453–456. Hespos, Susan J. & Renée Baillargeon (2001). Knowledge about containment events in very young infants. Cognition, 78, 204–245. Johnston, Judith R. (1984). Acquisition of locative meanings: Behind and in front of. Journal of Child Language, 11, 407–422. Johnston, Judith R. & Dan I. Slobin (1979). The development of locative expressions in English, Italian, Serbo-Croatian and Turkish. Journal of Child Language, 6, 529–545. Kita, Sotaro (1999). Japanese Enter/Exit verbs without motion semantics. Studies in Language, 23, 317–340. Levinson, Stephen C. (2001). Covariation between spatial language and cognition, and its implications for language learning. In M. Bowerman & S. C. Levinson (Eds.), Language acquisition and conceptual development (pp. 566–588). Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Levinson, Stephen C. (2003). Space in language and cognition: Explorations in cognitive diversity. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Levinson, Stephen C. & Sergió Meira (2003). ‘Natural concepts’ in the spatial topological domain – adpositional meanings. Language, 79, 485–516. MacWhinney, Brian (1987). The competition model. In B. MacWhinney (Ed.), Mechanisms of language acquisition (pp. 249–308). Hillsdale, NJ: Lawrence Erlbaum. Majid, Asifa, Melissa Bowerman, Sotaro Kita, Daniel Haun, & Stephen C. Levinson (2004). Frames of reference and language concepts. Trends in Cognitive Science, 8, 108–114. Mandler, Jean (1992). How to build a baby: II. Conceptual primitives. Psychological Review, 99, 587–604. Mandler, Jean (1996). Preverbal representation and language. In P. Bloom, M. Peterson, L. Nadel, & M. Garrett (Eds.), Language and space (pp. 365–384). Cambridge, MA: The MIT Press. McCune-Nicolich, Lorraine (1981). The cognitive bases of relational words in the single-word period. Journal of Child Language, 8, 15–34. McCune, Lorraine & Marilyn Vihman (1997). The transition from infancy. Manuscript. Needham, Amy & Renée Baillargeon (1993). Intuitions about support in 4.5-month-old infants. Cognition, 47, 121–148. Nelson, Katherine (1974). Concept, word, and sentence: Interrelations in acquisition and development. Psychological Review, 81, 267–285. Parisi, Domenico & Francesco Antinucci (1970). Lexical competence. In G. B. Flores D’Arcais & W. J. M. Levelt (Eds.), Advances in psycholinguistics (pp. 197–210). Amsterdam: NorthHolland.

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Pederson, Eric, Eve Danziger, Stephen C. Levinson, Sotaro Kita, Gunter Senft, & David P. Wilkins (1998). Semantic typology and spatial conceptualization. Language, 74, 557–589. Piaget, Jean & Barbel Inhelder (1956). The child’s conception of space. London: Routledge & Kegan Paul. Regier, Terry (1997). Constraints on the learning of spatial terms: A computational investigation. In R. L. Goldstone, P. G. Schyns, & D. L. Medin (Eds.), Psychology of learning and motivation, Vol. 36 (pp. 171–217). San Diego, CA: Academic Press. Schaefer, Ronald P. (1979). Child and adult verb categories. Kansas Working Papers in Linguistics, 4(1), 61–76. Sinha, Chris, Lis A. Thorseng, Mariko Hayashi, & Kim Plunkett (1994). Comparative spatial semantics and language acquisition: Evidence from Danish, English, and Japanese. Journal of Semantics, 11, 253–287. Sitskoorn, M. M. & A. W. Smitsman (1995). Infants’ perception of dynamic relations between objects: Passing through or support? Developmental Psychology, 31, 437–447. Slobin, Dan I. (1973). Cognitive prerequisites for the development of grammar. In C. A. Ferguson & D. I. Slobin (Eds.), Studies of child language development (pp. 175–208). New York, NY: Holt, Rinehart & Winston. Slobin, Dan I. (1985). Crosslinguistic evidence for the Language-Making Capacity. In D. I. Slobin (Ed.), The crosslinguistic study of language acquisition, Vol. 2: Theoretical issues (pp. 1157–1249). Hillsdale, NJ: Lawrence Erlbaum. Smiley, Patricia & Janellen Huttenlocher (1995). Conceptual development and the child’s early words for events, objects, and persons. In M. Tomasello & W. E. Merriman (Eds.), Beyond names for things (pp. 21–61). Hillsdale, NJ: Lawrence Erlbaum. Talmy, Leonard (1985). Lexicalization patterns: Semantic structure in lexical form. In T. Shopen (Ed.), Language typology and syntactic description, Vol. 3: Grammatical categories and the lexicon (pp. 57–176). Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Talmy, Leonard (1991). Path to realization: A typology of event conflation. Proceedings of the Berkeley Linguistics Society, 17, 480–519. Waxman, Sandra R. & Dana B. Markow (1995). Words as invitations to form concepts: Evidence from 12- to 13-month-old infants. Cognitive Psychology, 29, 257–302. Wilkins, David P. & Hill, Deborah (1995). When “go” means “come”: Questioning the basicness of basic motion verbs. Cognitive Linguistics, 6, 209–259.

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Static and dynamic location in French Developmental and cross-linguistic perspectives Maya Hickmann Laboratoire Structures Formelles du Langage, CNRS – Université de Paris 8

Cross-linguistic research has renewed old questions concerning universal vs. language-specific determinants of child language. Our experiments show differences in how French vs. English speakers from three years on talk about static and dynamic spatial entities. In English frequent satellites encode static spatial relations or path, verb roots focus on posture or manner. French verbs express varied information about location or caused motion (entity properties, manner of attachment, functional disposition) and focus on path with spontaneous motion. Developmental progressions occur in both languages, but most strikingly in French, where children increasingly rely on verbs and combine them with other devices in denser utterances. The discussion highlights how such variations in information locus and focus may affect language and cognitive development.

Space in language has been the source of much debate across several disciplines. Linguistic and psycholinguistic studies have shown striking cross-linguistic variations that have raised some questions concerning universals in this fundamental domain of cognition. They have thereby revived Whorf ’s (1956) thesis of linguistic relativity (Gumperz & Levinson 1996; Lucy 1992a, 1992b; Nuyts & Pedersen 1997), according to which the semantic structures of languages differ substantially, displaying systems of linguistic categorizations that partially determine speakers’ non-linguistic behaviour (categorization, memory, perception, and thinking more generally). In support of this theoretical revival, studies of children’s language acquisition have led to a partially “relativistic” view of development, according to which language-specific factors affect how children learn spatial language and construct underlying spatial categories. This view contrasts with the predominant “universalistic” models, according to which universal perceptual and cognitive factors determine recurrent developmental sequences across languages. This chapter first illustrates some invariant and variable aspects of space in language that have been studied from a developmental perspective (Section 1). It

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then summarizes results concerning how French adults and children talk about space (Section 2). Two studies concerning static location and caused motion show that French adults heavily rely on the verb to express spatial information and that they focus on some types of information (e.g., the properties of spatial entities, including figures and grounds, as well as related types of information, such as manner of attachment). Similar results can be observed with French children, although some developmental progressions also occur (semantic overgeneralizations, lexical expansion). In sharp contrast, English speakers massively rely on verbal satellites and focus on different types of information (e.g., posture). Finally, two studies concerning caused and voluntary motion in French and English also show striking language differences, despite some common developmental progressions. In both languages children show a growing capacity to combine multiple components of motion. However, whereas the joint expression of manner and path is frequent from three years on in English (verbs and satellites, respectively), descriptions focus more on path in French (verbs) and children rarely combine path with manner. The conclusion (Section 3) suggests that both cognitive and typological factors contribute to how children construct and organize spatial categories in discourse, inviting them to categorize spatial entities and the spatial relations in which they participate, pointing to the need for models that can account for both universal and language-specific aspects of development.

.

Space and linguistic relativity

. Space in language All languages provide means of expressing location and motion. For example, they all allow speakers to distinguish between static location (e.g., The cat is on the mat) and motion events that either imply a change of location (e.g., The cat is running into the house) or take place within a general location (e.g., The cat is running around in the house). In addition, various types of information can be expressed to different degrees, such as posture (to sit), manner of motion (to walk), direction (up/down), deixis (tocome), cause (e.g., English transitive to roll, French faire rouler ‘to make roll’). According to some authors (Landau & Jackendoff 1993; Jackendoff 1996), space also implies a universal distinction between two notions, entities and locations. This distinction is assumed to be fundamental to the structure of human language and to reflect the organization of the neural substrate of our brain into two distinct systems, one involved in the identification of objects (the what-system), the other with their localization (the where-system). However, languages also show striking variations in this domain. For example, they vary in the extent to which they lexicalize or grammaticalize different types of

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information concerning changes of location. Following Talmy’s (2000) typological distinction, satellite-framed languages such as English typically express the manner of motion in the verb root and grammaticalize information concerning its path in various satellites (e.g., The cat is walking/crawling/running. . . into the house). In contrast, verb-framed languages such as French express the path of motion in the verb root, leaving manner to be expressed in the periphery (e.g., Le chat entre dans la maison [en marchant, en rampant, en courant. . . ]). Similarly, the expression of spatial relations is determined by multiple dimensions that include topological and functional properties of spatial entities (Vandeloise 1986, 1991). However, languages vary a great deal in the means they use to mark spatial relations and in the dimensions they single out to “cut up” the semantic universe of spatial relations (e.g., containment and support in English vs. tight and loose fit in Korean) (Bowerman 1996a, 1996b, this volume). Furthermore, some languages provide extremely fine-grained information concerning entities (e.g., positionals in some Ameridian languages such as Tzeltal) and rely on different reference systems to locate entities (absolute, relative, intrinsic), that have been shown to affect how speakers conceptualise space in verbal and non-verbal tasks (Brown 1994; Levinson 1996, 1997, 2003; Weissenborn & Klein 1982; also see Grinevald in this volume). This variability has begun to cast doubts on the existence of some previously postulated universals, raising some fundamental questions concerning the relation between language and thought (cf. Hickmann 2003a, for a review). This debate presently opposes different approaches that disagree with respect to the role they attribute to language in structuring human cognition. According to one position, language has wide-ranging implications for human cognition. As a semiotic system it is a major tool mediating our cognitive processes and structuring children’s inferences about the world during cognitive development (Gentner 2003; Vygotsky 1962). In addition, language-specific properties affect our linguistic and non-linguistic representations throughout development (e.g., Bowerman 1996a, 1996b; Bowerman & Choi 2001, 2003; Levinson 1996, 1997, 2003; Slobin 1996, 2003, 2006). In contrast, although other views might acknowledge the possible role of language on some aspects of our linguistic behaviors, they argue that language has no significant impact on non-linguistic cognition (e.g., Clark 2003; Munnich & Landau 2003). . Space in language development From a developmental point of view, some approaches conceive of the child as constructing spatial categories independently of language, whereas others propose that language affects this process from very early on. A first group of approaches postulates that the acquisition of spatial language is constrained by universal and general cognitive capacities. Piagetian theory (e.g., Piaget & Inhelder 1947) has

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been the most predominant example of these approaches. It postulates that all of cognitive development begins with early sensori-motor schemata, followed by universal stages that evolve independently of language and underlie all domains of knowledge. Other classical models in psycholinguistics (Clark 1973) have viewed some universal semantic features as reflecting perceptual and cognitive constraints that explain the relative cognitive complexity of various spatial markers in acquisition (see a review in Bowerman this volume). A growing number of studies concerning cognitive development during the prelinguistic period also shows that infants have a complex and precocious knowledge of the world surrounding them, including knowledge of many dimensions that are relevant to space (see reviews in Hickmann 2003b; Lécuyer, Streri, & Pêcheux 1996; as well as Hespos & Spelke this volume). Such results have led to two different types of developmental models. Some models postulate the existence of innate and modular capacities, that are initially independent of language, despite its possible role in connecting these modules during subsequent development (Spelke 2003). Other models view development as driven by an active and precocious process of perception (e.g., Lécuyer et al. this volume; Mandler 1988, 1992). In sharp contrast to all of these approaches, relativistic views have put forth the hypothesis that children attend to language use from very early on. Furthermore, results from a variety of studies in the last two decades now show that children are sensitive to the particular properties of their language, which have a deep impact on how they construct cognitive categories during development (Bowerman 1996a, 1996b, this volume; Bowerman & Choi 2001, 2003; Choi & Bowerman 1991; Slobin 1996, 2003, 2006). Following the predictions of universalistic models, a recurrent finding is that children acquire spatial prepositions in a regular order. For example, they mark containment relations (in) and relations involving the vertical axis (first on/under, then above/below) before they mark relations involving the sagittal axis (first behind, then in front of ) and the latter are first mastered with particular types of situations (e.g., those that involve entities with an intrinsic orientation). Although these studies have suggested a universal cognitive basis for the development of spatial markers, most were carried out in only one language, with the assumption that similar progressions should be found in all languages. First attempts to generalize these results (Johnston & Slobin 1979; Johnston 1988) found the same developmental progression across several languages, as expected within a universalistic approach. However, they also observed that acquisition was easier in some languages than in others (e.g., Italian, Turkish vs. English, Serbo-Croatian) and attributed these differences to several language-specific properties (postpositions vs. prepositions, morphological complexity, or lexical diversity).

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More recently, studies have suggested that language-specific factors may affect not only the rhythm of development, but also its course. Research examining how adults and children from three years on describe static configurations and object displacements (Bowerman 1996a, this volume) shows massive cross-linguistic differences. Furthermore, the categorizations that are implicit in children’s productions are more similar to those of the adults speaking the same language than to those of children of the same age speaking other languages. Such cross-linguistic differences are even observed during very early phases, when children have not yet produced the relevant markers. Thus, Bowerman & Choi (2001) show that English-speaking and Korean children are sensitive to the particular distinctions that are marked in their language (containment and support in English, tight and loose fit in Korean) at around 20 months of age. Choi & Bowerman (1991) also show differences in children’s spontaneous productions from the emergence of language onwards. For example, children focus on path very early in English (with particles), but not in Korean (absence of particles). They do not distinguish caused and voluntary motion in English (the same verb root is used in both cases), but they do so early in Korean (where different structures are used in these two cases). They differentiate containment, support, contact, and manner of attachment in English, but focus on adjustment and distinguish states and events that involve clothing from other types of contact in Korean (as in the adult system). These results show that language-specific properties have an impact on children’s cognitive and attentional processes, affecting how they construct spatial categories early on. They cannot be easily accounted for by universalistic conceptions of development that predict similar behaviors at a given age or cognitive level across languages. Finally, some research finds important cross-linguistic differences in how children express motion events in narratives from three years on (Berman & Slobin 1994; Slobin 1996, 2003, 2006). For example, English speakers (satellite-framed language) provide elaborate path information, but presuppose locations, while Spanish speakers (verb-framed language) provide simpler paths, but more elaborate locations. Such results suggest that language-specific factors affect how children select and organize information when engaged in discourse activities. On the basis of these and related findings, Slobin (1996: 75–76) proposes that in acquiring a native language, the child learns particular ways of thinking for speaking. According to this version of linguistic determinism, experiences are filtered through language into verbalised events [. . . which are] constructed on-line in the process of speaking. As a result, the linguistic expression of experience in communication mobilizes a special form of thought which varies across languages from an early age on.

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. Location and motion in French In the context of these debates, very little developmental research is available concerning the expression of motion and location in French, despite the interesting typological properties of this language in the context of current debates. French provides a rich set of prepositions (but no independent particles) expressing varied spatial relations, as well as some extremely polysemous prepositions (à ‘at, to’, de ‘from’) that mark all kinds of relations (spatial, temporal, grammatical) (e.g., Vandeloise 1986, 1991; Vandeloise et al. 1993). It has been described as belonging to the family of verb-framed languages (Talmy 2000), although recent analyses suggest that it displays a second less predominant typological pattern akin to the satellite-framed family, particularly through its system of verbal prefixes (Kopecka 2006).1 Earlier relevant studies concerning this domain of French acquisition have focused on children’s production and comprehension of devices marking spatial relations (e.g., Piérart 1978; Verjat 1991). Although these studies show the expected developmental sequence within a universalistic approach, they clearly need to be followed up by complementary data. Thus, they have almost exclusively examined spatial prepositions and paid no attention to other ways in which spatial information is expressed (particularly in verbs). Furthermore, they have mostly examined prepositional use in canonical static situations, paying no attention to whether language-specific properties influence how speakers express more varied static and dynamic situations. The hypothesis that is examined in the studies reported below is that speakers of different languages should vary in the locus and focus of the spatial information they express. In particular, depending on their language they should rely more on verbs (in verb-framed languages) or on satellites (in satellite-framed languages) when talking about space in discourse. In addition, cross-linguistic differences should be found in relation to both static location and dynamic motion events. Finally, these language differences should also affect speakers’ attention to different properties of entities, some of which are implicitly involved in the expression of spatial relations, thereby inviting them to partially construct and organize categories of spatial entities in language-specific ways. In order to test these hypotheses, several studies summarized below examine how subjects of different languages and ages express static spatial relations, caused changes of location, and voluntary motion.

. In contrast to satellite-framed languages, this system is characterised by a low level of productivity in contemporary French (Kopecka 2006).

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. Static location and object displacements Two experiments first examined the expression of spatial relations in two situations (Hickmann & Hendriks 2006, largely inspired by Bowerman’s research, 1996a, this volume) where subjects had to locate objects (study 1, hereafter static location) or to describe object displacements (study 2, hereafter caused location changes). In each case the items presented involved different types of entities and events that were expected to affect subjects’ descriptions. Several groups of French subjects participated in these tasks (20 subjects within each age group), including one group of adults and three groups of children between 3 and 6 years of age (with mean ages of around 3, 4 and 5 years). These data are then compared to preliminary results elicited from English-speaking adults.2 .. Method In the static situation (study 1) descriptions of spatial relations were elicited by means of 60 drawings, each showing an entity (hereafter the figure, drawn in yellow) which had to be localized in relation to another entity (hereafter the ground). These items fell into three main groups. First, 40 items served to examine some of the factors that might determine the use of the French preposition sur (‘on’). Half of them (hereafter prototypical items) showed situations that were expected to elicit this preposition, namely prototypical support situations in which the figure was in direct contact on top of a horizontal surface that supported it (e.g., a cup on a table). In contrast, the remaining items (hereafter exploratory items) involved other dimensions that were expected to elicit a number of other possible prepositions and/or constructions in French. For example, the figure was not on top of the horizontal surface (e.g., a spider on a ceiling), it was attached in some way on a vertical surface (e.g., a painting on a wall), and/or hanging below the ground (e.g., a jacket on a hook). A third group of 20 items (hereafter distractor items) was simply meant to avoid too much focus on particular situation types that might elicit the preposition sur and to focus subjects’ attention on situations that should elicit several other specific prepositions: half showed a containment relation (for which dans ‘in’ was expected, e.g., an apple in a bowl), while the other half showed relations along the vertical axis but without support/contact (for which sous ‘under’ or au-dessus ‘above’ was expected, e.g., a ball under a chair, a cloud above a mountain). . Children participated in a game in which they had to “tell secrets” to a blindfolded doll. An adapted procedure was used with adults, who had to provide their descriptions for a fictitious naïve addressee, who would have to reconstruct the situations without having seen the materials. Since this chapter was written, more extensive data have been collected in English, strengthening the results reported herein (Hickmann & Hendriks 2006).



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 Maya Hickmann

In the dynamic task (study 2) descriptions of object displacements were elicited with 20 actions that were acted out by the experimenter. These actions fell into four types, each comprising five object displacements, depending on the particular changes of location and on the implicit properties of spatial entities that were highlighted by these changes: (1) placing an object into a container (hereafter into-items, e.g., toys in a bowl, toys in a box, Lego pieces in a bag, a cassette in its box, a piece in a puzzle); (2) putting a piece of clothing onto a doll (hereafter clothing items, e.g., a straw hat, a bonnet, a bathrobe, a shoe, a scarf); (3) placing a variety of entities onto a ground object (hereafter onto-items, e.g., a lid on a pan, a cap on a pen, a hook with suction base on a wall, a jacket on a hook, a band-aid on a leg); (4) joining two tightly fitting objects together (hereafter joining items, e.g., Lego pieces, pop beads).3 Note that both tasks invited subjects to pay attention to particular properties of spatial entities that were displayed in the stimuli and that were implicit in their spatial relations. Thus, expressing location in the static task and changes of location in the dynamic task involved some constraints related to the intrinsic properties of both figure and ground entities, that varied across items within each task. In the static task exploratory items showed spatial relations that implicitly involved particular entity properties and were meant to potentially invite subjects to pay attention to these properties (e.g., a ground surface that is not horizontal requires an animate figure exerting force or some manner of attachment holding an inanimate entity in place against the force of gravity), that were not necessarily relevant for other item types. Similarly, in the dynamic task constraints differed across action types, for example potentially inviting subjects to pay attention to particular entity properties with clothing and joining items (e.g., types of clothing in relation to types of body parts, tight fit between figure and ground), as compared to other action types. .. Response types The analyses focus on the verb roots and satellites (prepositions, particles, adverbials) that were produced by speakers in their responses. Both verbs and satellites were examined with respect to whether or not they contained specific information that went beyond the fact that some spatial relation existed and/or that some . Joining-items involved either the simultaneous displacement of two entities or the displacement of one entity in relation to the other. With all displacement types, after the subject had described each action, they were asked to describe the reverse action (e.g., putting toys in a box, then taking them out of the box). The results summarized below only concern the first action component (doing). Results concerning the second action component (undoing) go in the same direction and show even more striking results (e.g., a massive reliance on verbs in French, but on satellites in English), despite less varied verb types in French (see Hickmann & Hendriks 2006).

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caused displacement had occurred (hereafter specific vs. neutral). Neutral satellites consisted mostly of the French preposition à (‘at/to’). Specific ones included a variety of markers, including prepositions (e.g., sur ‘on/onto’; dans ‘in/into’; au-dessus ‘above’; sous ‘under’), adverbials (e.g., ensemble ‘together’), and complex prepositional phrases, some of which involved parts of grounds and/or names of internal locations (e.g., au milieu de ‘[at] in the middle of ’, en bas de ‘at the bottom of ’, sur le côté de ‘on the side of ’). In the static task neutral verbs mostly consisted of être (‘to be’), as well as avoir (‘to have’) in existential constructions (e.g., Il y a une tasse sur la table ‘There [has] is a cup on the table’) and the occasional locative verb se trouver (‘to be located)’. In the dynamic task the verb mettre (‘to put’) was the most frequent neutral verb. Specific verbs varied with respect to the nature and specificity of the information that was expressed or implied, falling into the following main types: (1) some vague joining or attachment, e.g., attacher/être attaché (‘to attach/be attached’), fixer/être fixé (‘to fix/be fixed’); (2) a specific manner of attachment, e.g., coller/être collé (‘to stick/be stuck’), clouer/être cloué (‘to nail/be nailed’), accrocher/être accrocher (‘to hook/be hooked’); (3) a specific standard posture coded by être assis (‘to sit’), être debout (‘to stand’), être couché (‘to lie’), pendre/suspendre or être pendu/suspendu (‘to hang’); (4) a general “disposition” that involved intrinsic, spatial and/or functional properties of entities, e.g., panser ‘to put a bandage’, être perché (‘to be high in space’), enrouler/être enroulé (‘to roll/be rolled around’), répartir (‘to distribute’), ouvrir/fermer (‘to open/close’); (5) a relation between entities and the body, e.g., porter (‘to wear’); (6) voluntary motion with animate figures, e.g., voler (‘to fly’), monter (‘to go up’); (7) a particular manner of doing an action, e.g., tirer (‘to pull’); (8) a small heterogeneous set of other verbs used by children, e.g., dormir (‘to sleep’). Responses fell into four types depending on the locus of specific information in the utterance. In particular, this information could be encoded in the verb only, in the satellite only, both in the verb and in the satellite, neither in the verb nor in the satellite. For example, (1) to (5) provide specific information in the verb, but not in the satellite (no reference to the ground outside of the verb or use of the neutral preposition à ‘at’). Examples (1) and (2) were elicited during the static task (the item showed a jacket on a coat rack), examples (3) to (5) during the dynamic task (the items involved putting a jacket on a hook and joining two Lego pieces). (1) La veste est accrochée. ‘The jacket is hooked.’ (2) La veste est accrochée au porte-manteau. ‘The jacket is hooked on [at] the coat rack.’ (3) Tu accroches la veste. ‘You are hooking the jacket.’

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(4) Tu accroches la veste au porte-manteau. ‘You are hooking the jacket on [at] the coat rack.’ (5) Tu emboîtes les légos. ‘You in-fit the Legos.’

In examples (6) to (9) specific spatial information concerning the location or displacement of the figure is provided exclusively by means of satellites (sur ‘on[to]’, dans ‘in[to]’), while all verbs are neutral (avoir ‘to have’, être ‘to be’, mettre ‘to put’). Examples (6) and (7) were elicited in the static task (cup on table, apple in bowl), examples (8) and (9) in the dynamic task (putting the cap of a pen on the pen, putting several toys in a large box). (6) Il y a une tasse sur la table. ‘There is a cup on the table.’ (7) C’est une pomme dans un bol. ‘It’s an apple in a bowl.’ (8) Tu mets le capuchon sur le stylo. ‘You put the cap on[to] the pen.’ (9) Tu mets les jouets dans la boîte. ‘You put the toys in[to] the box.’

Examples (10) to (13) simultaneously provide specific spatial information in the verbs and satellites. The satellites encode information about spatial location or change of location (sur ‘on[to]’, dans ‘in[to]’), while the verbs encode information about manner of attachment (accrocher ‘to hook’), posture (assis ‘sitting’), or change of location (introduire ‘to introduce’). (10) Elle est accrochée sur le porte-manteau. ‘It is hooked on the coat rack.’ (11) Tu accroches la veste sur le crochet. ‘You are hooking the jacket on[to] the hook.’ (12) Le chien est assis dans son panier. ‘The dog is sitting in its basket.’ (13) Tu introduis un légo dans un autre. ‘You introduce one Lego in[to] another.’

Finally, examples (14) and (15) provide no specific information at all: (14) combines a neutral verb (être ‘to be’) with a neutral satellite (à ‘at’) (the item showed a spider on a ceiling) and (15) (produced by a three-year-old) contains a neutral verb (mettre ‘to put’) and no satellite (the item involved putting a lid onto a pan). (14) L’araignée est au plafond. ‘The spider is on [at] the ceiling.’

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(15) Tu le mets. ‘You put it [lid].’

.. Results: Verbs and satellites Tables 1 and 2 summarize how verbs and satellites were combined by French adults and children in the static and dynamic tasks, respectively (children’s ages are collapsed). Combinations include neutral and specific verbs (Vneut and Vspec ), neutral and specific satellites (Sneut and Sspec ), as well as cases where no satellites were used (S0 ).4 ... French adults. We first examine the types of prepositions and verbs that are produced by French adults in each task. In the static task distractor items and prototypical items elicit more specific prepositions than exploratory items. Table 1. Verbs and satellites in the static task (in %) French adults Vneut +Sspec Vspec +Sneut Vspec +Sspec Vneut +Sneut French children Vneut +Sspec Vspec +Sneut Vspec +Sspec Vneut +Sneut

On-items 65 14 21 1 On-items 82 6 10 1

Exploratory 39 32 17 13 Exploratory 76 11 6 7

Distractors 71 5 22 2 Distractors 91 2 6 1

Table 2. Verbs and satellites in the dynamic task (in %) French adults Vneut/0 +Sspec Vspec +Sneut/0 Vspec +Sspec Vneut/0 +Sneut/0 French children Vneut/0 +Sspec Vspec +Sneut/0 Vspec +Sspec Vneut/0 +Sneut/0

into 61 18 21 0 into 64 15 6 16

clothing 36 28 18 18 clothing 33 4 0 63

onto 26 38 32 4 onto 20 42 8 30

joining 5 53 42 0 joining 17 60 6 17

. The absence of satellites was frequent in the dynamic task, but rare in the static task. Some utterances involved ellipsis of neutral verbs and were therefore included among other neutral verbs (e.g., [Il y a/C’est] une tasse sur la table ‘[There is/It is] a cup on the table’). The term ‘satellite’ is used here in a very broad sense to denote all relevant devices in the periphery of the verb.



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 Maya Hickmann

Distractor items always elicit the expected prepositions (dans ‘in’ or occasionally à l’intérieur de ‘inside of ’, sous ‘under’ or au-dessus ‘above’) and prototypical items massively elicit the preposition sur (‘on’). Exploratory items elicit either sur or the more frequent neutral preposition à (‘at’). Furthermore, speakers encode specific information in the verb more frequently with exploratory items than with other items and they are more likely to use these verbs with neutral satellites than with specific ones. Specific verbs most frequently focus on specific manner of attachment or on general disposition (e.g., être accroché à ‘to be hooked at’, être disposé ‘to be disposed’, être introduit ‘to be introduced’) and to a much lesser extent on posture (mostly être suspendu ‘to be hung’ with some inanimate figures and être assis ‘to be sitting’ with some animate ones). In the dynamic task specific verbs are generally more frequent than in the static task and, in addition to specific or neutral satellites, subjects’ responses frequently contain no satellite at all (see Note 4). Into-items frequently elicit neutral verbs with specific prepositions, mostly mettre dans ‘to put in’ (e.g., Tu mets les jouets dans le sac ‘You put the toys in the bag’). Some specific verbs also occur with this preposition or without any satellite (e.g., Tu introduis la cassette dans la boîte ‘You introduce the cassette in the box’, Tu rassembles/ranges les jouets ‘You gather/putin-place the toys’). Clothing-items elicit utterances containing either neutral or specific verbs and denoting the doll as beneficiary in several ways: with a clitic pronoun and no preposition (e.g., Tu lui mets une veste ‘You [to-]her put a jacket’); and/or with a noun denoting the doll or a body part and implying a neutral or specific preposition (e.g., Tu enfiles une veste à la poupée ‘You in-fit a jacket at[to] the doll’, Tu lui mets un chapeau sur la tête ‘You put [to-]her a hat on the head’).5 Onto-items elicit three different patterns: the preposition sur with a neutral verb (e.g., Tu mets le capuchon sur le stylo ‘You put the cap on[to] the pen’); the preposition sur with a specific verb (e.g., Tu accroches la veste sur le crochet ‘You hook the jacket on the hook’, Tu colles le pansement sur ta main ‘You stick the band-aid on your hand’); a specific verb in a transitive construction without any preposition (e.g., Tu fermes le stylo ‘You close the pen’, Tu accroches la veste ‘You hook the jacket’). Finally, joining-items massively elicit specific verbs. These verbs are used either with specific satellites such as dans ‘in[to]’ or ensemble ‘together’ (e.g., Tu emboîtes un légo dans un autre ‘You in-fit one Lego in[to] another’, Tu les colles ensemble ‘You stick them together’) or more frequently without any satellite (e.g., Tu emboîtes les légos ‘You in-fit the Legos’). We return to these differences across items below. Despite such variations, prepositional use strongly varies as a function of verbs. In particular, neutral and . In unmarked contexts French pronominalization requires preverbal clitics. Uses of the prepositions autour ‘around’ also occurred with one clothing item that involved a scarf (e.g., Tu lui mets une écharpe autour du cou ‘You [to-]her put a scarf around the neck’).

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absent satellites are more likely when verbs contain specific semantic information. Roughly, speakers combine neutral verbs with specific satellites and, although they sometimes combine specific verbs with specific satellites, they frequently combine them with neutral satellites or no satellites. This inverse relation between verbs and satellites is found in both tasks, although it is more striking in the dynamic task, where specific verbs are most frequent. Most verbs in the dynamic task focus on a specific manner of attachment and to a lesser extent on a general disposition. ... French children. Children generally follow the adult pattern, but they also diverge from it in several notable ways. First, in comparison to the adults, they generally use more specific satellites with both static and dynamic items. Second, they also generally use fewer specific verbs, which increase with age in both tasks. In the static task both of these differences concern particularly exploratory items, with which children rely more on satellites and less on verbs in comparison to adults. In these cases they often use the preposition sur (‘on’), whereas adults frequently use neutral satellites, e.g., (16) to (18) (the items showed a balloon tied to the end of a stick in (16), a telephone fixed on a wall in (17), a leaf hanging from a tree branch in (18)). Such uses decrease with age, while responses containing the neutral preposition à begin to increase at 5 years. In the dynamic task children’s frequent uses of neutral verbs concern all items, either in combination with neutral satellites or without any satellite, e.g., clothing-items such as (19) (putting a coat on a doll) and onto-items such as (20) (putting a jacket on a coat rack). However, as was the case with the adults, joining items elicit more specific verbs than other items from the youngest age tested onwards, e.g., (21) (joining two Lego pieces). When children express specific information in the verb, they typically focus on manner of attachment and on general disposition, but they do not provide any information about posture. (16) Un ballon sur un bâton. ‘A balloon on a stick.’ (17) Là, le téléphone il est sur le mur. ‘Here, the telephone is on the wall.’ (18) Une feuille qu’est sur l’arbre. ‘A leaf that’s on the tree.’ (19) Tu lui mets un manteau. ‘You [to-]her put a coat.’ (20) Tu la mets là. ‘You put it [jacket] there [coat rack].’ (21) Tu les accroches. ‘You hook them [Lego pieces].’

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A final difference between French adults and children concerns responses to one set of distractor items in the static task. In particular, the youngest children overgeneralize the preposition sur ‘on’ to distractor items that involve the vertical axis but no support or contact relation between the figure and ground (with which adults produce au-dessus ‘above’ and en-dessous ‘below’, as expected). Such uses are illustrated in example (22) (the item showed a plane flying above a house). They mostly occur at three and four years of age and decrease by 5 years of age. (22) Il est sur la maison. ‘It [plane] is on the house.’

... English adults. These results indicate the important role of verbs in the expression of spatial information in French. This pattern can be observed from three years on, despite the age differences that can also be observed, particularly between the adults and the children. In sharp contrast, preliminary data elicited from some English adults in the same tasks show striking differences concerning both the locus and the focus of information (see Note 2). First, in comparison to French speakers, English speakers massively rely on verbal satellites and much less on verbs to express spatial information. This pattern is predominant in both tasks. Second, when they use specific verbs, they frequently focus on posture with animate or inanimate entities in both tasks (mostly to sit and to hang), as well as on the manner of doing actions in the dynamic task (e.g., to push/press together). To a lesser extent English verbs sometimes also focus on very general information concerning attachment or joining (e.g., to connect, to fix), but rarely on specific manner of attachment (e.g., to stick, to nail), as compared to French verbs. These differences are striking, despite some similar item effects across the two languages. In the static task English adults (like French subjects) mostly use neutral verbs with specific satellites with all items, but this pattern is most frequent with prototypical items (to be on) and distractor items (to be in, under/below, above), while somewhat more specific verbs occur with exploratory items (e.g., to hang from/on). Similarly, in the dynamic task, English adults (like French subjects) use more specific verbs with items that involve the joining of tightly fitting objects in comparison to other items. However, in comparison to French speakers, they massively combine these verbs with specific satellites (e.g., You fit the Lego into another Lego; You push the two Legos together). Furthermore, they use fewer specific verbs than French adults with all item types. More generally, despite similar item effects across the two languages, uses of specific verbs and of neutral satellites are much less frequent in English than in French with both static and dynamic items. We explore below the possibility that this differential reliance on verbs vs. satellites may be partially related to the typological properties of French and English as verb-

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framed vs. satellite-framed languages. We return to this hypothesis after we further discuss how speakers of different languages express motion in other situations. .. Ontological factors Before moving on, a closer qualitative look at the French data shows the impact of ontological factors on subjects’ responses. First, in addition to language and age differences, different response patterns emerge across item types, as well as across items within each type. These item effects are related to the spatial relations that were shown to the subjects, but also to the properties of the entities that were implicitly involved in them (e.g., containers, horizontal vs. vertical support that does or does not imply attachment, part-whole relations, tightly vs. loosely fitting shapes, function). The responses of the French adults in the dynamic task illustrate such variations. Recall that these responses are mainly of three types: neutral verbs with specific satellites (Vneut +Sspec ), which occur with onto- and clothingitems, but are most frequent with into-items; specific verbs with specific satellites (Vspec +Sspec ) and with neutral or no satellites (Vspec +Sneut/0 ), which occur with all item types, but are most frequent with tightly fitting entities. With respect to the first pattern, note that three into-items involve a ground entity that clearly serves as container (placing small entities loosely in a large hollow entity). In these cases containment is most salient and frequently encoded in satellites with neutral verbs (e.g., Tu mets les jouets dans la boîte ‘You put the toys in the box’). Two into-items, however, involve tightly fitting entities and therefore share some properties with joining-items (placing a cassette in its box and a piece in a puzzle), eliciting more responses that contain specific verbs. Similarly, two onto-items involve support/contact with attachment (placing a bandage on a hand and a hook with a suction base on a wall) and they frequently elicit specific verbs together with satellites indicating location (e.g., coller sur ‘to stick on’, accrocher sur ‘to hook on’). A third item involves support/contact without attachment between two functionally related entities (placing a lid on a pan) and it frequently elicits specific verbs with satellites indicating location (e.g., poser sur ‘to place [flat] on’) or without satellites (e.g., couvrir ‘to cover’, fermer ‘to close’). The last two items imply a particular shape linked to posture (placing a jacket on a hook) or tightly fitting and functionally related entities (placing a cap on a pen) that elicit the fewest specific satellites and the most specific verbs (e.g., accrocher [à] ‘to hook [at/to]’). The more general point that emerges from such variations across items is that French specific verbs encode extremely varied information in comparison to English. In addition to some posture information, these verbs mostly concern the specific manner whereby the figure is attached to the ground (when attachment is necessary) and what we called above a “general disposition”, frequently implying spatial and functional relations, as well as intrinsic properties of figure and ground

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entities or even the very existence of these entities (e.g., emboîter, encastrer, imbriquer, enficher, enfiler, all of which are variants of the meaning ‘to in-fit’; accrocher ‘to [put on a] hook’; ranger ‘to put in place’, fermer ‘to close’, recapuchonner ‘to put the cap [on a pen]’; panser ‘to bandage’; coiffer d’un chapeau ‘to put[on head or hair] a hat’). These uses show a great concern for various entity properties that are implicit or explicitly encoded in French (especially by adults and to a lesser extent by children). In comparison, English speakers massively focus on a couple of postures, rarely showing concern for entity properties other than those that are implied by these postures. Second, particular items are also quite revealing in showing that the ontological properties of the figures/grounds affect the ways in which French subjects describe location or location changes. For example, different response types were elicited with some items that involved part-whole relations, particularly in cases where the figure was an intrinsic and functionally relevant part of the ground (e.g., the handle of a door). In these cases adults had great difficulties in conceiving of the task as one in which they had to localize a figure in relation to a ground. As illustrated in (23) to (25), responses in these cases vary, but typically subjects use possessive constructions to identify the entity rather than to localize it. Such responses could be followed by localizing responses, but only after questions from the experimenter, often resulting in some hesitations or repairs. (23) SUB: C’est une poignée de placard. ‘It’s a cupboard handle.’ EXP: Donc la poignée, elle est où ? ‘So the handle is where?’ SUB: Elle est au centre de ce placard, il y a trois portes et cette poignée, c’est la poignée appartenant à la porte du milieu. ‘It’s in the center of this cupboard, there are three doors and this handle, it’s the handle belonging to the middle door.’ (24) SUB: Une poignée, la poignée d’une porte. ‘A handle, the handle of a door.’ EXP: Elle se trouve où cette poignée ? ‘Where is this handle?’ SUB: Sur la porte, fixée à la porte. ‘On the door, fixed on [at] the door.’ EXP: Où ça ? ‘Where?’ SUB: Fixée à la porte. ‘Fixed on [at] the door.’ (25) SUB: Là, je vois une poignée, la poignée d’un placard. ‘Here I see a handle, the handle of a cupboard.’

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EXP: Elle se trouve où alors cette poignée ? ‘Where is this handle then?’ SUB: Sur. . . contre . . . le placard. ‘On. . . against. . . the cupboard.’ EXP: Il y aurait plusieurs façons de le dire selon vous ? ‘There are several ways to say it, according to you?’ SUB: La poignée du placard, la poignée contre le placard, la poignée collée au placard. ‘The handle of the cupboard, the handle against the cupboard, the handle stuck on [at] the cupboard.’

Other cases involve some items which elicited much hesitation concerning which entity should be taken as the figure or the ground. A good example is a case in which subjects had to localize an immaterial entity as part of the ground (a crack in cup), as shown in (26) to (30). Thus, in (26) and (27) the subjects begin by identifying the ground (cup) and treat the figure as a property of this ground (cracked cup), thereafter either spontaneously localizing the figure after a repair or localizing it in response to the experimenter’s question. Similarly, in (28) and (29) the subjects hesitate between two starting points (the crack or the cup) before localizing the crack as a figure in relation to the cup. Such responses did not occur in English.6 Again, this qualitative difference suggests that French subjects were more concerned with particular properties of entities than were English subjects in these cases. (26) Une tasse fêlée. . . une fêlure. . . . sur une tasse. ‘A cracked cup. . . a crack. . . on a cup.’ (27) SUB: Je vois une tasse fêlée. ‘I see a cracked cup.’ EXP: Donc la fêlure elle est où ? ‘So where is the crack?’ SUB: La fêlure se trouve au milieu de la tasse et débute par le haut. ‘The crack is in the middle of the cup and starts with [by] the top.’ (28) C’est une fêlure. . . c’est une tasse fêlée, dont la fissure est sur le bord. ‘It’s a crack. . . it’s a cracked cup, the crack of which is on the edge.’ (29) SUB: Là je vois une fissure d’une tasse, une tasse fissurée. ‘Here I see a crack of a cup, a cracked cup.’

. Such responses also occurred in French (but not in English) with another item involving an immaterial entity that showed a hole in a towel (Un torchon troué ‘A towel with a hole’). However, in this case they were less frequent than responses containing a specific satellite (On voit un trou dans un torchon, ‘One sees a hole in a towel’).

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EXP: Où se trouve la fissure ? ‘Where is the crack?’ SUB: Sur la tasse. ‘On the cup.’

Children’s responses with the crack in the cup also indicate a focus on the ground, although they rarely spontaneously mention the crack or the property of being cracked (particularly at three years, where children talk about a hole or a line). Examples are shown in (30) and (31) produced by three-year-olds. As for the item involving the handle of a cupboard, young children exclusively focus on the door of the cupboard, but localize the handle once probed by questions, e.g., (32). (30) SUB: Une cafetière. A coffee pot. EXP: Et en jaune, qu’est-ce que c’est ? And in yellow, what is it? SUB: C’est un trait, elle est cassée. It’s a line, it [coffee pot]’s broken. EXP: Il est où le trait ? Where is the line? SUB: Elle est sur la cafetière. It is on the coffee pot. (31) SUB: Un bol. A bowl. EXP: Qu’est-ce qu’il a ce bol ? And what does this bowl have? SUB: Un trou. A hole. EXP: Il est où le trou ? Where is the hole? SUB: Ici. Here. EXP: Là ya un bol, ya un trou qui est. . . Here there is a bowl, there is a hole that is. . . SUB: Sur le bol. On the bowl. (32) SUB: Une porte. A door. EXP: Là c’est une poignée pour ouvrir la porte du placard. Elle est où la poignée ? Here it’s a handle to open the door of the cupboard. Where is the handle?

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SUB: Là, elle est ouverte. There it’s open. EXP: La porte elle est ouverte et la poignée elle est où ? The door is open and where is the handle? SUB: La poignée elle est sur la porte. The handle is on the door.

. Caused and voluntary motion with animate entities Additional results concern the expression of motion events in two other experimental situations. Both situations required subjects to talk about different types of motion events involving animate characters that were presented as part of small scenarios. One experiment (study 3) involved narrating voluntary and caused motion events, while the other (study 4) focused on descriptions of voluntary motion. .. Voluntary and caused motion in picture-based stories In one experiment (Hickmann 2003a; Hickmann, Hendriks, & Roland 1998) subjects were asked to narrate picture sequences that showed two stories (“Cat” and “Horse” stories), both involving the voluntary or caused displacements of animate characters during the plot (arrivals and departures, jumping over a fence, falling down, climbing, pulling someone down, etc.).7 Adults and children of approximately 4, 7 and 10 years (10 subjects in each age group) were tested in four language groups (see Note 1): French (verb-framed language), as well as English, German, and Mandarin Chinese (satellite-framed languages). If we examine the dynamic predicates that were used in the narratives to represent the characters’ displacements, several massive differences can be observed. These differences strikingly contrast French and the other languages and they can be summarized along three dimensions: the diversity of predicate types, the extent to which these predicates encode multiple types of information, and whether this information is compactly packaged in the clause or distributed across clauses in discourse. . One story (Horse story) shows a horse running in a meadow (picture 1). He comes to a fence and sees a bird sitting on the fence and a cow standing on the other side (picture 2). The horse jumps over the fence (picture 3), but breaks the fence and falls down (picture 4). The cow and bird come to his rescue and bandage his leg (picture 5). The other story (Cat story) shows a mother bird sitting in her nest in a tree (picture 1). She flies away leaving her nestlings alone, while a cat comes to the bottom of the tree (picture 2). The cat sits down and looks at the birds’ nest (picture 3), then starts to climb up, as a dog comes to the bottom of the tree (picture 4). As the cat has almost reached the nest, the dog pulls it down by its tail, while the mother bird is flying back with a worm (picture 5). Finally, the dog chases the cat away (picture 6).

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First, French speakers use a rather limited set of dynamic predicates (about a dozen types with frequent tokens and a few others with rare tokens), as compared to other speakers whose narratives display a much wider diversity of predicates (over a hundred types with frequent tokens). This difference in diversity is quite striking at all ages. Second, important differences occur across languages in the types of information that are encoded in these predicates. In particular, many English, German, and Chinese predicates combine different types of information at all ages, such as manner, direction, deixis, cause (e.g., climb up, run away, pull down, chase away). In French most predicates encode either manner when motion is described as taking place within a general location (e.g., courir ‘to run’, nager ‘to swim’) or path otherwise (arriver ‘to arrive’, partir ‘to leave’, monter ‘to go up’, descendre ‘to go down’). However, few combinations occur, despite an increase in complex constructions at ten years and especially among adults (e.g., partir en courant ‘to leave by running’). Finally, some types of information present difficulties to young French narrators, particularly in cases of caused motion. For example, as shown in (33), English-speaking narrators from four years on express caused motion in one story (where a cat is pulled down from the tree and chased away by a dog) by combining causativity with other types of information within the same utterances (e.g., pull down, get down, bring down, get off, chase away, scare away). In contrast, in the French excerpt (34), the cat’s change of location is expressed with an intransitive verb representing voluntary motion (descendre ‘to go down’), leaving the causal relation between this change of location and the dog’s action to be inferred. More generally, young children do not explicitly express such causal chains and/or distribute the different information components across utterances in discourse, rather than compactly encoding it within the sentence. (33) The dog was pulling the cat down by his tail. (4 years) (34) Après le chien lui mord la queue. Après le chat descend de l’arbre et le chien l’attrape. (4 years) ‘After the dog bites him the tail. After the cat comes down from the tree and the dog catches him.’

.. Voluntary motion in animated cartoons A last experiment (Hickmann 2006) concerns how French and English subjects (adults and children between 3 and 7 years) describe animated cartoons showing characters performing different types of voluntary displacements. A first type of displacement involved the crossing of a boundary (e.g., a boy swimming across a river, a baby crawling across a street, a girl bicycling across a railroad track). In these cases, French adults typically use verbs expressing the path of motion (e.g., (35)), sometimes also specifying manner in a peripheral construction (e.g.,

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(36)) or in the nominal phrase denoting the figure (e.g., (37)). In contrast, French children rarely express the manner and the path of motion simultaneously. They typically either focus on manner (e.g., (38)), but then they do not express a change of location, or they produce a path verb that is frequently ambiguous with respect to the precise trajectory involved (particularly passer ‘to pass’, as compared to the more specific traverser ‘to cross’) and/or adverbial phrases providing a terminal boundary (e.g., (39)). In the rare cases when these children do provide both path and manner information, they distribute these two pieces of information across clauses, rather than packaging them within the clause (e.g., (40)). In sharp contrast to these results, English-speaking speakers of all ages systematically package both path and manner information within the clause, as in (41). (35) Un garçon traverse la rivière. (Adult) ‘A boy crosses the river.’ (36) Un garçon traverse la rivière à la nage. (Adult) ‘A boy crosses the river by swimming.’ (37) Un nageur traverse la rivière. (Adult) ‘A swimmer crosses the river.’ (38) Y’a un garçon qui nage dans la rivière. (4 years) ‘There’s a boy swimming in the river.’ (39) Un garçon passe la rivière jusqu’à l’autre bout. (3 years) ‘A boy passes the river up to the other side.’ (40) Y’a une dame sur son vélo, elle fait du vélo. [. . . ] Puis elle traverse la voie ferrée. (5 years) ‘There’s a lady on her bike, she’s bicycling. [. . . ] Then she crosses the railway tracks.’ (41) The boy is swimming across the river. (3 years)

Overall, similar results can be observed with other types of displacements, such as arrival on the scene, departure from the scene, or up/down motion along a vertical axis, as illustrated in French (42) and English (43). However, as illustrated in French (44), a particular pattern occurs in the case of upward motion (e.g., a bear climbs up a tree to get some honey from a branch and climbs back down, a caterpillar crawls up a stem to eat a leaf and crawls back down). In these cases French speakers more frequently package manner and path by lexical means, particularly with the verb grimper (‘to climb up’), which necessarily combines manner with an upward direction in French. In comparison, they do not do so for downward motion (descendre ‘to go down’), nor with arrivals or exits, where no such common lexical encoding of the two components is available. These results suggest that French children do not simultaneously express both manner and path because of the properties of their language. Since French is verb-framed, it does not typically

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encode both types of information together in the verbal network, except when lexical devices are available to do so. In contrast, in a satellite framed language such as English, the joint encoding of manner and path is systematic with all event types. (42) Un chat. Il monte. Après il redescend. [. . . ] Et puis il est reparti. (3 years) ‘A cat. He goes up. Then he goes back down. [. . . ] And then he went away.’ (43) A squirrel ran along and ran up a tree into a hole, then it climbed down the tree and ran off again. (6 years) (44) J’ai vu un chat qui grimpait le long d’un pilone électrique [. . . ], le chat est redescendu et a mangé le contenu de l’oeuf avant de s’en aller. (Adult) ‘I saw a cat that was climbing up along an electric pole [. . . ], the cat went back down and ate the content of the egg before leaving.’

Finally, developmental progressions occur in both languages showing that the joint encoding of path and manner generally increases with age. Children encode these two components much more frequently in English than in French at all ages, but the youngest children tend to do so less often than the older children, using some semantically lean motion verbs that do not express manner (to go across, up, away). As for French children, their responses tend to show more joint encoding of manner and path with increasing age, particularly with upward motion (grimper ‘to climb up’). However, in comparison to English, this response type remains rather infrequent even at 7 years, particularly when no common lexicalized device is available for this joint encoding (e.g., passer en courant ‘to pass by running’, traverser à la nage ‘to cross by swimming’).

. Conclusions In summary, our data show the following main results. First, when describing the locations and location changes of entities (studies 1 and 2), French speakers frequently encode relevant information in the verb, whereas English speakers rely massively on verbal satellites. Nonetheless, the children’s data show developmental progressions in this respect. In comparison to French adults, young French children rely more on prepositions and less of verbs. The responses of young children also show some semantic overgeneralizations in prepositional use which decrease with age. Second, when describing motion events (studies 3 and 4), French children rarely express multiple types of information in compact structures, whereas English children do so from three years on. This language difference is massive at all ages, despite developmental progressions showing a growing tendency to encode multiple components in both languages. Third, responses in English and French vary as a function of the items presented, showing the impact of several

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properties of the denoted entities and situations in both languages, such as the types of spatial relations and of motion events to be described, that implicitly involve figures and grounds displaying different entity properties. These results show the joint impact of two types of factors: general cognitive factors, presumably affecting development in all languages, and language-specific factors, determining the particular course of development followed by children in a given language. The joint impact of these two types of factors result in verbal behaviours that fit the corresponding adult system from an early age onwards, but also become increasingly tuned to this system during further development. General cognitive factors can be illustrated in some of the processes of semantic overgeneralization we observed during French children’s acquisition of prepositional use, particularly in descriptions of locations and location changes (studies 1 and 2). Overgeneralizations have been frequently reported in relation to various language domains and across different languages, and they have been typically attributed to universal cognitive factors. An example of such phenomena in our data can be found in French children’s overgeneralization of the preposition sur (‘on’) to express a relation between two entities along the vertical axis despite the absence of any contact or support (relations requiring above and below). However, the other overgeneralizations that were observed are specific to French (and presumably to other languages displaying similar properties). In particular, French children use this preposition with neutral verbs to denote non prototypical contact, whereas French adults rely on specific verbs rather than on satellites in these cases. This second type of overgeneralization reflects a gradual process of lexical expansion. In this process children acquire a larger range of verbs to express fine-grained distinctions that will allow them to further tune into the specific properties of the adult system, such as the encoding of information in verb roots according to particular dimensions that are highlighted by their language. In this respect, acquiring the semantics of specific linguistic procedures seems to be a long process for French children, who must learn distinctions that are encoded in the verbal lexicon, in addition to those that are encoded in prepositions. This developmental progression reflects a process whereby children tune into the main pattern displayed by the adult language, in which the verbal lexicon is highly relevant to express spatial information. Note, however, that the English-like pattern (neutral verbs, specific prepositions) could in principle suffice to do the task in French. Our results therefore show a clear preference for a different pattern, that is influenced by language-specific properties and that increases with age. Speakers of different languages, then differ in their reliance on different devices. Furthermore, this information locus affects speakers’ focus on different aspects of the to-be-denoted reality and/or on different ways of organizing this information. With respect to the location and location changes of inanimate entities (studies 1 and 2), French speakers mostly focus on specific manner of attachment

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or on general disposition, whereas English speakers mostly focus on posture or on manner of joining. French speakers also show more concern for particular properties of figure and ground entities in comparison to English speakers. With respect to motion (studies 3 and 4), French children typically focus on path alone, sometimes on manner alone, but rarely on both simultaneously. Exceptions involve cases where they spread out different components of motion across utterances, as well as specific event types for which lexicalisation allows multiple encoding (e.g., motion upwards). Indeed, given the properties of their language, French children must learn complex structures (e.g., gerunds in subordinate clauses) allowing them to express multiple types of information in relation to motion events. Until then, they produce less detailed and/or less compact productions as compared to children in English (and other satellite-framed languages, such as German and Chinese). In contrast, despite developmental progressions, English-speaking children systematically encode manner and path compactly from early on and with all event types. Thus, as a result of a variable locus and focus of information, language serves as a kind of filter, that channels information, inviting speakers to focus on different aspects of reality. This filter seems to determine which information in the environment is more or less salient and therefore more or less accessible for everyday functioning. Such a view goes against the predominant view that spatial representation is exclusively or mostly determined by perceptual and cognitive factors that are independent of language (and of language properties). Typological properties may have far-ranging implications that go beyond space, for example affecting how speakers express grammatical relations (e.g., causativity) and temporality (e.g., results). They may also be related to some findings in the literature (Bassano 2000) showing that verbs expand much more rapidly than nouns during early phases of lexical development in French in comparison to English. Our longitudinal analyses in progress (from the age of oneand-a-half year on) will provide complementary evidence in this respect. These analyses currently examine French children’s early productions in order to determine whether language-specific factors may affect the nature of their verbal representations from the emergence of productive speech onwards (the order in which various markers emerge, focus on different types of entities and situations, semantic overgeneralisations, etc.). Finally, further research is necessary to determine the depth of this linguistic structuring during the development of children’s spatial categories. In particular, the ongoing debates concerning development in this domain (cf. Bowerman & Levinson 2001; Gentner & Goldin-Meadow 2003) require testing the impact of linguistic categories not only on how children express space, but also on their non-linguistic and/or pre-linguistic representations during the course of development.

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

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Precursors to spatial language The case of containment Susan J. Hesposi and Elizabeth S. Spelkeii i

Northwestern University / ii Harvard University

In this chapter we ask whether there are similar developmental trajectories for natural language phonology and auditory perception compared to natural language semantics and concepts. What is new about this approach with respect to the discussion of spatial entities is that it offers insight from a previously unstudied population. We look at preverbal infants who are at the beginning stages of learning about spatial entities. The rationale is that, when children construct new cognitive abilities, they build on component cognitive systems that have a long ontogenetic history (Spelke 2000). Furthermore young infants have limited experience with language, so in many ways they offer insight to a system that has not been influenced by linguistic categories.

There is new interest in questions that lie at the intersection of language and cognition, regarding the existence of a universal ontology of spatial and mechanical relationships. On one view, spatial language derives from universal, non-linguistic representations of objects and the spatial layout. Because all animals are subject to the same physical and geometrical laws, knowledge of these laws may be internalized in human perceptual and cognitive systems (Gibson 1979; Shepard 1984; Spelke, Breinlinger, Macomber, & Jacobson 1992) and available for language learning (Jackendoff 1983; Landau & Jackendoff 1993; Li & Gleitman 2002; Talmy 1983). On a contrasting view, spatial and mechanical categories are constructed by children as they learn their native language. Because different languages capture different spatial and mechanical relationships (Bowerman 1996; Levinson 1996; Sinha & Jensen de Lopez 2000), speakers of different languages may form different representations of space and objects (Boroditsky 2001; Levinson, Kita, Haun, & Rasch 2002; Li & Gleitman 2002; Whorf 1956). Intermediate views also are possible, whereby systems of spatial representation in language and in perception are partially independent or mutually interacting (Imai & Gentner 1997; Munnich, Landau, & Dosher 2001; Slobin 2000).

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Understanding spatial entities implies understanding properties of the spatial relations among them. This chapter focuses on the origins of understanding spatial entities and how they are distinguished in language and cognition. More specifically, we are concerned with how spatial entities are categorized. There are fundamental questions about whether the categories that come out of semantic analyses reflect more general cognitive distinctions or whether they emerge from language itself. One way to gain insight into relationships between natural language semantics and concepts is to look at a different but related set of relationships, between natural language phonology and auditory perceptions. Research on phonological development has revealed a striking developmental trajectory in infants’ abilities to discriminate the sounds of native languages (Jusczyk 1997; Werker 1989). Infants are born with universal phonetic sensitivity: to a first approximation, they can discriminate phonetic differences in any of the world’s languages. The ability to make these perceptual discriminations may provide the base features out of which categories are constructed. Through multimodal (auditory, visual, and proprioceptive) experience children develop perceptual feature spaces where distinctions that signal phonemic contrasts are perceived as distinct, whereas differences within a single phonemic category are not (Eimas, Siqueland, Jusczyk, & Vigorito 1971; Jusczyk 1997; Kuhl 2004). Similar discrimination patterns have been found in animals that do not develop language (i.e., chinchillas and non-human primates), suggesting that the human language faculty is built on a foundation of preexisting auditory sensitivities (Kuhl & Miller 1975; Kuhl & Padden 1982; Ramus, Hauser, Miller, Morris, & Mehler 2000) Hauser et al., 2003). Over the course of development, there is a decline in sensitivity to many non-native phonemic distinctions, so that adults are differentially sensitive to the phonetic differences marked by their language (Werker & Tees 1984). These findings suggest that language experience is necessary for the maintenance, but not for the initial emergence, of auditory categories (Werker 1989). Here we ask whether a similar developmental trajectory applies to the acquisition of natural language semantics. Human languages show considerable variation in the spatial and mechanical categories that are marked by closed-class morphemes. For example, the English particles in and on mark the mechanical distinction between support and containment, but no closed-class morphemes in Korean mark this distinction (Choi & Bowerman 1991; Choi, McDonough, Bowerman, & Mandler 1999). In Korean, morphemes appended to verbs of motion express a different distinction – the distinction between placing an object into a tight-fitting relationship (kkita) vs. a loose-fitting mechanical relationship (nohta). The tight fit/loose fit distinction cross-cuts the English distinction between containment and support: whereas English speakers put the slide “in the carousel” (containment), the ring “on the finger” or “on the table” (support), Korean speak-

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ers describe the first two actions as creating a tight-fitting relationships (kkita), and the third as creating a loose-fitting relationship (nohta). The existence of these cross-cutting semantic categories raises questions about the acquisition of natural language semantics and the development of concepts. Examples demonstrate that the same physical events can be conceptualized in different ways across languages. How do these conceptual distinctions emerge? How do children learn which distinctions are mapped by which expressions in their language? Do mature speakers of English and Korean differ in their spatial and mechanical concepts? Investigations into the emergence of spatial terms in children’s vocabulary reveal that children are quite adept at learning the spatial distinctions particular to their language (Bowerman 1996; Choi & Bowerman 1991; Richards, Coventry, & Clibbens in press). Choi and Bowerman (1991) showed that Korean children learn the morphemes that express the tight and loose distinction as quickly as English children learn in and on, although, like English children, their initial categories are not identical to those of adults. Korean children do not go through a stage in which they try to fit the terms of their language into the spatial categories of containment and support to which American infants are sensitive, suggesting that the support/containment distinction has no special status. These findings do not, however, address the above questions. It is possible that language guides the development of spatial concepts from a very early point in development, and that English and Korean children use their linguistic input to construct spatial categories appropriate to their language (Bowerman & Choi 2003). Alternatively, it is possible that all the relevant spatial categories exist prior to language learning, and English and Korean children use their linguistic input to learn mappings from some of these concepts to particular linguistic forms (Mandler 1998). What is new about this approach with respect to the discussion of spatial entities is that it offers insight from a previously unstudied population. We look at preverbal infants who are at the beginning stages of learning about spatial entities. The rationale is that, when children construct new cognitive abilities, they build on component cognitive systems that have a long ontogenetic history (Spelke 2000). Furthermore young infants have limited experience with language, so in many ways they offer insight to a system that has not been influenced by linguistic categories. With the revival of the Sapir-Whorf hypothesis, a wealth of new research on effects and non-effects of linguistic categories on conceptual distinctions has been undertaken (Boroditsky 2001; Gentner & Goldin-Meadow 2003; Slobin 2000), and some of it speaks to the above questions. This research, however, has yielded mixed results. On one hand, McDonough et al. (2003) have found that adult speakers of English & Korean differ in their categories of in/on and tight/loose. More specifically, English-speaking adults in preferential looking and oddity tasks reacted to the in/on distinction and did not discriminate the tight/loose difference

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whereas the Korean-speaking adults showed the reverse pattern of behavior. These data contrast with infants who, regardless of the ambient language, discriminated both the in/on and tight/loose category changes. In addition, Casasola & Cohen (Casasola & Cohen 2002; Casasola, Cohen, & Chiarello 2003) provide evidence suggesting that the categories are constructed slowly in children. They describe a developmental progression of spatial categories over the first two years of life that starts with learning to recognize the objects, then recognition of the spatial relationships between specific objects, and finally formation of the spatial category that is comprised of recognizing the spatial relationship independent of the particular objects. On the other hand, research by Munnich et al. (2001) suggests that these spatial categories influence “thinking for speaking” (Slobin 1996) but not non-linguistic thought or concepts. Munnich et al. (2001) asked adult native speakers of English, Japanese, or Korean a set of memory and naming questions in their native language focusing on contact/support relationships. The speakers’ native language influenced performance when tested in the linguistic task but not when tested in the non-linguistic task, leading Munnich et al. (2001) to conclude that spatial language and spatial memory captured the same kinds of relationships but functioned independently. Other experiments, however, reveal effects of the spatial categories in one’s native language on perceptual categorization in purely non-linguistic tasks (Boroditsky & Ramscar 2002) and in tasks presented in a non-native language that lacks the relevant categories (e.g., Boroditsky 2001). One reason for the divergence in findings across laboratories may stem from variability in the nature of the events used to test for the mechanical concepts. Both McDonough et al. (2003) and Casasola & Cohen (Casasola & Cohen 2002; Casasola et al. 2003) used complex and widely varying sets of events, analogous to a speech perception experiment testing discrimination of /b/ from /d/ by presenting the words “finding”, “divergence”, and “McDonough” and testing for generalization to “Mandler” vs. “Bowerman.” Continuing to follow the lead of speech perception researchers, we have tested infants’ categorization of simpler and more minimally contrastive events, in hopes of presenting a more sensitive test of their conceptual distinctions. Our research hypotheses are guided by the findings of speech perception researchers and the reasoning of Mandler (1998). Mandler points out that the variability in how spatial entities and spatial relations are expressed across languages does not mean that language is teaching the distinctions. It is equally plausible that language capitalizes on different aspects of the physical qualities of spatial relationships that infants have discovered through perceptual processes. Thus, children may come to the task of learning language equipped with all the principal categorical distinctions that the early-developing parts of the lexicon express; not only the distinctions of English but those of Korean and other languages. If that is the case, then prelinguistic children would possess a richer set of conceptual distinctions

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than those expressed by any language, and learning a language would require that they select, from among the conceptual distinctions in their repertoire, those distinctions that the ambient language expresses. As a result of this selection process, adult speakers may show reduced sensitivity to conceptual distinctions that are not marked by their language, just as they show reduced sensitivity to non-native phonological distinctions. Indeed, young infants may show greater sensitivity than their parents to conceptual distinctions that are captured by the terms of some unfamiliar languages but that are not lexicalized in the native language (Hespos & Spelke 2004). In the first experiment, we tested 5-month-old infants from an Englishspeaking environment on categorization of a spatial distinction captured in Korean not English. Because the infants are preverbal and their ambient language does not emphasize the category boundary between tight-fitting and loose-fitting relationships, the hypothesis that spatial concepts are constructed predicts that these infants will not be sensitive to the tight/loose distinction. In contrast, if a large set of conceptual categories exists prelinguistically and serves as the basis for language acquisition, then these infants may well demonstrate sensitivity to this categorical distinction. We used a habituation-dishabituation paradigm.1 First, infants saw a narrow cylindrical object lowered into a series of loose-fitting, medium-sized containers

. For readers not familiar with the habituation-dishabituation paradigm, it is an experimental procedure that is commonly used to investigate discrimination abilities in preverbal infants. The technique relies on infants’ tendency to look longer at events that they perceive as novel. A typical experiment has two parts: habituation and test trials. The habituation trials are designed to familiarize infants with a particular category or event. For example infants may be presented with an object being lowered inside a container. Typically infants will look for a long time on the first trials but after repeated presentations infants will show a decline in looking time. When infants reveal a 50% decline in looking over 6 trials, they are described as ‘habituated’. Next infants are presented with an alternating sequence of two new events. One of the events is a novel instance of the event category that was shown previously and the other event is a familiar instance of the previous event. The logic of the experimental design is that if infants perceive the event as novel it will recapture their attention and they will look at the display for a long time (e.g., dishabituate). In contrast if infants do not discriminate the display as new they will maintain their short (e.g., habituated) looking time. In our experiments we presented infant with minimally contrastive events. We habituated infants to an event that was at the midpoint between tight- and loose-fitting containment. In the test trials infants were presented with the same events except the containers were either 50% wider or narrower than the container used during the habituation trials. Thus the degree of change was proportionally the same in both test trials. The question was whether infants would generalize habituation equally (like Englishspeaking adults) or whether infants were sensitive to the semantic category boundary of tight and loose fit (captured in Korean). For more details please refer to Hespos and Spelke (2004).

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on a series of trials until their looking times declined. Next, the infants were presented with six test trials in which the same cylindrical object was lowered, in alternation, into a wide container (50% wider, hence also a loose fit) and into a narrower container (50% narrower, a tight fit). If infants make a languageindependent categorical distinction between tight- and loose-fitting containment events, then they were expected to look significantly longer at the tight-fit trials. Our results confirmed this prediction: Infants looked significantly longer at the tight-fitting test trials. Because the containers differed in size for the tight- and loose-fitting test events, however, it was possible that the results from the first experiment stemmed from an inherent preference for perceptual aspects of the tight-fitting event. To test this possibility we ran a second experiment that compared the infants’ looking times to the same test events after habituation to an event in which a mediumsized object was lowered into the same medium-sized container as the first study: a “tight-fit” event. Whereas the infants in the first experiment were habituated to a loose-fitting relationship, the infants in the second experiment were habituated to a tight-fitting relationship. The infants in the second experiment showed the opposite pattern of behavior, looking longer at the loose-fit test event. Together, these findings provide evidence that infants categorized the containment events as tightor loose-fitting and mapped the categorical distinction seen during habituation trials onto the events that they saw during test trials. Infants living in an English-speaking environment therefore are sensitive to the categorical distinction between tight-fitting and loose-fitting containment relationships. When exposed to continuous variation in the size of the contained object relative to its container, infants make a categorical distinction captured by the Korean morphemes kkita and nohta. We conclude that sensitivity to this distinction develops in the absence of any relevant linguistic experience, prior to and independently of the language the child will learn. More generally, these findings suggest that infants’ understanding of spatial entities emerges from a general cognitive distinction. These first two experiments demonstrated that preverbal infants in an Englishspeaking environment were sensitive to a semantic category boundary that exists within the English category of “in”. Next we tested what would happen for a Korean category boundary that cross-cuts the English categories of “in” and “on”. A new group of 5-month-old infants from an English-speaking environment saw a narrow cylindrical object lowered onto a pedestal, until their looking times declined. Next, they were shown the same test trials as the previous experiment. If the infants were influenced by the on/in categorical boundary, they would show no preference for either test display. However if infants detected the loose-fitting (nohta) relationship in habituation trials then they were expected to look signifi-

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cantly longer at the tight-fitting test events. Our results confirmed this prediction: Infants looked significantly longer at the tight-fitting test trials. Once again, it is possible that the results from Experiment 3 stemmed from an inherent perceptual bias. To test this possibility, a fourth experiment compared infants’ looking times to the same test events after habituation to an event in which a ring was placed on a post: a tight-fit-on event. The infants in this experiment showed the opposite pattern of behavior, looking longer at the loose-fit test event. Together, these findings suggest that 5-month-old infants are sensitive to a Korean categorical distinction even when it cross-cuts the boundaries of their ambient language. In two respects, our findings resemble the findings of studies of phonemic discrimination. In the first experiment, infants saw a continuum of container widths. The container used in habituation trials was 50% narrower than the loose-test container and 50% wider than the tight-test container. We found that infants parse a continuum of spatial variation into categories of spatial relationships between objects, just as prior studies have found that infants parse a continuum of acoustic variation into categories of speech sounds (Werker 1989). Second we found that infants are sensitive not only to the spatial distinctions that are lexicalized in their native language but also to spatial distinctions that are lexicalized in other nonnative languages. Similarly, studies of speech perception have found that infants are sensitive to the phonological distinction of non-native languages as well as to the phonological distinctions of their native language (Kuhl, Williams, Lacerda, Stevens, et al. 1992; Werker 1991). While the evidence thus far suggests that there are conceptual precursors to spatial language, it does not suggest where these conceptual categories come from. One possibility is that the origins of category distinctions come from core knowledge of the mechanical principles that govern objects’ behavior. When two objects fit tightly together, such as a ring on a finger or a cylinder in a cylindrical container just wide enough to hold it, then almost any motion of one object will induce an exactly parallel motion in the other object. The constraints of solidity and action on contact ensure that these objects will move together unless one acts specifically to separate them. In contrast, when two objects fit loosely together, such as an apple in a bowl or on a table, the motions of the two objects are only partly constrained by one another. Because the objects are solid, the apple cannot move laterally through the side of the bowl or downward through the surface of the table; because the objects are in contact, motions of the bowl or table will influence the motion of the apple. In neither case, however, will the motions of two loosefitting objects be strictly parallel. If a bowl containing an apple is suddenly moved, for example, the apple and bowl will undergo both common and relative motions, with the apple both moving with the bowl and rolling against it.

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Because tight- and loose-fitting containment place different constraints on the motions of objects, it is possible that core knowledge of objects and their motions could also lead infants to categorize these spatial relationships differently, into the mechanical categories of support, containment, tight-fit, and loose-fit that are lexicalized in various languages. But do infants in fact reveal such core knowledge in their spatial categorizations? Our next experiments were undertaken to address this question. In the next experiment, we used a violation-of-expectation paradigm to test 5-month-old infants’ expectations about motion in loose-fitting containment relations.2 First, infants saw a narrow cylindrical object lowered into a wide container. Next, the infants were presented with six test trials that alternated between a move-separately event and a move-together event. In the move-separately event, the cylindrical object was lowered inside the wide container and then the container remained stationary and the object moved back and forth inside the container (consistent). In the move-together event, the cylindrical object was lowered inside the wide container and then both the object and container moved horizontally as a unitary object (inconsistent). If infants expected the loose-fitting container to allow the object to move with some independence, then they were expected to look longer at the move-together events. Our results confirmed this prediction: Infants looked significantly longer at the move-together than at the move-separately events. In a second violation-of-expectation experiment, we tested infants’ expectations for the effects of motion on tight-fitting containment relations. Infants saw the same cylindrical object lowered into a narrow container during the familiarization trials. In the test trials, infants saw the object lowered inside the container and then the object was moved back and forth horizontally. On alternate trials, the object and container moved together (consistent) or separately (inconsistent). If infants detected that a tight-fitting container more strongly constrains the motion of its contained object, then infants were expected to show the opposite looking preference from those in the loose-fitting condition and look longer at the moveseparately event compared to the move-together event. The results confirmed this prediction: Infants looked longer at the move-separately test event. Together, the . The violation-of-expectation paradigm is a variant of the habituation-dishabituation paradigm described above. The technique is used to investigate infants’ expectations about how objects behave and interact. The paradigm relies on infants’ tendency to look longer at events that are unexpected or surprising. Infants are presented with two types of events. In the expected event the objects in the event move in a typical manner. In the unexpected event the physical laws are violated revealing a magic or unexpected outcome. If infants detect the violation they look longer at the unexpected event. These experiments often have some preliminary trials to familiarize infants to the objects prior to the test trials.

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findings from these experiments provide evidence that 5-month-old infants have different expectations for horizontal movement in tight-fit and loose-fit containment. That evidence, in turn, suggests that infants possess physical knowledge about containment that corresponds to the category boundary captured in Korean morphemes of kkita and nohta. More generally, systems of core knowledge may give rise to a large set of spatial and mechanical concepts: a set far larger than the category distinctions captured by any single language. These findings raise the question whether the development of spatial concepts and speech perception are similar in a third respect: Over the course of development, do speakers lose sensitivity to the conceptual distinctions that are not captured by the lexical semantics of their native language, just as they lose sensitivity to phonetic distinctions not captured by their native language phonology? As noted above, recent research on this question has yielded conflicting findings (McDonough, Choi, & Mandler 2003; Munnich et al. 2001). However, the events used in these experiments were very different from those used in our studies of infants. To begin to address this question, therefore, we presented all the same containment events to two groups of English-speaking adults. Adults’ sensitivity to the distinction between tight-fit and loose-fit was assessed by presenting the same action sequences as the previous experiments and asking adults to rate the similarity of each test action to the habituation actions. The results showed that adults did not react to the difference between tight and loose spatial relationships. One interpretation of these findings is that the method was insensitive. To address this interpretation, sensitivity to the distinction between support and containment was also tested. More specifically, adults were shown the checkered object lowered half-way inside a container and then the test trials consisted of the same object lowered all the way inside a container or placed on top of a pedestal (the container inverted). The results showed a significant difference in that adults judged the containment events as similar and different from the support event. Together, these findings provide evidence that adults are more sensitive to the distinction between support and containment than to the distinction between tight and loose fitting relationships. These findings accord with those of McDonough et al. (2003) and contrast with those of Munnich et al. (2001). More generally, they suggest a further parallel between phonological and semantic development: Whereas adults maintain sensitivity to acoustic and mechanical distinctions that are captured by their native language, they decline in sensitivity to acoustic and mechanical distinctions that are not captured by that language. How drastic is this decline? In the case of speech perception, it is possible to recover some sensitivity to non-native phonological distinctions through training and through manipulations of attention (MacKain, Best, & Strange 1981; Pisoni, Aslin, Perey, & Hennessey 1982; Tees & Werker 1984). Introspection suggests that conceptual categories may be even easier to recover. Although English-speaking

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readers do not normally categorize mechanical relationships in terms of tightness of fit, those who have read this entire chapter may now be quite likely to do so, at least for a while. Can we get English-speaking adults to make this categorical distinction? Our first attempt to do this used the simplest and least direct manipulation. The same adults that made the similarity judgments were presented with a second task involving a forced-choice. They had to choose which of the two test events was more similar to the habituation event. We found that adults grouped the events with respect to the tight/loose distinction. These findings suggest that conceptual categories can be recovered quite easily. The findings may help to explain why adults seem to be sensitive to non-native distinctions in some tasks (Munnich et al. 2001) though not in other tasks (McDonough et al. 2003). They also suggest a difference between effects of native language on phonological vs. semantic representations. Although the former effects are robust and hard to overcome, the latter effects are subtler and quite easy to overcome, at least in some situations. The study of natural language semantics, and of natural concepts, are two of the most vexed and difficult topics in cognitive science. One measure of their complexity, and fascination, comes from considering the degree of heat that the Sapir-Whorf hypothesis has generated over the last half-century. Despite vigorous research, contemporary cognitive scientists disagree strongly over the most basic questions about the nature of semantics and concepts and the relations between them. Some psychologists maintain that natural language semantics have simply no effects on natural concepts, and that all attempts to demonstrate the contrary are both conceptually confused and empirically flawed (Li & Gleitman 2002; Pinker 1994). Others maintain that natural language semantics influence everything from perceptual encoding to attention, memory, and reasoning (Boroditsky, Schmidt, & Phillips 2003). Into this fray, we offer two modest suggestions. First, insights into the nature and development of both semantic and conceptual categories can come from studies of core knowledge (Spelke 2000; Hauser & Spelke 2004). These studies, conducted on prelinguistic infants or non-linguistic nonhuman animals, may reveal the ontogenetic and phylogenetic building blocks of all semantic and conceptual development. Second, insights into the relationship between language and concepts, and the effects of linguistic experience on the development of concepts and word meanings, may come from considering the relation between language and auditory perception, and the effects of linguistic experience on the development of speech perception. As Chomsky (1965) has urged, many of the problems in the study of semantics and concepts have analogs in the study of phonology and audition. Because the study of perception and phonology is more advanced than other areas of cognition and language, students of speech perception may light a path for the rest of us to follow.

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The sources of spatial cognition Roger Lécuyeri, James Rivièreii and Karine Durandiii i

Laboratoire Cognition et Comportement Université René Descartes & CNRS ii Laboratoire Psychologie et Neurosciences de la Cognition Université de Rouen iii Centre Européen des Sciences du Goût (CESG–UMR 5170) CNRS & Université de Bourgogne, Dijon

This chapter compares three theoretical conceptions of infants’ early knowledge of entities and spatial representations. Piaget and neo-piagetian conceptions emphasize the role of motor activity. Nativism postulates the existence of preprogrammed core knowledge comprising the basic rules governing the physical environment. Perceptual theories hypothesize that these rules can be rapidly learned through early perceptual activity. These different views are confronted to three types of data: infants’ use of depth cues in two-dimensional displays, the emergence of object permanence, and the conditions for success or failure in tasks that involve searching for objects, with particular attention to the impact of motor impairment. Our main conclusion is that this evidence provides more support for the perceptual view than for other views.

.

Introduction

. Theoretical questions What is an object? More specifically, what is an object for young infants and when do stimuli located in their environment constitute objects? These questions have been crucial in developmental psychology since Piaget (1936) whose theory was meant to address epistemic questions, constituting a theory of knowledge and knowledge development, more than a psychological theory of child development. Historically, such ontological questions have focused on two concepts: object knowledge (and permanence) and representation. Classical conceptions of representation and of representational capacities have focused on symbolic representation. In the philosophical tradition this kind of representation has been thoroughly linked to language. Many psychologists (for

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example Wallon 1942) carried on this tradition, so that for a long time the idea that representation could exist before language acquisition was completely excluded. Debates about early representation first focused on this representational level and on the necessity (or non-necessity) of language mastery as a condition for representation. Piaget (1936, 1937) proposed another criterion as evidence of earlier representational capacity: object permanence. From that time on the debate about the existence of representation was also a debate about the forms of representations. As long as Piaget’s theory was the most popular theory in developmental psychology, object permanence was also the main criterion used as evidence for representational capacity. However, the existence in young infants of early knowledge, especially about objects, has been demonstrated for long and new theoretical perspectives have been developed. The first alternative model is nativism. According to the nativist point of view, infants’ knowledge about the world, especially about objects and their ontology, is chiefly inborn. Consequently, motor activity should not play any major role in cognitive development. It must be noticed that the nativist theory has been developed chiefly to account for infants’ conception of objects and of relations among objects, but not about space in general and its organization by infants. This domain was later studied by neo-piagetian theorists who focused on the importance of motor activity for children’s spatial knowledge (see Campos et al. 2000 for a review). Prehension, and later subsequent autonomous locomotion, had been considered as necessary conditions for the development of a good understanding of space. Therefore, considering together the literature about object cognition and about space cognition leads to a paradox: as a consequence of the dominant point of view in the two domains, very young infants have some core knowledge about objects (Spelke, Breinlinger, Macomber, & Jacobson 1992), but their knowledge about the space in which these objects exist is very delayed (Campos et al. 2000). Can objects be conceived independently of space? The perceptual theories of cognitive development provide a second type of model. These theories also deny a central role to motor action in the development of spatial representations, postulating that perceptual activity provides the necessary information for cognitive development (Lécuyer 1989, 1995, 2000; Mandler 1988, 1992, 1998). According to this model, no knowledge is inborn, but a basic corpus of knowledge increases rapidly and therefore the coordination between prehension and vision, and later autonomous locomotion, are not necessary conditions for the acquisition of knowledge, that is already substantially mastered. The ontological question is then to know how infants go from perceptual representations of distal stimuli to conceptual representations of objects. This question has been strongly debated in the recent literature about categorization in infants. For example, Rakinson (2003) considers that this transition can be made by associative learning of correlates, but Mandler (2003) proposes a conception in which percep-

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tual and conceptual categorization’s capacities begin at the same period in infants and are independent processes. An illustration of this question can be found in Paul Quinn’s studies about infants’ categorization of spatial relations (see Quinn 2003 for a summary): Quinn demonstrated that when habituated with a point above (or below for another group) a line, and regardless of variations in the relative position of the line and dot, three-month-olds show a novelty reaction when presented with a relation involving a dot below a line (or above for the other group). Can one interpret this finding as showing the existence of an above/below concept as Quinn does, or should one simply assert that infants differentiate two types of perceptual organization? With the second solution, the transition from the percept to the concept remains to be explained. With the first solution, it is supposed to be solved. These different models make divergent predictions, for example with respect to the capacities that can be expected of motor-impaired children. The main difference between the Piagetian model and both of the other two models is that the piagetian model does not predict early cognitive competence, but rather delays in cognitive development for motor-impaired children. In contrast, both of the other models predict early cognitive competence and do not predict any delay in motorimpaired children. The main difference between the nativist and the perceptual models is that the first one does not assume that basic knowledge results from encounters with the environment, whereas the perceptual model does. When applied to spatial cognition, these conceptions lead to different conclusions. The Piagetian theory predicts no early knowledge about space before the coordination between vision and prehension (about 5 months of age) and a dramatic change in spatial cognition when autonomous locomotion begins. The nativist theory predicts that the basic rules of space organization are inborn and therefore that no major change in spatial cognition should occur during development. Perceptual theories predict that space must be learned by means of perceptual activity and therefore (1) that some of these capacities should develop before the coordination between prehension and vision, but not in newborns, and (2) that no delay in spatial cognition should occur in motor-impaired children. . Representation in infants Our purpose will be to give some examples, concerning different ages, that illustrate the perceptual model. A first domain considered will be the perception of images and their relation with the 3D real world. A second domain will be research concerning the understanding of object disappearence by normal and motorimpaired children. The last domain will be early comprehension and production of spatial language. One concept plays an essential role in the above discussion: the concept of representation. This concept has been a matter of debate for a long time.

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For example, Wallon (1942) believed that language was a necessary condition for representation, while Piaget proposed object permanence as a new criterion for this capacity. The current debate about early object permanence is also a debate about representation, as illustrated by Meltzoff & Moore (1998) or by Mandler (1998, 2003). Long before the question of representation in young infants had been discussed on theoretical grounds, it had been raised by a lot of new experimental results concerning, for example, neonatal imitation, object permanence, categorization, intermodal transfer, and even habituation and novelty reaction. These young infants’ abilities necessarily suppose a representational capacity and this early capacity cannot be explained by the sensorimotor development described by Piaget. However, the thesis that early representations exist had given rise to a great controversy (Haith 1998). One of the major reasons for this controversy appears to be the extensive confusion surrounding the notion of representation. This notion is very often considered to be an all-or-nothing phenomenon and rarely in terms of different levels or types of representations. Representation has been the topic of a recent chapter by Mandler (1998). Mandler formulated two major criticisms concerning Piaget’s theory, particularly his opposition between early sensorimotor (procedural) representation and later conceptual representation: an empirical criticism and a theoretical one. The empirical criticism consisted in highlighting that a series of recent results suggest the existence of an early conceptual representation. The theoretical criticism puts forth that Piaget did not describe the transition from sensorimotor to conceptual representation in a unique and unequivocal way. Mandler then reviewed the types of information infants represent (i.e. objects, perceptual categories, and concept formation or prelinguistic meanings), opposing procedural and conceptual knowledge. Notwithstanding the importance of this distinction, and the convincing empirical and theoretical arguments put forth by Mandler, this opposition does not solve the problem raised by the concept of representation, especially in infants. If, as she suggests, conceptual representations exist early in infancy and are not simply perceptual procedural representations, then different levels of representation must be distinguished. In fact, Mandler’s point of view is weakened by the fact that she assimilates perceptual representation to a procedural representation. In habituation / dishabituation situations a first stimulus is presented for a series of trials and, when looking duration decreases, a new stimulus is presented. If the two stimuli are discriminated, looking durations then increase. Therefore, the infant must have stored a representation of the first stimulus or event that was presented. This storage is the result of perceptual /memory processes but the content of the representation is at least as much stimulus-dependent and procedure-dependent. However, this does not mean that neonates have a symbolic representational system. A long time ago, Gouin-Décarie (1969) made a more radical objection to the Piagetian point of view: since the ab-

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sence of hands in thalidomide infants was not a cause of delay in development, sensorimotricity did not appear to be a major component of representation or a basic condition for it. Meltzoff & Moore (1998) proposed a model in which newborns have a representational system that provides the basis for future cognitive development. As a matter of fact, it seems necessary to assume that early cognitive development is based on a representational system that becomes more complex during infancy. Although they hypothesize a representational capacity at birth, they do not quite belong to the nativist trend, since the representational capacity they hypothesize is limited and does not imply object permanence or knowledge about object identity. Rather, this capacity is simply the necessary condition for habituation and novelty reaction. In fact, when a newborn shows evidence for a novelty reaction, s/he necessarily compares the new stimulus to some representation of the familiar one that is necessarily stored in memory. Concerning the simplest versus more complex representational levels, there is no major problem with respect to the cognitive capacities they require. However, for the intermediate levels, the situation is very different, since object permanence supposes a representational level. Thus, Durand & Lécuyer (2002) propose to distinguish among three levels: Level 1: concrete or analogical representation. A representation is a translated copy of a stimulus. If the same stimulus is presented again, it will be recognized. If another stimulus is presented, it will be differentiated. Some properties of objects are used. However, this does not imply that objects exist as such. Level 2: abstract representation. A representation may include variations in the stimulus and a common property is detected. When a new stimulus is presented, the child compares its properties to those that s/he stored in his/her representation. When the information given is partial, this comparison includes re-building properties that are absent from the stimulus but present in the representation. When an object disappears, some of its properties (size, solidity. . .) can be considered in infants’ reasoning. The infant’s world is now a world of objects. Level 3: symbolic representation. The relation between the represented object and the representing entity is arbitrary. Language and counting activity are typical of this level. Objects can now have names.

. Two-dimensional representations of three-dimensional situations Durand and Lécuyer (Lécuyer & Durand 1998; Durand & Lécuyer 2002; Durand, Lécuyer, & Frichtel 2003) studied the emergence of infants’ ‘representations of representations’, that is to say the development of their capacity to understand 2D representations of 3D situations. For long, Fantz had demonstrated that young infants preferred a 3D object to a 2D drawing. Yonas and his collaborators (Yonas

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et al. 1977; Yonas & Granrud 1985; Yonas & Granrud 1985; Yonas & Owsley 1987; Yonas, Pettersen, & Granrud 1982) studied in different ways how infants perceive the third dimension (see Yonas & Owsley 1987 for a review). These studies focused particularly on infants’ sensitivity to the different properties that index the third dimension (kinetic, binocular, and pictorial information). This research demonstrated that the capacity to implement these different indices develops between birth and the second half of the first year. However, the use of a motor response in most of Yonas et al’s experiments may have led to an underestimation of infants’ capacity to understand depth indices, as they were observed in the relations between motor activity and other aspects of infant cognition. Durand & Lécuyer asked another question: at what age and in what conditions do young infants become able to understand an image, that is to say a two-dimensional representation of the 3D world. Spelke (1998) considers that this capacity is inborn. Nevertheless, this type of representation is only a cultural product and the history of art indicates that the capacity to use perspective in painting only appeared during the Renaissance period. Therefore, Lécuyer & Durand (1998) attempted to replicate with a 2D display (a TV screen) an experiment by Baillargeon & Graber (1987) demonstrating object permanence. The replication failed despite different variations in the display. Lécuyer & Durand then used a simpler situation. Infants were habituated to a background composed of a grey ground and a rear part made of horizontal blue and green stripes. Two occluding screens were drawn in which the blue and green stripes alternated, producing a subjective contour. These occluding screens were judged by adults as being « in front » of the background. The animation presented to infants was a little yellow bear that entered on the left side of the TV, disappeared behind the first occluder, appeared on the other side, disappeared behind the second occluder, appeared on the other side, and exited on the right side of the TV. The bear then made the reverse movement and the situation was presented as long as the infant was looking. In the test phase, the two occluders were removed: the stripes were then continuous. Two situations were presented alternatively. In the normal situation, the bear simply crossed the TV screen, remaining always visible, as long as the infant was looking. In the strange situation, the bear also crossed the TV screen, but it disappeared and appeared again at the two places where the removed occluders had been in the original situation. Threemonth-old infants looked longer at the strange event, suggesting that they seem to understand interposition in a 2D display. According to Lécuyer & Durand’s (1998) interpretation of the contradiction between the two experiments, Baillargeon & Graber’s (1987) situation was cognitively more complex and therefore more cues had to be given to infants to help them understand the spatial relations involved. Durand & Lécuyer (2002) also replicated successfully another experiment by Baillargeon, Spelke, & Wasserman (1985), providing infants with perspective cues in addition to the interposition cues provided in Lécuyer & Durand’s (1998) exper-

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iments. Finally, Durand, Lécuyer, & Frichtel (2003) studied the use of perspective alone with 4-month-old infants. Their results strongly suggest that the acquisition of this capacity is under way at four months. Therefore, perspective may or may not be used, depending of the display conditions. The same conclusion can be applied to all of Durand and Lécuyer’s experiments. Therefore, the ability to take into account aspects of the stimulus which are in fact not visible seems to be learned during that period, that is to say before the coordination between prehension and vision.

. Searching for objects . Back to theories However, the distinction between different levels of representation is a necessary but not a sufficient condition to clarify the debate about representation. Another important point is the type of response that may be considered to provide evidence for representations. In his proposal that sensorimotor activity is the basis of knowledge, Piaget also proposed that the absence of adequate gesture reflects an absence of representation. For example, as long as infants do not search for an object that has disappeared in front of them, there is no evidence that they understand object permanence and therefore that they have a representational capacity. Furthermore, later errors in searching an object in Piagetian tasks have been considered to provide evidence for the late development of true object permanence. For this reason, the demonstration of early representational capacities and of early learning leaves a fundamental question open: if 2.5-month-old infants know that a disappeared object still exists, why do they not search for it until at least 7 months of age? This question has been frequently used as an argument against the hypothesis of early object permanence (Bogartz, Shinkey, & Schilling 2000; Cashon & Cohen 2000; Haith 1998; Meltzoff & Moore 1998). In the same vein, a second question arises: why do 9-month-olds who search successfully for an object in a A site go back to this A site when the same object is obviously hidden in a B site? For some authors, only the infant’s capacity to search for an object that has disappeared provides a clear evidence for object permanence. Therefore the existence of object permanence has been demonstrated in 18-month-olds by Piaget (Piaget 1936, 1937), and the demonstration of an earlier capacity for object permanence is still fragile, as it is based on less obvious indices and methodologies. Two points must be underlined. First, we are dealing with a very controversial topic in developmental psychology and the arguments that are provided are sometimes surprisingly violent (Haith 1998; Spelke 1998). A second important aspect of the debate is the asymmetry of the positions. Some authors consider that

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the violation-of-expectation paradigm is adequate to demonstrate object permanence, others do not. However, all consider that search situations are a good test and even for some of them the only test of object permanence. We would like to strongly question this assumption. Let us start with the following alternatives: either there is a gap between infants’ capacity for object permanence and their capacity to search efficiently for a disappeared object or such a gap does not exist, so that efficient searching (in whatever hiding conditions) is the only criteria for object permanence. If the first alternative is correct, it is necessary to explain the cause of the gap between object permanence and efficient searching. A good explanation of this gap must invoke a more general rule, according to which the same type of gap must be evidenced either within the same domain and across different conditions or across different domains. Moreover, if such a gap exists, it means that, during a long time, search activity is still a problem per se. Therefore, sensorimotricity is not perfectly efficient during infancy and cannot be a major source of knowledge as was supposed by Piaget. As a consequence, this first alternative is compatible with the nativist and perceptual theories of development. One of the potential consequences of this hypothesis is that motor impairment is not a source of delay in spatial cognition development. If the second alternative is correct, it is necessary to provide a general rule that can account for the numerous observations showing longer looking durations for unexpected events as compared to expected events in situations testing for object permanence. Conversely, difficulties in search activities must be typical of the period when object permanence emerges (from 7 to 18 months) and should be definitively solved after this period. This second alternative is compatible with the Piagetian theory of development. Another potential consequence of this hypothesis is that motor impairment is a source of delay in children’s spatial cognition. Considering the first alternative, we will first go back to the question of search responses as evidence for object permanence. It is very commonplace in psychology to consider that comprehension precedes production. As an example among many others, we present below some data concerning spatial language, that also show this result. More generally, innumerable situations indicate that knowing all the terms of a problem does not necessarily allow the solution of the problem: being able to read the directions of a sophisticated apparatus does not necessarily leads to an efficient use of this apparatus. Reading the map of a city does not necessarily result in efficient traveling in that city. A remarkable exception to that commonplace fact is the point of view of neo-piagetian authors concerning early object permanence: as soon as infants know that a disappeared object still exists, they must be able to search for it, independently of their capacities to program gestures. Probably, this very strange idea is due to the fact that, when searching for

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an object they have lost, adults usually behave in a perfectly rational and efficient way, for example never searching back in a place where they previously saw that the object was not. . . Let us consider the A-not-B error: when an object is successively hidden in a A site and then in a B site, 9-month-olds typically search for it again in the A site. It is clear from the innumerable experiments performed with this paradigm that infants make at least two types of errors. First, some infants search in the A site, where they previously found the object, in spite of the fact that the object is obviously hidden in the B site. Probably, these infants think they will find the object in that location, because they did not pick up and store all the information necessary for successful performance. Second, other infants know that their searching strategy is not the good one and that they will not find the object in the A site, but they do not know the appropriate strategy to follow in order to avoid this mistake. Three observations clearly demonstrate the existence of this second type of error. First, Diamond (1991, 1998) observed that during the A-not-B task, some of the infants who made the error were looking in the direction of the B site while manually searching at the A site. The second observation has been made by Corter, Zucker, & Galligan (1980). In their experiment, the object to search was the infant’s mother, who first leaves the room through an A door, and in the second trial leaves through another B door. Nine out of 13 subjects went back to door A, but above all, some of these children were crying and manifesting signs of a conflict before getting out of the room. In a control group, where the mother left the room twice through the door A, there was no error and no crying. The authors inferred that infants vaguely knew that they were going to the wrong place, but were not able to use another strategy. At least some of the infants that make the error seem to be unable to program their gestures towards success. For this reason, Lécuyer (1993) proposed to 9- and 5-month-old infants a purely visual searching task. In this condition, no error was made neither by the older children nor by the younger ones. . Late searching inefficiency Since the A-not-B error can be considered, at least for some of the infants, as the consequence of a gap (décalage) between their comprehension of the situation and their production of an adequate response, it can be hypothesized that the same gap can occur before 9 months of age and after this age. In fact, these difficulties can be observed. 7-month-olds, who do not search a disappeared object also have other difficulties with the prehension of objects: in some situations, they grab the support of the object, rather than the object itself (Hofsten & Spelke 1985; Piaget 1937). What about older infants? In recent years, the importance of motor capacities has been stressed by authors who consider that these capacities allow a more active exploration of the environment. For example, when infants begin

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to sit, this posture allows more free hand exploration. Above all, when they can move around by themselves, they can actively explore their environment. Thus, Campos et al. (2000) compare locomotor to non-locomotor infants, concluding that independent locomotion in infancy correlates with an improvement of the ability to successfully search for hidden objects: a comeback of Piaget’s theory. These observations have led to the suggestion that locomotor impairment might be a key risk factor for a dramatic slowing down or deviation in the development of spatial search skills. In contrast, the nativist and the perceptual theories of cognitive development predict no such delay in spatial cognition for motor-impaired children. Theses models suggest that infants understand spatial trajectories and relationships among objects, as well as the physical properties of objects, long before they can efficiently produce changes in their physical environment, and specifically before the coordination between prehension and vision. Rivière & Lécuyer’s (2002, 2003) purpose was to test these two types of hypotheses and to investigate the role of motor activity, especially self-initiated locomotion, in cognitive development, with particular attention to spatial cognition. If, as assumed by Campos et al. (2000), locomotor impairment is a risk factor for the development of spatial cognition, early representational capacities should be very limited and the role of sensorimotor development in cognition must be reevaluated. Comparisons between healthy and motor-impaired children have often been made with children that suffer from different neurological problems and can often be suspected of developmental delays as a consequence of these problems, rather than as a consequence of a lack of self-initiated locomotion. For this reason, our studies (Rivière, Lécuyer, & Hickmann submitted; Rivière & Lécuyer 2002, 2003) chose to test spinal muscular atrophy (SMA) children. SMA is a hereditary neuromuscular disease characterized by severe progressive muscular weakness related to a degeneration of the anterior horn cells of the spinal cord. Clinical signs comprise severe muscular weakness: proximal limb muscles more than distal muscles and lower limb muscles more than upper muscles. The clinical evolution is characterized by an aggravation which varies in rapidity according to the type. SMA are divided into types I, II, and III on the basis of age of onset, milestones of development, and life span. Symptoms are present before 6 months of age in type1 SMA; between 6 and 18 months in type-2 SMA; and after 18 months in type-3 SMA. In a first experiment (Rivière & Lécuyer 2003) 12 type-2 SMA children with a mean age of 30 months were tested. For these children, creeping and walking had never been possible and they had never driven a motorized wheelchair. There were four control groups each comprising 12 healthy subjects, with a mean age of 18, 24, 30 and 36 months. A duck-shaped toy served as the hidden object. Three identical cups were placed in front of the child, at an equal distance from her/him, on a white table. These three cups were aligned horizontally and the child was seated facing the cup

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in the middle. The tabletop could be rotated around its base. The experimenter was seated on the opposite side of the table. The toy was hidden in the right or the left cup as the child watched. The tabletop was then rotated 180◦ so that the correct left-right location of the object was reversed relative to the original perspective of the child. The child was then allowed to search for the toy. Following a familiarization procedure, two consecutive test trials were administered. The experimental group and the 30-month control group did not display significantly different performances. SMA children searched correctly for a hidden object in the three-choice search task. SMA children rarely grasped the cup, but all of them were able to reach for it directly. Since the tabletop was rotated 180◦ , children inevitably err if they encode the location of the hidden object by using a body-centered frame of reference which was not updated during the displacement. One of the most wonderful aspects of the results of this experiment was that healthy children still fail in this task until a very late age. According to the classical way of relating searching tasks and object permanence, children fail because they do not have a representation of the disappeared object and its location. However, they may also be unable to search for the object because they are puzzled by the non visible displacement of the object and the absence of cues indicating the location of the object. This situation may have led children to use egocentric references and then to be unable to take into account the rotation of the table. This is why a second experiment was performed, in which information about the hiding site was provided to the subjects. In the second experiment (Rivière & Lécuyer 2002) twelve type-2 SMA children with a mean age of 29 months were tested. The control group comprised 12 healthy subjects with the same mean age. A duck-shaped toy, 6 cm high, served as the hidden object. Three blue cloths were placed in front of the child at an equal distance from her/him on a table. Following a familiarization procedure, the experimenter showed the child the toy in the palm of his hand and slowly closed his fingers over the object. While the child watched, the experimenter’s hand moved along a path, in such way as to disappear under the first cloth (A), to reappear between the first and second cloths, and to disappear under the second cloth (B). Then the examiner silently released the toy under B, closed his hand again, made his hand reappear between cloths B and C, and disappear under cloth C. Finally, the closed hand was withdrawn from C, held outside of this cloth, and opened to reveal that it was empty. The child was then allowed to search for the toy. In this task, which involved successive invisible displacements of an object, the child’s attention was drawn to the last hiding site by the movement of the examiner’s hand. However, the child could find which of the visited locations contained the object on the basis of visual information: the hidden object made a bump under the B cloth that covered it.

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Two consecutive test trials were administered. Each trial ended when the child searched for the hidden toy or after 1 min if no search occurred. SMA children searched correctly for the hidden object in the 3-location search task. They rarely grasped the cloth, but all of them were able to reach for it. In contrast, healthy children performed at chance level. The performance of the experimental group was significantly superior to that of the control group. As SMA children have very important motor problems, their responses were analyzed as a function of the distance between the child’s shoulder and the hiding places. No effect of the side of cloth C (ipsilateral or contralateral) was observed neither in SMA children nor in control children. Since on any trial cloth B (i.e. the middle cloth) was never the closest, the performance of the SMA children cannot simply reflect a preference for the cloth that was easiest to reach. In order to detect potential differences in the strategies used by subjects, the latency of their reaching movement was measured. A frame-by-frame analysis of the videotapes made it possible to measure the latency between the opening of the experimenter’s hand after he removed it from cloth C and the beginning of the infant’s reaching gesture. This index can show the presence of an immediate direct-finding response or, alternatively, a more reflective approach to the problem. An interaction between motor capacity and trials was observed: as compared to healthy children, SMA children show a much longer latency duration before they start their reaching movement in the first trial, but their latency duration was similar to the one displayed by healthy children in the second trial. Contrary to our hypothesis, a significant SMA advantage was found in the task involving invisible object displacements. In addition, SMA children started their reaching movement later than healthy children in the first trial. It is possible that this performance difference results from more impulsive responses on the part of healthy children. Therefore, a third experiment increasing the time between the hiding of the toy and the child’s response was performed to test this hypothesis. Two means were used to increase time duration before children’s response. In a first condition, a delay of 3 seconds was introduced between the appearance of the experimenter’s hand out of the hiding site and the possibility offered to the child to begin searching. In a second condition, the toy was hidden in A instead of B, while the experimenter’s hand was still moving under clothes B and C. Two groups of 12 healthy children with a mean age of 29 months were tested. Children’s success in this experiment was equivalent in both groups. Healthy children were more successful in this experiment as compared to those in the previous experiment and their success level was equivalent to that of SMA children in the previous experiment. The findings of this control experiment indicates that the presence of a delay between the end of the hiding action and the possibility for children to search dramatically increases healthy children’s success in this task, allowing them to reach

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the same level of success as SMA children. This result supports the hypothesis that healthy children’s failure in experiment 2 was due to their impulsive responses. Why do SMA subjects search correctly for a hidden object in a 3-location search task, when no delay is required, whereas controls display a strong response bias toward the last hiding site? Why do healthy children, unlike SMA patients, frequently search for the hidden object at the location where they last saw the hand of the examiner reappear, despite the fact that they could easily spot the object at the second hiding site? Why is it easier for healthy children to inhibit a false response when more time has elapsed between the hiding place and the opportunity to search? Do 30-month-old healthy children lack object permanence? In this task, the correct location of the hidden object can be determined simply on the basis of visual information. Therefore, there is no need for the child to store information about its location in memory. It seems more likely that healthy children’s errors stem from their failure to inhibit their urge to reach in the direction in which the container (i.e., the experimenter’s hand) had last been seen. They fail to integrate information about the hiding place of an object in the planning of an appropriate search action because of inadequate inhibitory control over their behavior. The greater proportion of success obtained with these children in the third experiment supports this hypothesis, explaining why the reaching response to the last hiding site occurs even when the child appears to know the location of the toy (some children had a glance to the B site). In fact, in this situation, children erred when no delay was introduced between the reappearance of the hand and the possibility to search, but they were more successful when there was a delay. As a consequence, their failure may be due to reaching-specific deficits in inhibitory systems. Indeed, it is plausible that the motor capacities of the healthy control group provided them with more frequent opportunities to search for things in the direction in which they last saw them. Searching for objects is ubiquitous in everyday life. Therefore, this potent motor tendency can be seen as a conditioned response, built up on the basis of reinforcement experience and subserved by neural networks. According to this view, repeated physical practice leads to the increased strength of these neural circuits in healthy children. By contrast, motor impairment serves to reduce the strength of the network’s behavioral tendency. As a result, motor impairment or delay favors the ability to inhibit this conditioned response and therefore affects the likelihood of an incorrect search. From such a perspective, this motor tendency is potent enough to determine the search response in healthy children, but it is less efficient in SMA subjects. The stronger latency before reaching on the part of SMA subjects in the first trial suggests a different strategy in comparison to controls. Healthy children’s errors can be explained by the fact that they searched at the last hiding site via direct finding; that is, they actively went to the place to which the experimenter’s hand drew their attention. For SMA children, the energy required to reach is much greater than for healthy children. As a result, motor impairment

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can inhibit an immediate direct-finding response and provoke a more reflective approach to the problem. Hence SMA subjects were successful in the present task. Indeed, having attended to the third cloth, the child had to subsequently disengage from it and shift its attention to the second cloth in order to correctly reach for the object. SMA spontaneously did this, whereas healthy children only did so when a delay was introduced.

. Motor impairment and language acquisition However, one can wonder about the different conditions leading to equivalent levels of success. Must we account for the level of success of SMA or for the level of failure of healthy children? Since this failure can be explained by a lack of inhibitory processes and since SMA do not show this problem, their relative success can be also viewed as a relative failure in spatial cognition. Therefore, other tests of this spatial capacity can be informative, for example a test of their mastery of spatial language. The observed SMA subjects in our studies were 30 months-olds. Children of this age usually show much ability to comprehend language and their language production is rapidly increasing, including knowledge about the linguistic encoding of spatial relations. Given the absence of relevant data concerning SMA children in this respect, the SMA children were also tested for their spatial language during the session of experiment 3 (Rivière, Lécuyer, & Hickmann submitted). A control group of the same age was also examined. Comprehension was examined first. The experimenter presented to the child a series of eleven drawings showing three possible target entities located in different positions in relation to a ground entity. With every picture, the task of the child was to point to the object corresponding to the spatial relation mentioned in the experimenter’s verbal description. For example, the experimenter showed the child a drawing with a car and three cats. The instruction was “show me the cat which is in front of the car” (“montre-moi le chat qui est devant la voiture”). The comprehension task was followed by a production task. In this situation, the experimenter showed children a series of eleven pictures, asking them to play a “secret game”. A doll called Maya was blindfolded. Since the doll could not see anything, the child’s task was to describe the picture to her. For each picture, the child had to localize a target entity (drawn in yellow). For example, one picture showed a rabbit and three carrots. One (yellow) carrot was in front of the rabbit, the other two (white) carrots were behind and under the rabbit. The experimenter pointed to the yellow carrot and asked the child to tell Maya where the yellow carrot was (“Dis à Maya où elle est la carotte jaune”). If the child simply pointed to the carrot and said “there”, the experimenter insisted, reminding him/her that Maya could not see anything and that s/he had to explain with words what s/he saw on the picture. In each of the two

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phases of this experiment, the eleven items presented correspond to the notions of ‘In front of ’, ‘Behind’, ‘Under’, ‘Above’, ‘Up’, ‘Down’, ‘Near’, ‘Far’, ‘In’, ‘Above’, ‘Below’. The results of the comprehension phase show no difference between the healthy and SMA children, who displayed the same level of comprehension regardless of item types. In the production phase, SMA children were more successful than controls, althought their higher performance concerned only some items. When considering separately the different items, no significant difference was observed between the two groups, except for the “in front of – behind” relation: SMA produced more correct responses in this situation than healthy children. Two conclusions can be drawn from this series of experiments comparing healthy and SMA children. First, two very different variables yield highly similar results: SMA children do not suffer any developmental delay and in some cases they perform better than healthy children. In the latter case, since this superiority is observed with two very different systems of responses (verbal and motor), it is probably linked to a real advantage and not to experimental artifacts. Second, since SMA children do not seem to show any developmental delay, the role of sensorimotricity in spatial cognition and, more generally in cognitive development, has to be reevaluated. On the basis of our results, two more general conclusions are possible: either sensorimotricity plays no role whatsoever in cognitive development or SMA children develop some compensatory mechanisms that allow them to follow a normal development. Let us consider the first solution. In the nativist theory, the core knowledge that is present at birth allows very narrow possibilities for later learning. Thus, sensorimotor development concerns the conditions in which early knowledge can be evidenced by children. In this sense, nativism is very compatible with the first hypothesis. Let us now consider the second solution. Although we still need to know more about the nature of the compensatory mechanisms used by SMA children, it is possible that the role of active locomotion has been over-interpretated in the previous theories. Consider an adult who goes from one place to another one along a somewhat difficult route. If s/he is alone and uses a map, s/he will probably remember the route more than if s/he is following somebody who knows the itinerary. In the latter case, it is more probable that s/he will be unable to go back alone to the starting point. What is essential is not motor activity, which is the same in both cases, but rather it is picking up the relevant information. Clearly, SMA children, as well as young infants, can pick up information. Therefore, these results appear to be highly compatible with the perceptual theories of cognitive development.

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. Conclusion In this paper, we presented some theoretical questions concerning the sources of spatial cognition and early representation. We first opposed three points of view: the Piagetian theory, which is still an important reference concerning spatial cognition; the nativist theory, which is up to now the implicit or explicit reference for most authors in relation to representation, as well as to object cognition and permanence; and the perceptual theory, which differs from the Piagetian theory in that it focuses on perceptual activity (rather than on sensorimotor activity) in early cognitive development and which differs from nativism, since it is a developmental theory according to which all knowledge must be learned. We then presented essentially two series of experiments. The first series indicates that the representation of space, which develops in some cultures over centuries, is learned by infants during the first months of life. The second series indicates that motor activity, particularly self-locomotion, is not a necessary condition for the development of spatial cognition, whether children’s capacities are tested by means of a search response or by means of their spatial vocabulary. These two series of results are difficult to explain within the nativist theory. In particular, the first series of studies provides evidence for early learning processes in infants and, like some others, it shows examples where this learning is a necessary condition for children’s ability to take into account some aspects of the spatial environment. These results are also difficult to explain within the Piagetian or neo-piagetian approach. In particular, the second series of results shows that SMA children perform at least as well as healthy children, and therefore that sensorimotor activity may be an important factor but not a necessary condition for searching efficiency and for the acquisition of spatial language. Since healthy children fail as late as 30 months of age in search tasks where all of the relevant information is available, searching activity is not the adequate test for object permanence. Despite the fact that all of these data are compatible with the perceptual point of view, two questions remain: (1) the assumption that object and space properties can be learned in a purely perceptual way leads to the prediction that a difference in children’s opportunities to perceive these properties will produce a difference in the ages at which they can master them; (2) the mechanism allowing this type of learning remains to be described. Concerning the first question, Baillargeon & Wang, (2002) summarized different studies indicating very important gaps in how infants perform across apparently very similar tasks. A first example concerns the difference between occlusion and containment events. In containment events, a tall object is hidden in a container (cylinder) that is either as tall as the object (expected event) or half as tall as the object (unexpected event). In occlusion events, a tall object is hidden behind an occluder that is either as tall as the object (expected event) or half as tall as the object (unexpected event). The tall and short occluders

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were the front half of the tall and short containers. Infants of 4.5 months presented with the occluding situations looked longer at the unexpected event than at the expected event. However, when 4.5-month-olds were presented with the containment situations, no difference in looking durations was observed. It is not until 7.5 months of age that infants looked longer at the unexpected containment event than at the expected containment event. A second example given by Baillargeon concerns the relations between containment events (understood at 7.5 months) and covering events (not understood before 12 months). These very important gaps (from 4.5 to 12 months) with perceptually very similar situations are difficult to explain in a nativist perspective: if general “core knowledge” (Spelke 1998) about objects already exists at birth, one wonders about the delay with which this basic knowledge is applied in some spatial situations. Nevertheless, if spatial relations must be learned, it is easily understandable that occlusion is much more frequent in the infant’s environment than containment or covering: merely moving in a room that is somewhat filled with objects makes some of them disappear behind others. People are also frequently partly or completely occluded by objects or walls. They are rarely inserted in containers or covered by them. Concerning the second question, however, since the gaps observed by Baillargeon are indirect arguments against the nativist theory, a more direct argumentation is needed: can infants learn spatial relations? If so, can this learning be explained by the Piagetian sensorimotor theory or not? Both of these conditions are necessary to support the perceptual theory. Again, Baillargeon gives some answers to these questions (Baillargeon 1999). If an object is pushed out of a stand and does not fall, infants as young as three months seem to be surprised. However, if a small contact is maintained between the top of the stand and the bottom of the object, no surprise reaction is observed until six months of age. Can infants learn earlier that more than half of an object needs to be on the stand for the object not to fall? Baillargeon presented to 5-month-old infants different objects in a contrasted situation: the object was placed completely on the stand and stayed on it or it was put on the edge of the stand and fell. After this demonstration phase, a new object was presented that was either completely on the stand or on the edge, but in the latter case it did not fall. Five-month-olds looked longer at the last unexpected event than at the expected event. Therefore, it appears that they had learned a rule: an object that is not sufficiently supported by a stand must fall. This rule had been learned by purely perceptual means, not in a sensorimotor way. Such a capacity to learn can also be evidenced in categorization experiments. For example, Poirier, Lécuyer, & Cybula (2000) presented to 3-month-olds a series of geometrical figures of different sizes and shapes but always comprising the same number of elements (either three or four, depending of the experiment). Infants did not show any novelty reaction when a new figure that comprised the same number of elements was displayed, but they did when the number of elements was changed.

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Therefore, it appears that they have learned the common dimension of the figures (number) presented in the habituation phase. Perceptual conceptions of early development present a first advantage: like the nativist theory, they can explain that some knowledge exists before sensorimotor efficiency. They are therefore a good alternative to the Piagetian theory. They also present a second advantage: they can explain more important differences that can be observed in children’s performance across some tasks, which are sometimes very comparable (3D & 2D situations for example). They are therefore a good alternative to nativism and can become the basis for a new type of constructivist theory. Let us now return to the very first question with which we started: “What is an object?”. We can now propose a developmental answer to this question: a stimulus becomes an object when it is included in a system of relations with its environment, as infants (as well as children and adults later on) learn new properties of the world.

References Baillargeon, Renée (1999). Young infants’ expectations about hidden objects: A reply to three challenges. Developmental Science, 2(2), 115–163. Baillargeon, Renée & Marcia Graber (1987). Where’s the rabbit? 5.5-month-old infants’ representation of the height of a hidden object. Cognitive Development, 2(4), 375–392. Baillargeon, Renée, Elisabeth S. Spelke, & Stanley Wasserman. (1985). Object permanence in five-month-old infants. Cognition, 20(3), 191–208. Baillargeon, Renée & Su-hua Wang (2002). Event categorization in infancy. Trends in Cognitive Sciences, 6(2), 85–93. Bogartz, Richard S., Jeanne L. Shinskey, & Thomas H. Schilling (2000). Object permanence in five-and-a-half-month-old infants. Infancy, 1, 403–428. Campos, Joseph J., David I. Anderson, Marianne A. Barbu Roth, Edward M. Hubbard, Matthew J. Hertenstein, & David Witherington (2000). Travel broadens the mind. Infancy, 1(2), 149– 219. Cashon Cara H. & Leslie B. Cohen (2000). Eight -month-old infants’ perception of possible and impossible events. Infancy, 1(4), 429–446. Corter Carl M., Kenneth J. Zucker, & Roslyn F. Galligan (1980). Patterns in infant’s search for mother during brief separation. Developmental Psychology, 16, 62–69. Diamond, Adele (1991). Frontal lobe involvement in cognitive changes during the first year of life. In K. R. Gibson & A. C. Petersen (Eds.), Brain, maturation and cognitive development: Comparative and cross-cultural perspectives (pp. 127–180). New York, NY: Aldine de Gruyter. Diamond, Adele (1998). Understanding the A-not-B error: Working memory vs. reinforced response, or active trace vs. latent trace. Developmental Science, 1(2), 185–189. Durand, Karine & Roger Lécuyer (2002). Object permanence observed in four month-oldinfants with a 2D display. Infant Behavior & Development, 25(3), 269–278.

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Durand, Karine, Roger Lécuyer, & Myriam Frichtel (2003) Representation of the third dimension: The use of perspective cues by 3- and 4-month-old infants. Infant Behavior and Development, 26, 151–166. Gouin-Décarie, Thérèse (1969). A study of mental and emotional development of the thalidomide child. In B. M. Foss (Ed.), Determinants of infant behavior, Vol. 4 (pp. 167–187). London: Methuen. Haith, Marshal M. (1998). Who put the cog in infant cognition? Is rich interpretation too costly? Infant Behavior and Development, 21(2), 167–179. von Hofsten Claes & Elizabeth S. Spelke (1985). Object perception and object-directed reaching in infancy. Journal of Experimental Psychology: General, 114, 198–211. Lécuyer, Roger (1989). Bébés astronomes, bébés psychologues. L’intelligence de la première année. Bruxelles: Mardaga. Lécuyer, Roger (1993). A propos de l’“erreur A non B.” On the A-not-B error. Psychologie Francaise, 38(1), 63–74. Lécuyer, Roger (1995). Motricity, action, and perception in infants. Current Psychology of Cognition, 14, 215–223. Lécuyer, Roger (2000). De la pensée à l’acte. In O. Houdé & C. Meljac (Eds.), L’esprit Piagétien (pp. 89–98). Paris: Presses Universitaires de France. Lécuyer, Roger & Karine Durand (1998). Two-dimensional representations of the third dimension and their perception by infants. Perception, 27(4), 465–472. Mandler, Jean M. (1988). How to build a baby: On the development of an accessible representational system. Cognitive Development, 2, 113–136. Mandler, Jean M. (1992). The foundations of conceptual thought in infancy. Cognitive Development, 7, 273–285. Mandler, Jean M. (1998). Representation. In W. Damon, D. Kuhn & R. S. Siegler (Eds.), Handbook of Child Psychology, Vol. 2 (pp. 255–308). New York: Wiley. Mandler, Jean. M. (2003). Conceptual categorization. In D. H. Rakinson & L. M. Oakes (Eds.), Early category and concept development. Making sense of the blooming, buzzing confusion (pp. 103–131). Oxford: Oxford University. Meltzoff, Andrew N. & M. Keith Moore (1998). Object representation, identity, and the paradox of early permanence: Steps toward a new framework. Infant Behavior and Development, 21(2), 201–235. Piaget, Jean (1936). La naissance de l’intelligence chez l’enfant. Neuchâtel: Delachaux et Niestlé. Piaget, Jean (1937). La construction du réel chez l’enfant. Neuchâtel: Delachaud & Niestlé. Poirier Christine, Roger Lécuyer, & Christine Cybula (2000). Categorization of geometric figures composed of three or four elements by 3-month-old infants. Cahiers de Psychologie Cognitive/Current Psychology of Cognition, 19(2), 221–244. Quinn, Paul C. (2003). Concepts are not just for objects: Categorization of spatial relation informations by infants. In D. H. Rakinson & L. M. Oakes (Eds.), Early category and concept development. Making sense of the blooming, buzzing confusion (pp. 50–76). Oxford: Oxford University Press. Rakinson, David H. (2003). Parts, motion, and the development of the animate-inanimate distinction in infancy. In D. H. Rakinson & L. M. Oakes (Eds.), Early category and concept development. Making sense of the blooming, buzzing confusion (pp. 159–193). Oxford: Oxford University Press. Rivière, James, Roger Lécuyer, & Maya Hickmann (Submitted). Is the early development of spatial vocabulary affected by motor impairment?

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Rivière, James & Roger Lécuyer (2003) The C-not-B error: A comparative study. Cognitive Development, 18, 285–297 Rivière, James & Roger Lécuyer (2002). Spatial cognition in young children with spinal muscular atrophy. Developmental Neuropsychology, 21, 273–283. Spelke, Elisabeth S. (1998). Nativism, empiricism, and the origins of knowledge. Infant Behavior and Development, 21, 181–200. Spelke, Elisabeth S., Karen Breinlinger, Janet Macomber, & Kristen Jacobson (1992). Origins of knowledge. Psychological Review, 99(4), 605–632. Wallon, Henri (1942). De l’acte à la pensée. Paris: Flammarion. Yona, Albert, Gordon Berchtold, Daniel Frankel, F. Robert Gordon, Gerald McRoberts, Anthony Norcia, & Suzan Sternfels (1977). Development of sensitivity to information for impeding collision. Perception and Psychophysics, 21, 97–104. Yonas, Albert (1977). Development of sensitivity to information for impedding collision. Perception and Psychophysics, 21, 97–104. Yonas, Albert & Carl A. Granrud (1985). Development of the depth sensitivity in infants. In J. Mehler & N. Fox (Eds.), Neonate cognition: Beyond the blooming, buzzing confusion. Hillsdale, NJ: Lawrence Erlbaum. Yonas, Albert & Carolyn Owsley (1987). Development of visual space perception. In P. Salapatek & L. Cohen (Eds.), Handbook of infant perception: From perception to cognition, Vol. 2 (pp. 80–122). New York, NY: Academic Press. Yonas Albert, Linda Pettersen, & Carl E. Granrud (1982). Infants’ sensitivity to familiar size as information for distance. Child Development, 53, 1285–1290.

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 

Characterizing categories of spatial entities: Formal ontology

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From language to ontology Beware of the traps Achille C. Varzi Department of Philosophy Columbia University

A lot of work in ontology – especially the ontology of the ordinary, spatiotemporal world – relies on linguistic analysis and intuitions. In order to establish what there is, one looks for the truth-makers of our true statements. Alas, this is no straightforward business. For one thing, the “surface grammar” of what we say can be misleading. But neither can we trust its “deep structure”, for there is no unique way of telling what it is. No analysis can reveal the deep structure of a given statement; at most we can fix it by dint of resisting alternative interpretations. Depending on what we think there is, we must attach a meaning to what we say. Going the other way around – I argue – is illegitimate; it amounts to attributing our own ontological views to the language we share with others.

.

Introduction

Is there any way of telling what sorts of things there are given the sorts of things we say? Hopefully yes. Hopefully, if we say that there is a vase in the lobby, and if what we say is true, then in the lobby there must be an object answering to vase. And if we truthfully say that the vase is on a table, then there must also be an object answering to table, and it must be under the vase. This seems reasonable especially if we are talking about entities that fall into the same spatio-temporal framework in which we, too, are located – as with vases and tables. (Talk of numbers, sets, and other abstract entities is admittedly more elusive.) Still, what exactly are the grounds for our ontological inclinations here? In the following I argue that such grounds are much looser than we might hope. Even in relation to the realm of ordinary spatio-temporal entities, the bridge between our words and the world out there – if indeed there is a bridge – is full of traps. Here are the two main traps I intend to focus on: (i) The “surface grammar” trap: To think that all those (sorts of) things exist that are referred to or quantified over in our true statements. For instance, to think

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that the truth of a statement such as There is a crack in the vase entails the existence of such entities as cracks. (ii) The “deep structure” trap: To think that only those (sorts of) things exist that are referred to or quantified over at the level of deep structure, i.e., in the logical paraphrases of our true statements. For instance, to think that cracks do not exist insofar as statements such as There is a crack in the vase can be paraphrased as The vase is cracked. I take it that the first trap is rather familiar and easily spotted, though not as easily and agreeably as one might think. The second trap, however, can be the source of serious controversy – or so I shall argue.

. The “Surface Grammar” trap Let us begin with the easy part. Generally speaking, given a true statement, at least a statement that is contingently true, there must be some entities that make it true.1 Yet our language can be misleading, and there is no reason to suppose that every statement wears its truth-makers on its sleeves. When we say that the winged horse does not exist, do we really mean to speak of a non-existing individual? When we say that John gave Mary a kiss, do we really mean to say that there is something – a kiss – that John gave to Mary? On the face of it, there are no straightforward answers to questions such as these. And it is reasonable to suppose that in order to figure out the relevant truth-makers one must go beyond the “surface grammar” of ordinary statements and look at their “deep structure”.2 Only the latter is ontologically transparent (or “intrinsically non-misleading”, as Gilbert Ryle put it3 ). The surface grammar is deceptive. A paradigm example of this line of thinking can be traced back to Russell’s analysis of negative existentials involving definite descriptions.4 Consider (1) The winged horse does not exist.

. I say “generally speaking” because the principle according to which every truth has a truthmaker (a principle most vigorously defended by Armstrong (2004)) gives rise to various complications when it comes e.g. to truths concerning abstract entities. See the papers collected in Beebee and Dodd (2005). . Here and below I follow a terminology that has become popular with Chomsky (1957), but it will be apparent that the distinction need not be cashed out in Chomskyan terms nor, for that matter, in terms of any descriptive linguistic theory. . Ryle (1931–1932). . The locus classicus is Russell (1905a).

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The reason why we should not trust the grammatical form of (1) is that it would seem to take us straight to a paradox. It would seem to assert of something (namely, the winged horse) that it does not exist. To put it differently, to see whether the statement is true we would have to look for the object designated by the term occupying the subject position (the winged horse) and check whether it satisfies the condition expressed by the propositional function that follows (. . . does not exist). But in this case there is no object we can look for; indeed, the statement is true precisely insofar as the term occupying the subject position does not designate an object. So we would have a problem. That is, we would have a problem unless we deny that the expression the winged horse is a genuine singular term acting as the subject of the proposition expressed by (1). And this is exactly the way out offered by Russell. For Russell the grammatical form of (1) is spurious. The very fact that it makes sense to ask whether the winged horse exists constitutes a sufficient reason to deny that the winged horse is a genuine singular term, hence a term that can occur as the subject of a genuine proposition. Rather, the winged horse is for Russell an “incomplete symbol” that lacks “any significance on its own account” and disappears as soon as we exhibit the deep structure of the sentences in which it occurs. In the present case, the relevant deep structure is explained as follows: (1 ) It is not the case that there exists one and only one winged horse.

i.e., as the negation of the conjunction of the following two statements: (1) a. There exists at least one winged horse. b. There exists at most one winged horse.

And the semantic analysis of these two statements poses no problems. Because the predicate winged horse has an empty extension, (1a) is false, hence the conjunction of (1a) and (1b) is false, hence its negation is true. No paradox here. In other words, for Russell (1) is nothing but a convenient abbreviation for (1 ). And it is (1 ), not (1), that delivers the right truth-conditions. This analysis, of course, applies to every statement whose grammatical form follows the pattern (2) The so-and-so is φ.

Not only that. It also applies to those statements in which the definite description the so-and-so is replaced by a designating phrase of a different sort, including ordinary proper names such as Pegasus or Socrates. Precisely insofar as it makes sense to ask whether Pegasus or Socrates exist, the corresponding expressions do not for Russell qualify as genuine proper names. They are, rather, disguised descriptions and should be treated as such. For example, Pegasus could be seen as an abbreviation of the description the winged horse; hence a potentially paradoxical assertion such as

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(3) Pegasus does not exist.

could be identified with (1) and analyzed accordingly. Of course, in some cases it may be difficult to identify the description that hides behind an ordinary proper name, but this is a practical complication that in principle does not interfere with the theoretical force of the analysis. Besides, as Quine famously emphasized,5 there is always a possibility to dispense with all ordinary names by relying on descriptions in which the descriptive predicate is construed directly from the names themselves. Pegasus could correspond to the description that thing called: P-e-g-as-u-s or, more simply, that thing that pegasizes, so that (3) would eventually boil down to (3 ) It is not the case that there exists one and only one thing that pegasizes.

which is perfectly unproblematic. In this way, every apparent name would be eliminated in favor of a predicating phrase and the paradoxical flavor of negative existentials would disappear: though it makes no sense to use a name that names nothing, it is perfectly all right to use a predicate that is true of nothing, i.e., a predicate whose extension is the empty set. Now, this is just one sort of example. But the point is a general one, as it is apparent that the same sort of consideration can be applied to all cases where the ontological import of a statement is at issue. For example, earlier we asked whether a statement such as (4) John gave Mary a kiss.

should be understood as implying the existence of an entity corresponding to the noun phrase a kiss. Evidently, the answer is in the affirmative if we interpret (4) as asserting that there is something – namely, a kiss – that John gave to Mary. This interpretation would establish a deep similarity between (4) and a statement such as (5) John gave Mary a book.

in which the reference to a book seems unquestionable. However, things look different if we interpret (4) as a mere grammatical variant of (4 ) John kissed Mary.

This is a simple relational statement about John and Mary and nothing else, so the analogy with (5) is lost or, rather, discarded as pertaining exclusively to the level of surface grammar. The verb phrase gave a kiss would be a mere grammatical variant of kissed (whereas there is no corresponding variant for the verb phrase . See Quine (1939).

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gave a book); and the fact that in English we can use the former in place of the latter – one could argue – is merely a linguistic accident, a superficial peculiarity of the English language that should not mislead our ontological intuitions. Even a statement in which the prima facie analogy between kisses and books is explicitly asserted, as in (6) John gave Mary two things: a book and a kiss.

could be suitably paraphrased so as to break the analogy. It would be enough to rewrite (6) as (6 ) John gave Mary a book and kissed her.

or something along these lines. We often speak as though there were such things as kisses along with people and books. But we often speak loosely – it might be argued – and what we say should not be taken literally. A good deal of linguistic analysis is needed before one can draw any ontological conclusions from the words we use. It might be objected that speaking of “linguistic analysis” in this context is itself a misleading move. After all, linguistics is based on the assumption that there is a systematic link between syntax and semantics – between surface grammar and deep structure – and that syntactic data must be taken at face value. By contrast, the sort of paraphrases mentioned above are not based on linguistic considerations but rather on considerations that are themselves philosophically driven. Fair enough. I will indeed come back to this point shortly. For the moment let us just agree to use the phrase “linguistic analysis” liberally, to indicate any sort of analysis aimed at exhibiting the meaning structures associated with propositions expressed in natural language. Then the point is that a good deal of such analysis seems required before we can draw any ontological conclusions from the things we say – before we can “read off ” any feature of the world from our ways of speaking about it. Here are a few more examples of this sort of analysis, taken somewhat randomly from the philosophical literature. In each case, a statement that seems to be about ontologically “dubious” entities (a crack, a color, a difference in age, etc.) is analyzed as expressing a proposition that is, in fact, ontologically neutral with respect to those entities:6 (7) There is a crack in the vase. (7 ) The vase is cracked. (8) Redness is a sign of ripeness.

. Sources: Lewis and Lewis (1970: 4) (adapted); Quine (1960: 122); White (1956: 68f.); Loux (1998: 66f.); Alston (1958: 9); Melia (1995: 224).

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(8 ) Red fruits are ripe. (9) There is a difference in age between John and Tom. (9 ) Either John is older than Tom or Tom is older than John. (10) This tomato and that fire engine have the same color. (10 ) This tomato and that fire engine agree color-wise. (11) There are many virtues that Tom lacks. (11 ) Tom might conceivably be much more virtuous than he is. (12) The average star has 2.4 planets. (12 ) There are 12 planets and 5 stars, or 24 planets and 10 stars, or . . .

Nor are these the only sort of cases one can find in the literature. All of these are examples that illustrate an eliminativist strategy, as we may say. They implement a pattern of analysis whereby the entities mentioned in the surface grammar of a sentence (corresponding to the top item of each pair) are done away with at the level of deep structure. But there are also cases in which the analysis goes in the opposite direction – for instance, cases in which the analysis discloses a hidden quantifier, thereby introducing ontological commitments that do not appear at the level of surface grammar. It is not difficult to find examples of this introductionist strategy in the literature, and the kiss example mentioned above can be turned into a case in point. We have said that a statement such as (4) John gave Mary a kiss.

which seems to be about John, Mary, and a kiss, can be interpreted as (4 ) John kissed Mary.

which is only about John and Mary. This is the eliminativist strategy. But one could equally well argue in the reverse, viewing (4) itself as the correct way to understand (4 ), which would therefore be interpreted as a statement involving implicit reference to a kiss, i.e., an implicit existential quantification over kisses. Indeed, there are philosophers (most notably Donald Davidson and Terence Parsons7) who have argued that this is the right way to go, in spite of its greater ontological commitments. One reason is that there are patterns of logical inference that would otherwise be difficult to explain. For instance, if (4) is analyzed as (4 ), i.e., as a statement asserting that a certain two-place relation obtains between John and Mary, then it would be hard to explain why (4) is logically implied by (13) John gave Mary a kiss on the cheek.

. See Davidson (1980) and Parsons (1990).

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i.e., by (13 ) John kissed Mary on the cheek.

a statement that involves a different, three-place relation. One would have to appeal to some ad hoc meaning postulate linking the two predicates (kissed and kissed . . . on), or else construe the second predicate as the result of applying the modifier on to the first and then explain the inference in terms of the logic of adverbial modification – notoriously a difficult task. By contrast, if we take (4) and (13) at face value, then the entailment is straightforward. The latter statement says that John gave Mary something, namely a kiss, and that the kiss was on the cheek; the former says only that John gave Mary a kiss – a plain case of conjunction elimination within an existential quantifier. This is not a proof that (4) and (13) are in order as they stand. But if we are interested in an account of how it is that certain statements mean what they mean, and if the meaning of a statement is at least in part determined by its logical relations to other statements, then one can hardly ignore the relevance of facts such as these. Indeed, from this perspective it is reasonable to suppose, not only that (4) and (13) are in order as they stand, but that they exhibit the deep structure of (4 ) and (13 ), not vice versa. It is because (4 ) and (13 ) make implicit reference to a kiss – one could argue – that one can explain their inferential tie in terms of logical entailment.

. The “Deep Structure” trap At this point, however, it is crucial to take stock. We have seen that linguistic analysis can play a key role in revealing the deep structure of our ordinary statements, and that this is necessary when it comes to matters of ontology. Before knowing what a sentence is about, or even whether it is about anything at all, we must understand what the sentence means “deep down”. For only the deep structure of a sentence is ontologically transparent. The surface grammar is a trap. This is the positive side of the story. But there is a negative side, too. For we have also seen that there is no unique way of revealing the deep structure of a sentence. We can read a sentence such as (4), which mentions kisses, as (4 ), which only mentions John and Mary. But we can also read (4 ) as (4). And this is a problem. For how do we choose? How do we determine the direction of the analysis? Appeal to a general principle of ontological economy would favor the first, eliminativist strategy. But arguments à la Davidson would resolve the dilemma in the opposite direction, favoring of the introductionist strategy. How do we choose?

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To borrow a maxim from Hilary Putnam, it appears that under such circumstances “Occam’s Razor doesn’t know what to shave”.8 Perhaps in this specific case a careful scrutiny of the costs and advantages of the options might deliver an answer. After all, that was Davidson’s point. But the dilemma is a general one and arises in every case. Take again a sentence such as (7) There is a crack in the vase.

which seems to commit us to the existence of a crack, and its crack-free paraphrase: (7 ) The vase is cracked.

Ontological parsimony would suggest that we take the paraphrase to reveal the deep structure of the initial statement. To say that there is a crack in a vase is to say something about the vase, namely, that it has a certain shape or structure. So if (7) is true, it is true because of how the vase is. But one may also reverse the order of the analysis. One may think that it is because there is a crack in it that the vase is cracked, in which case it would be (7) that supplies a truly “ontologically transparent” paraphrase of (7 ), not vice versa. And there may be good reasons for holding this view. It may be argued that the eliminativist strategy is not fully implementable, or that its full implementation (if possible) would involve unpalatable consequences.9 For example, since there are many ways in which a vase can be cracked, the eliminativist would have to rely on the availability of a large number of structural predicates that specify, not only that the vase is cracked, but also how it is cracked. Thus, a sentence such as (14) There is a thin crack in the vase.

would have to be paraphrased by suitably modifying the predicate is cracked: (14 ) The vase is thinly-cracked.

But then the inference from (14) to (7) would be difficult to explain in terms of logical form, just as with the inference from (13) to (4), and a Davidsonian line of argument would apply. (The inference is of course straightforward if we take (14) at face value, as a statement asserting that there is a crack in the vase and that the crack is thin.) Again, the problem is not peculiar to these examples. If indeed it turned out that cracks cannot be paraphrased away in a systematic way, then we might gather that the eliminativist strategy is wrong-headed after all, and we may conclude that to properly describe the world around us we have to posit an ontology . Putnam (1987: 76). . The impossibility issue is discussed at length in Casati and Varzi (1994).

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that includes cracks as well as vases. But what if it turned out that the eliminativist strategy can be fully implemented? Shall we then conclude that cracks are indeed a façon de parler? Shall we decide that the crack-free paraphrases reflect the deep structure of the corresponding crack-committing statements? Why so, and on what grounds? Ditto for all other cases, where the dispute concerns the existence of colors, age differences, virtues, and so on. Whenever we have a paraphrase p of a certain statement p, we have the option to think of p as expressing the deep structure of p. But we can also think of p as expressing the deep structure of p . After all, paraphrases must be meaning preserving in both directions. So, if in one direction the analysis reflects an eliminativist strategy, in the other direction it reflects an introductionist strategy. And the choice is up for grabs. The trap, here, is to think that we can resolve these issues by mere linguistic analysis. Paraphrasability may well be a necessary condition if we want to avoid commitment to entities of some sort, and assertibility a sufficient condition if we want to proclaim commitment, but neither is necessary or sufficient to provide us with a clue to what there is. Neither is necessary or sufficient to determine the ontology itself. To put it in a slogan, linguistic analysis can be a tool for ontological investigations; but it is not a key. For the very issue of which sentences must be paraphrased – let alone how they ought to be paraphrased – can only be addressed against the background of one’s own ontological inclinations. If you don’t like cracks, then you may try to paraphrase them away. But if you like them (so to say), then you feel no need to regard statements such as (7) and the like as misleading. If you don’t like kisses, then you may try to paraphrase them away. But if you think kisses are genuine denizens of reality, then you feel no need to regard statements such as (4) and the like as ontologically deceptive. Ditto for all other cases. As a matter of fact, this complex trade-off between linguistic analysis and ontological prejudices is already apparent in the first examples considered above. When Russell claims that (1) The winged horse does not exist.

must be paraphrased as (1 ) It is not the case that there exists one and only one winged horse.

it is because he holds that (1) is incompatible with our sense of reality – with that robust “feeling for reality which ought to be preserved even in the most abstract studies”.10 The analysis as such yields no ontological discovery. It is Russell’s own ontological convictions that lead him through the quest for an appropriate deep structure for (1), not vice versa. Likewise, it is Quine’s “taste for desert . Russell (1919: 169).

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landscapes”11 that leads him through the quest for a principled generalization of Russell’s strategy. A philosopher of different convictions, however, may feel no need to take such actions. For Meinong (for example), the surface structure of a sentence such as (1) may well coincide with its deep structure because, for him, the winged horse has the same ontological dignity as any other object. It does not exist; but it is nonetheless to be included in a complete, philosophically respectable inventory of the world.12 And surely this does not make Meinong an incompetent speaker of the language, pace Quine. It simply means that he has different ontological views.

. Speaking with the vulgar So here is the impasse. On the one hand, there is a long and reputable philosophical tradition that emphasizes the importance of linguistic analysis, the idea that in pursuing ontological questions one should start with language and work one’s way outwards. In particular, there is a long and reputable tradition to the effect that because our ordinary linguistic practices may be misleading, we have to be careful; the truth lies beneath the surface and the task of philosophy is to bring it out. Arguably, this is how most analytic philosophers conceive of their work, and it is fair to say that this applies especially to those philosophers who concern themselves with the fundamental question of ontology: “What is there?”. On the other hand, we have just seen that there is no straight analytic path from language to ontology. What guarantee do we have that by suitably disentangling our linguistic practices we would get closer to the truth? What guarantee do we have that our concepts and the words we use to express them, when properly analyzed, will provide us with a key to understanding the nature of things? The only guarantee stems from a tacit adherence to what John Heil calls the “Picture Theory”,13 the view that elements of the way we represent the world linguistically – at the level of logical form if not in ordinary discourse – line up with elements of the world itself. And that view cries for a justification; it rests on the dubious presupposition that the lining up is unique when, in fact, the very possibility of genuine ontological disputes suggests the opposite.

. Quine (1948: 3). . See Meinong (1904), reviewed by Russell himself (1905b). (Here I am going along with the received doctrine, but see Oliver (1999).) . See Heil (2003).

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Here is how I propose to overcome this impasse.14 Following John Burgess and Gideon Rosen, let us distinguish two ways in which the link between a sentence p and its “transparent” paraphrase p can be understood.15 The first is what they call the hermeneutic understanding. On this understanding, the paraphrase, p , reveals the deep structure of p and therefore its truth conditions, those conditions that are supposed to take us straight to the truth-makers of p. This is arguably how Russell and Davidson (and many others) conceive of the linguistic analyses they propose in the examples discussed above. The second way to understand a paraphrase is the revolutionary way. On this conception, the paraphrase, p , does not reveal the meaning of the given sentence p but explains it; its purpose is not to exhibit the deep structure or logical form of p but rather to fix it by dint of resisting alternative interpretations. For the sentence as such can be used by different speakers to mean different things. This is not how Russell and Davidson would put it (nor how linguists would conceive of their work16 ) but it is, for example, what Quine has in mind.17 In short: the revolutionist is not interested in understanding language per se; she just doesn’t want her language to be misunderstood. Now the point I want to stress is that revolutionary paraphrases are perfectly all right, but they do not play any direct role in our ontological investigations. They do not and cannot play any direct role because they presuppose that we already have a cause to fight for – that we already have a view about what there is. We just want to make sure that people don’t draw the wrong inferences from what we say, so we provide (only upon request, perhaps) all the necessary linguistic amendments. On the other hand, the hermeneutic paraphrases could be of great help, because they could be truly revealing; yet it is very unclear where we can look for the relevant evidence. In fact, it is not even clear whether there can be any evidence at all, or whether the hermeneutic approach delivers a picture that is intelligible. For the picture would be this: our daily language – the language that we have learned and made ours since our very first contacts with the surrounding world – that language would consist of sentences whose real meaning often eschews us. It would consist of sentences most of which are only acceptable as loose talk. It would at best qualify as a convenient and somewhat metaphorical vernacular with regard to the regimented language of the philosophers, the latter being the only genuine language and thus the only language that can express our genuine ontological commitments. Is this an acceptable picture? . This section draws from §4 of Varzi (2002). . Burgess and Rosen (1997). . See, e.g., the essays collected in Preyer and Peter (2002). . See especially Quine (1960: §33).

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It might be thought that this is not different from what happens when linguistic regimentation takes place in scientific discourse. To borrow an analogy from Peter van Inwagen,18 suppose we hear an educated person say: (15) The sun moved behind the elms.

Arguably, we should not interpret her statement as asserting that the sun has really moved. We should be charitable: she spoke loosely and we must reinterpret her in a way that makes (15) consistent with the heliocentric theory – for example as elliptic for a statement in which the movement of the sun is asserted in relation to an observer-centered frame of reference, or as a statement in which the relative movement of the sun is explained away explicitly: (15 ) Owing to the change in the relative positions and orientations of the earth and the sun, it came to pass that a straight line drawn between here and the sun would have passed through the elms.

This would be legitimate insofar as we would be entitled to assume that the speaker has indeed subscribed to the Copernican revolution (so to say). The speaker has certain views about astronomy, we know that, and we know that if the need arises she can express herself more clearly. We know all this so well that we can take care of it on her behalf, interpreting (15) as (15 ). (Contextual clues may, of course, be crucial in this respect. As with every act of communication, the content of an utterance depends crucially on the relevant background of shared knowledge and presuppositions.) However, ontology is not like physics, and when it comes to ontology we can hardly base our interpretation of what someone says on the basis of the principle of charity. Ordinary speakers need not be astronomy experts to know that the sun does not move and the hermeneuticist may rely on this fact. But most people who assert common-sense sentences about cracks, or about kisses, or about other “dubious” entities, are totally unaware of any ontological theories about such entities. So how should one reinterpret those assertions? “The speaker could not possibly mean to say that there is a crack in the vase! She was speaking loosely. She meant to say that the vase is cracked.” Is this interpretation legitimate? The revolutionist is free to mean what she wants by the words she uses, like Humpty-Dumpty. But what entitles the hermeneuticist to assume that all speakers mean the same? Nor is this the whole story. As it turns out, both ways of engaging in linguistic analysis involve a duplication of languages. For neither is willing to give up natural language altogether. Whether we are revolutionists or hermeneuticist, we surely want to carry on speaking with the vulgar, hence we are going to emphasize the pragmatic indispensability of ordinary language against the philosophical value of . See van Inwagen (1990: Ch. 11).

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From language to ontology 

the regimented language (ontologically impeccable but practically unspeakable). However, this duplication of languages only works fine for the revolutionist. For only the revolutionist is always in a position to tell which language is being spoken. Take the crack-eliminativist once again. When speaking with the vulgar, she can give expression in English to the fact that a vase is cracked by asserting: (7) There is a crack in the vase.

However, when speaking strictly and literally she would rather assert the negation of (7), namely: (16) There are no cracks in the vase.

This may be confusing to some people, but the revolutionist will always know when is when and she will be happy to explain. She may even want to express her views by uttering the conjunction of (7 ) and (16) in the same breath: (17) The vase is cracked, but there are no cracks in the vase.

– and we would understand. Not so for the hermeneuticist. If you are a hermeneuticist you do not have the same leeway. To the extent that (7) is to be interpreted as (7 ), (16) will have to be interpreted as (16 ): (16 ) The vase is not cracked.

This is so because (16) is just the negation of (7), so the paraphrase of one must be the negation of the paraphrase of the other. But this is bizarre. After all, the vase is cracked. More generally, there appears to be no way for the hermeneuticist to express her ontological views to the effect that (18) There are no cracks.

For this would have to be interpreted as (18 ) Nothing is cracked.

which contradicts (7 ). The only option would be to say that (16) and (18), unlike (7), are to be taken strictly and literally. Unlike (7), (16) and (18) are not to be paraphrased. But this is absurd. For then the fundamental distinction between surface grammar and deep structure becomes utterly arbitrary and there appears to be no principled way of discriminating the loosely true from the strictly false.

. Conclusion I started out by saying that linguistic analysis can play a crucial role in protecting us from the ontological traps of surface grammar: We should not think that

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all those things exist that are referred to or quantified over in our ordinary statements. But we have seen that there is also a converse trap, namely, to think that only those things exist that are referred to or quantified over at the level of deep structure, i.e., in the logical paraphrases of our statements. This is a trap because of the multiplicity of the available paraphrases and, more importantly, because of the reversibility of the link between a sentence and any of its paraphrases. At this point, however, we can add that this trap leads to serious drawbacks only if we think of linguistic analysis in hermeneutic terms – only if we expect the tools of linguistic analysis to provide us with a key to disclose the true ontology underlying our language, or our system of concepts. From a revolutionary perspective, the picture looks different. The revolutionist engages in honest ontological theorizing and uses linguistic analysis only for the purpose of clarifying her views. She does not build her ontology into the mind of all speakers of the language. She does not expect the analysis of our language to tell us what our words deep down really mean – what they have meant all along. She only expects it to provide some help when it comes to clarifying what she really means when she uses certain words. And that is perfectly all right. Of course this leaves us with the question of what it means to engage in “honest ontological theorizing”. What strategy is available to the revolutionist? If the “picture theory” of meaning is wrong – if it is wrong to suppose that we can read off the structure of the world from our ways of speaking about it – then how can one even begin to figure out an answer to the question “What is there?”. Alas, this is the big question of ontology, and it is a difficult question indeed. But giving up hermeneuticism is no reason to feel at loss. For surely we do not just encounter the world through the veil of language. Especially when it comes to the world of spatio-temporal entities, we have plenty of other worldly experiences, for we too are located in space and time. We see, touch, taste, smell, and hear the things around us. We bump into them and they bump into us. In a way, the whole of science is devoted to figuring out the ontological makeup of the spatio-temporal world. If the revolutionist has a problem, it is not the lack of sources to draw from but, rather, its overwhelming abundance. So here is the answer I propose to our opening question. There is, in fact, no way of telling what sorts of things there are given the sorts of things we say. But neither is there a complete gap between our words and the world out there. It’s just that the bridge must be built from below, as it were: ontology comes first, and depending on what we think there is, we must attach a meaning to what we say. Going the other way around is wishful thinking. It is to commit a serious

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ontological fallacy, no matter how we go about drawing a line between surface grammar and deep structure.19

References Alston, William P. (1958). Ontological commitments. Philosophical Studies, 9, 8–17. Armstrong, David M. (2004). Truth and truthmakers. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Beebee, Helen & Julian Dodd (Eds.) (2005). Truthmakers. The contemporary debate. Oxford: Clarendon Press. Burgess, John P. & Gideon A. Rosen (1997). A subject with no object. Strategies for nominalistic interpretation of mathematics. Oxford: Clarendon Press. Casati, Roberto & Achille C. Varzi (1994). Holes and other superficialities. Cambridge, MA: The MIT Press. Chomsky, Noam (1957). Syntactic structures. The Hague: Mouton. Davidson, Donald (1980). Essays on actions and events. Oxford: Clarendon Press. Heil, John (2003). From an ontological point of view. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Lewis, David K. & Stephanie R. Lewis (1970). Holes. Australasian Journal of Philosophy, 48, 206– 212. Loux, Michael J. (1998). Metaphysics. A contemporary introduction. London: Routledge. Meinong, Alexius (1904). Über Gegenstandstheorie. In A. Meinong, R. Ameseder, & E. Mally (Eds.), Untersuchungen zur Gegenstandstheorie und Psychologie (pp. 1–50). Leipzig: Barth. (Eng. trans. by I. Levi, D. B. Terrell, & R. M. Chisholm: On the theory of objects. In R. M. Chisholm (Ed.), Realism and the background of phenomenology (pp. 76–117). New York, NY: The Free Press.) Melia, Joseph (1995). On what there’s not. Analysis, 55, 223–229. Oliver, Alex (1999). A few more remarks on logical form. Proceedings of the Aristotelian Society, 99, 247–272. Parsons, Terence (1990). Events in the semantics of English. A study in subatomic semantics. Cambridge, MA: The MIT Press. Preyer, Gerhard & Georg Peter (Eds.) (2002). Logical form and language. Oxford: Clarendon Press. Putnam, Hilary (1987). Truth and convention: On Davidson’s refutation of conceptual relativism. Dialectica, 41, 69–77. Quine, Willard V. O. (1939). Designation and existence. Journal of Philosophy, 36, 701–709. Quine, Willard V. O. (1948). On what there is. Review of Metaphysics, 2, 21–38. Quine, Willard V. O. (1960). Word and object. Cambridge, MA: The MIT Press. Russell, Bertrand (1905a). On denoting. Mind, 14, 479–493. Russell, Bertrand (1905b). Review of A. Meinong et al., Untersuchungen zur Gegenstandstheorie und Psychologie (Leipzig: Barth, 1904), Mind, 14, 530–538. Russell, Bertrand (1919). Introduction to mathematical philosophy. London: Allen and Unwin. Ryle, Gilbert (1931–1932). Systematically misleading expressions. Proceedings of the Aristotelian Society, 32, 139–170.

. Many thanks to Laure Vieu for her penetrating comments on an earlier version of this paper and, more generally, for helpful exchanges on the general topic this paper is about.

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van Inwagen, Peter (1990). Material beings. Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press. Varzi, Achille C. (2002). Words and objects. In A. Bottani, M. Carrara, & D. Giaretta (Eds.), Individuals, essence, and identity (pp. 49–75). Dordrecht: Kluwer. White, Morton G. (1956). Toward a reunion in philosophy. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press.

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The temporal essence of spatial objects Philippe Muller Institut de Recherche en Informatique de Toulouse (IRIT–UMR 5505) Université Paul Sabatier, CNRS, INPT & UT1

We present an ontological stand in which spatial entities and events are considered on a par, in a common domain of entities. Thus, everything that has a spatial extension also has a temporal extension. We show the kind of questions this raises for the reference to objects and events in language and how some of them can be addressed in such a theoretical framework. This model indeed provides a means of formally defining some differences between usually accepted categories of concrete objects referred to in natural language: the difference between mass terms and singular nouns, between singular and collective entities, and between material objects and events.

.

Introduction1

We aim to characterize some properties of concrete objects that seem to be reflected in language use and that make for different categories of references. A difference is made here between so-called spatial objects, and concrete, or material objects (cars, dogs, pools of mud, accountants or puffs of smoke). When talking about spatial objects, one often means entities having an extension in space (either material or immaterial). Of course, being in space is only one consequence of the existence of such objects, and it is certainly the most salient when are considered for instance so-called “spatial” prepositions or “motion” verbs relating these objects. Having a material extent means more, however: a certain persistence in time (which is clear when considering motion verbs), which in turns raises the question of what “existence” means for material objects. We argue here that categorizing uses in spatial language is actually to be put in a somewhat larger ontological perspective. We will thus study the role of the temporal dimension in characterizing different ways of referencing objects in the perceived world. . This work has been carried out within the project “Spatial entities and their categorization in language and cognition” (COG135; 1999–2001) that was financially supported by the Program “Cognitique” of the French Ministry of Research.

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We will have to clarify our position with respect to two classical problems while doing this. The first one is as old as ontology and is related to the link between our assumed ontology and language use: what kinds of objects are there independently of our linguistic way of describing them? and are there objects in that sense? The second problem is the link between those objects, if we decide this is meaningful, and language. Are there linguistic criteria to distinguish kinds of objects, are there categories of reference (with clear-cut syntactic or semantic differences) that reflect differences between object categories? As an illustration, let us consider the much-studied difference between socalled “mass terms” and “count nouns”. There is an admitted difference between the use of, e.g., mud and dog, as can be seen from the following sentences: (1) There is mud in my garden. (2) There is a dog in my garden.

The syntactic difference between the use of the two singular common nouns is sometimes taken as an a priori categorial difference between two things they denote: an animal (a dog), and an indeterminate amount of a particular substance (mud). The difference can be further characterized from a more semantic point of view by noticing that any suitable part of mud in the same context can also be considered as mud (what is sometimes called dissectivity or homogeneity of the reference in Pelletier and Schubert (1989: 328)), whereas not any suitable part of a dog can be said to be a dog. Of course we now have to explain what is a suitable part of an object: a molecule of clay is not mud, a dog without its tail might still be a dog. What is at stake here are the kinds of entities that can be described as dogs or mud or anything else. Whether it is of a purely semantic nature (Wierzbicka 1996), because language use induces a conceptualization of objects without a priori existence, is a heavily debated issue. Thus a count noun evokes an individuation, as opposed to a mass term. Calling what I’m sitting on a “chair” or a “piece of plastic” would then just be a different way of considering a given entity, not a description of an intrinsic property. In that case, our task will be to model the properties conventionally ascribed to these conceptualizations. The problem of the link between an ontology and language use can be seen on our example when considering what Pelletier has called the “universal grinder” (Pelletier 1979; Pelletier & Schubert 1989), namely the fact that sentences of the following kind can be built for any common noun: (3) There is dog [splattered] all over/in my garden.

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Here the “count” noun dog is used as a mass term. Authors following Pelletier will argue that only noun phrases denote mass terms or count nouns. So if we assume an existing ontology and categories of objects, how we map linguistic reference to these categories might not be as simple as saying that they are uniquely attached to lexical items or certain syntactic constructions; cf. also (Aurnague et al. this volume), for an investigation of this phenomenon for the object-location distinction. We will take for granted part-whole relations when necessary to define what is an acceptable “part” of an entity (but see the paper by Vieu & Aurnague this volume). Deciding what characterizes an entity as a “whole” (the problem of identity) is beyond our scope. We limit ourselves to temporal properties considered in conjunction with spatial properties. We will then in the following sections present some accepted categories of reference (not necessarily exclusive), restricted to concrete terms: mass terms versus countable entities, singular versus plural entities, objects versus events involving them. We will leave aside the problem of entities which are not clearly material or immaterial, such as holes. After a presentation of our ontological logical theory we will explain how it can be used to express some differences between the categories of linguistic reference previously introduced.

. The ontological problem of the reference to concrete entities . Words and objects As discussed in the introduction, there are a few different ways of seeing the problem of the reference to concrete objects from an ontological point of view, and this is the traditional philosophical problem of the relation between the physical world and the mental world, see (Russell 1959). We can roughly divide the problem into the following, relevant for our purposes, positions: for the “realist”, objects exist independently of us, for the “semanticist”, objects and language are inter-dependent (we will ignore here the “idealist”, such as Berkeley, for whom objects or matter is essentially mental): 1. the “realist” point of view: there are objects in a real world that we can have access to somehow, and these occupy a region of space, possibly changing through time. These objects are independent of language use. This view, most favored by works on qualitative reasoning about physical objects in knowledge representation (Cohn 1996), is also assumed in a lot of philosophical studies (Simons 1987; Casati & Varzi 1999; Heller 1990) where language is usually considered as an untrustworthy tool when considering ontology problems (see Varzi’s chapter this volume). These do not say that the correspondence

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between objects and our perception is easy to establish, but only that it is independent from language, or at least that we can reach some understanding of these, abstracting away from linguistic descriptions. 2. the “semanticist” point of view: objects are language-dependent mental constructions; their relation to a real world depends on the role played by these mental entities; this means different languages will have different ways of describing the same perceptions, some of which are arbitrary, up to a certain point (e.g., the mass/count distinction). This does not mean there cannot be “conceptual” invariants (see for instance the work of Wierzbicka 1996), but they are mapped with linguistic expressions in different ways across languages. For the pure realist, no two different objects can occupy the same region of space at the same time (or the same region of space-time). Thus a chair and the plastic it is made of must describe the same entity. The semantic point of view is more inclined to accept that different mental objects are ascribed to the same portion of space at a given time. An extreme stand would then be to consider every linguistic description as introducing a different object. A less extreme approach due to Wiggins would be to consider that there are categories of reference, and that objects can be conceptualized with respect to these categories. Thus no two objects of the same category can occupy the same region of space at the same time, but a “quantity of substance” (e.g., plastic) can be said to coincide with an “object” (e.g., a chair). Such categories are called “substantial sortals” in (Wiggins 1980). . Part, wholes, categories A lot of the considerations made above depend on a proper notion of a “part” of an object. Defining an object or more generally a material entity is defining what makes a “whole”, and a whole can be defined in relation to its parts. Parts can be material parts (a portion of the space occupied by something, or of the matter it is made of), or more intrinsic parts, either because they are essential to an entity (losing that part is the end of it), or because they play a specific role within an entity. The dynamics of parts is thus very important in the definition of what is a proper object, as Hobbes’ Ship of Theseus paradox shows (Wiggins 1980; Simons 1987). Conversely, the notion of part depends on different categorizations of objects: see (Winston, Chaffin, & Herrmann 1987; Aurnague & Vieu 1993) and (Vieu & Aurnague’s chapter this volume), for a study of different part-whole relations that can be defined on the basis of a category system for concrete entities. The basis for many ontological theories is some kind of part-of relation, and we will use a “mereology” (Lesniewski 1992) to describe parts of objects. For simplicity, we will assume that parts of objects are only spatio-temporal parts. If parts

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are to be considered something more elaborate (distinguishing functional parts, essential parts, material parts, . . . ), we will point out where our theory should be amended to account for this more complex notion perhaps with other relations. Part-whole relations are then central in explaining what makes a collective entity different from a singular entity, or a substance different from a countable entity. . Occurrents vs. Continuants ontology Concrete objects exist in space and time and we are going to study their different spatio-temporal properties. This raises the question of the existence of temporal entities. Since Davidson’s work (Davidson 1967), a lot of people admit the existence of such things as “events”, evidenced in ordinary language. There is a classical debate in formal ontology about the difference between objects and events, and the question of their relative existence. There is on one side a philosophical tradition claiming that every material object is in fact nothing else than just a process in space-time (Whitehead 1929; Quine 1960; Russell 1959) and that objects are constructed from events. More qualified points of view might consider that both are kinds of spatio-temporal entities and investigate the differences, as we will here (Noonan 1976; Goodman 1977; Heller 1990). This is still the source of some debate, as a lot of authors refuse this ontological assumption. For them, events are essentially different as they occur in time (and thus are often called “occurrents”) while objects exist through time (Hacker 1982), and thus are sometimes called continuants or endurants. For many authors, continuants are thus not to be considered as having a temporal extension (Simons 1987; Geach 1972; Thomson 1983). A lot of objects only have a limited existence, unfortunately, so there must also be an existence function in an ontology of continuants, and a need for a theory of change of these entities. The seemingly different points of view might thus be explained away by an unclear notion of existence, if one accepts that the problem is not merely verbal (Sider 1997: 55); we will also argue that something is to be gained by recasting some puzzles into a spatio-temporal framework. In our perspective, events occupy space, and objects have an extension in time. Favored by the few philosophers mentioned above, this ontology is sometimes called “four-dimensional”, since objects and events are seen as subsets of a spacetime combining the three spatial and the temporal dimensions. We will speak more generally of a spatio-temporal ontology, since dimension does not play any part in our discussion. What is central instead in the interplay of a topological theory (for space-time as a whole) and a temporal one (essentially, an order on entities).

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. Expressing spatial and temporal properties in a unified ontology To be serious about a different foundation for categories of spatial entities, we need to have a theory that can describe the kind of properties that will explain the categories, at least from the spatial and temporal point of view. A formal (logical) theory of a space-time mereology has already been proposed, in which some of the ideas of the proponent of a spatio-temporal ontology can be formulated (Muller 1998). In particular, it is in line with Nelson Goodman’s calculus of individuals (Leonard & Goodman 1940), and the ideas of (Quine 1960; Heller 1990). It has also been argued that we need at least a topology to account for a notion of “whole” and to make all the distinctions already mentioned. The only originality here is the formal investigation of the relations between a spatio-temporal topology and an order on spatio-temporal histories. This can be seen as a simplified but more thorough version of what was intended in (Hayes 1985). . A spatio-temporal mereology and topology The particulars of the logical theory will not be detailed here. It has been written down in other papers (see Muller 2002, for the interested readers) and it is rather a technical problem. What will be relevant here are the relations that can be expressed within such a theory, and some of the properties they entail. In particular, the following will be useful. Other relations can be defined, and will be introduced when needed. – – –

referents of objects and events are regions or “histories” of space-time (a topological space actually); these regions can be arbitrary regions of space-time, their intersections when they exist (noted ·), unions (noted +), and complements (noted –); all knowledge is expressed by relations between entities: part of (P), properpart-of (PP), connection (C, meaning roughly that two entities share something or touch each other), temporal precedence (<), temporal connection (> <), temporal overlap (σ), temporal inclusion (⊆t ), temporal equivalence ≡t .

In this theory, time is intended to be a linear space: any pair of temporally atomic entities (such as punctual events) can be ordered. In the following, graphical representations will often be used to illustrate some of our points. To represent histories of objects we consider time as an axis as any other in a geometrical representation. Representations will be thus given in two dimensions, where space and time each correspond to one dimension (thus spatial objects in a classical sense will be segments). This will yield clearer illustrations than a cluttered three-dimensional figure, but might seem somewhat unintuitive at first.

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Figure 1. History diagram

Figure 1 is an example of such a diagram. Time is on the vertical axis, so if this is to be interpreted in a more usual way, at the beginning there are two separate segments, moving towards each other until they overlap. On the left are spatial drawings of the initial and final situations corresponding to that diagram, if the objects were two-dimensional. Such diagrams give a compact means of illustration of motion in space-time and are arguably representative of the expressing power of a global spatio-temporal theory. . Temporal parts A crucial notion that is definable in our framework is that of a temporal part. Most ontologies only consider temporal parts of eventualities, or “purely” temporal entities (states, events, . . . ). In an ontology where everything has a temporal extension, everything can have a temporal part. The most intuitive notion of temporal part is that of a “slice”. A slice of an object is part of its history, which means this is the maximal part of an entity during a given time extent. The slice referred to can be an essential part of the entity (the late Wittgenstein, Woody Allen’s childhood), or it can be defined externally by another entity (my neighbor during WWII). Very often such slices are determined by another contemporaneous entity, but it is generally enough for two objects to temporally overlap to allow for such descriptions. Some authors refer to the same notion with the words “phase” (Simons 1987) or “stage” (Carlson 1980). Formally, it is defined in the following way in our ontology: x is a temporal slice (TS) of y whenever x is a part of y and for each part z of y that is temporally included in x, z is also a part of x (i.e. x is a maximal part of y during the life-span of x). Logical symbols used below are the classical ∀, ∃, ∧, ∨, → for, respectively

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Figure 2. An entity slice

“for all”, “exists”, “and”, “or”, and “implies”. The symbol introduces a formal definition. TS(x, y) P(x, y) ∧ ∀z((P(z, y) ∧ z ⊆t x) → P(z, x))

With the same kind of illustration as before, a slice is thus a horizontal slice of an history in space-time (cf. Figure 2). Among the properties of this notion, one must note that it is reflexive (anything is a temporal slice of itself), antisymmetric (if x is a slice of y and conversely, then x = y), and transitive (a slice x of y, which is a slice of z, is also a slice of z) (Muller 2002). Besides, we assume the following property (mentioned above): every time two entities overlap in time, we assume there are contemporaneous slices of each one. We can express this equivalently by saying that y ⊆t w → ∃u(TS(u, w) ∧ u ≡t y)

This says that if y (e.g., WWII) “occurs” during w which is (the life of) John Doe, there is such a thing as “John Doe during WWII” (u) which we can predicate upon. In this specific example, the exact spatio-temporal extension of an event such as WWII is not really important, since what is relevant is the temporal relation between y and w. It is easy to show that this part u is unique, and we will denote it by w/y. Figure 3 illustrates this situation.

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w/y

Figure 3. Two histories overlapping in time, defining a common episode

. Reconsidering categories of reference Now that our ontological framework has been introduced, we need to specify which categories of entities are relevant to the issues mentioned above. We claim that the following distinctions have specific spatial and temporal properties that can be partly explained in a spatio-temporal framework: 1. mass reference/countable reference; 2. singular reference/ plural reference; 3. object / event. We will now characterize these with the use of the formal vocabulary introduced in the previous section. . Object and substance We already mentioned the distinction between mass terms, which seem to denote non-countable entities (e.g., quantities of substances), and countable entities denoted by noun phrases such as a dog. This distinction offers a basis for many examples supporting the apparent existence of different objects occupying the same spatial location. Consider the following example from (Link 1983): (4) The ring is new but the gold making up the ring is old.

Here one could consider that the entity in question could be described either as a ring or a piece of gold (and one could anaphorically refer to the other, e.g., this

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piece of gold). This example however shows that the object “the ring” has different properties (it is “newer”) than the substance it is made of (“the gold”), thus indicating that they are two different things, while they necessarily occupy the same location in space. A standard account of this situation is to consider a function assigning a substance to an object (Wiggins 1980; Link 1983). Then a ring and its substance are distinct, but are functionally related. Formally, the sentence above could be represented as follows: ring(x) ∧ new(x) ∧ old(substance(x)) ∧ gold(substance(x))

An obvious problem with this solution is that different kinds of substance could be considered for the same object (the ring is made of gold is made of atoms, which are made of particles and so on), and what determines a proper substance is unclear. We do not need to distinguish objects and quantities of substances as a priori different types and we do not need a function relating an amount of a given substance (or multiple substances) to the object it makes up. We need only consider different histories in space-time, and knowledge expressed about some stages of these histories. The ring is indeed more temporary than the gold it is (partially or entirely) made of and this is why different predications can be applied to the two entities: they are different spatio-temporal histories (x =/ y). Formally: ring(x)∧ gold(y)∧ O(x, y)∧ new(x) ∧ old(y)

The ring x can be new, the “older” gold y can overlap the ring (O(x, y)) which means they have a part in common. That temporary part, which can be the entire ring or not, can be described either as a ring or as a piece of gold, because these descriptions correspond (briefly) to the same portion of space-time. Figure 4 illustrates this situation. Here we consider that when an object and the substance it is made of are created and destroyed at the same time, they are indistinguishable, following among others (Heller 1990). Now we are in a position to make more precise the difference between mass terms and count nouns. We have seen that some authors argue convincingly that “mass” or “countable” reference are more specific to certain noun phrases than just common nouns. This debate does not concern us here, since we only want to characterize the semantic side-effect of such references and not their conditions of occurrence. Thus we will consider examples of nouns that are typically more often used in mass terms or countable reference as representative of mass terms or countable reference. The first obvious difference between the two is “homogeneity” of reference: we can very easily express that any part of a “mud” history is the history of some mud. As for count nouns, in a spatial ontology, it is assumed that a

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Figure 4. The ring (x) of gold (y)

count noun can only refer to a whole, and not to any of its parts. When considered in space-time, this is slightly different: only a slice of the history of a dog can have the property of being a dog. Formally: (mud(x) ∧ P(y, x)) → mud(y) (dog(z) ∧ TS(t, z)) → dog(t)

If we want to take into account the fact that at a finer level, mud parts are not mud anymore (but molecules or atoms, or particles), we could say that such substances have at least a set of parts that are still of the same substance and that property would still set them apart from dogs. The second difference has to do with cumulative reference: any two “mud” histories can be combined and still be considered as some mud history Quine (1960: 91). So there is a sum (+) of the two and it is still mud. (mud(x) ∧ mud(y)) → (mud(x + y))

This is not true for a dog, since two histories of a dog can be two different dogs (perhaps at the same time). The only other case is when two histories are stages of the same dog history. We can express otherwise this property as: a count noun cannot describe two histories, one being part of the other, unless the part is a slice of the other history. (dog(z) ∧ dog(t) ∧ P(t, z)) → TS(t, z)

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Figure 5. Comparing mass histories and countable histories

The problem of deciding when two dogs are the same is then a problem of identity. Figure 5 illustrates what parts of each kind of reference are of the same type. . Substantial vs. non-substantial count nouns By specifying certain meta-properties at the spatio-temporal level, we can go even further and specify some of the differences between two other kinds of countable predication, what some authors call the substantial and non-substantial count nouns. This is an important difference, emphasized in Nicola Guarino’s work (Guarino, Carrara, & Giaretta 1994) on meta-categories, and that is the basis of the stage-level/individual level distinction for predicates in the work of (Carlson 1980). A stage-level predicate is one that does not necessarily apply to the whole lifespan of an entity, whereas an individual-level predicate must be true at any time during an entity’s lifespan. In a similar way, a substantial predicate is defined as a predicate that denotes an essential property of an entity (“apple”), whereas a nonsubstantial denotes a non-essential property of something (e.g., “student” might be true of someone at a certain time only). A substantial predicate is intrinsically related to the notion of identity of an entity. It is important to represent the difference from a spatio-temporal point of view, in order to explain for instance the following example, where the subject of the main predicate is described with a property (“lawyer”) that was not true at the time of the state described by the verb: (5) Most lawyers had unhappy childhood.

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The easiest way to express this in a spatio-temporal ontology is to say that for a non-substantial description (such as “student” or “lawyer”) of an entity there is another slice of the same entity that does not fit the description. So besides being countable (hence homogeneous, cf the previous section), non-substantial predicates verify the following property: student(x) → ∃y(TS(x, y) ∧ ¬student(y))

This could be an exaggeration as this is only a typical property: some entity might keep a non-essential property, by accident so to speak. A weaker version would then be to say that at least one entity must obey this definition: ∃x∃y(student(x) ∧ TS(x, y) ∧ ¬student(y))

The distinction between substantial and non-substantial predicates involves much more than just spatio-temporal aspects (since it is based on the notion of essential characteristics and identity properties), which in this case might only be a byproduct or a more general concept of identity. Equivalently, for substantial predicates, such as “dog”, we could express that if something that has the property “dog” is a slice of something else, then that something else is a dog: (dog(z) ∧ TS(z, y)) → dog(y)

This could be a problem if our ontology accepts arbitrary entities built up from more basic ones, for instance with the sum operation. Indeed, two noncontemporaneous entities of different sorts would then share their substantial properties: suppose x is an apple and z is a dog (at a later time, so that x < z), then we have TS(z, x + z) so by the previous principle, x + z is a dog too, and so is any temporal slice of it, hence x is a dog. The difficulty here is in the definition of a whole of a given kind. We could either prohibit sums of different sorts, but that seems somewhat arbitrary, or we could rely on an external definition of what counts as a part of another entity, by taking into account more than just spatial or temporal properties. We would then reach the limits of our program, and leave room for further work on what is a relevant “part”. Again, this calls for a definition of the identity of something, if “the identity of a thing at different moments is the identity of a totality embracing different elements”, Goodman (1977: 94). Nevertheless, our previous principle could then be written: (dog(z) ∧ TS(z, y) ∧ part(z, y)) → dog(y)

This can be said also of our characterization of non-substantial predicates: if any history can be said to be a slice of something larger, then the property is always true. We could then add a property opposing substantials and non-substantials: a non-substantial verifies the previous property, but it is a slice of a larger substantial

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(let us call it R; since there is only a finite number of substantial predicates, this amounts to a more complex but still first-order formula, that is abbreviated here as a pseudo-second order one): student(x) → ∃R, y(substantial(R) ∧ R(y) ∧ TS(x, y) ∧ ¬student(y))

If a non-substantial predicate is subsumed by a substantial one (student implies human, for instance), we would have more simply: student(x) → ∃y(human)(y) ∧ TS(x, y) ∧ ¬student(y))

This way we have made the two definitions inter-dependent. . Singular and collective entities Another important ontological distinction we want to study is between collective entities and singular entities. A team is a collective entity, as it is composed of distinct members. Collective entities are also commonly described with plural expressions in natural language: you and I, the neighbours, politicians,. . . . What are the ontological problems associated with concrete collective entities? They are similar to problems encountered with the object/substance distinction: seemingly identical entities seem to be designated either with a singular or a plural noun phrase: the rice/the grains of rice, the team/the members of the team, so the question remains of the actual number of things that should be counted. This is crucial as a plural may introduce different modes of predication. Consider the following example (Lønning 1997): (6) Bunsen and Kirchoff laid the foundations of the spectral theory.

This shows there is something called “plural reference” which is more than just ascribing a property to a set of individuals. Here we have a “collective” reading, as Bunsen or Kirchoff cannot be said to have laid the foundations alone. It is the collective that has a property, as opposed to a distributive reading where each member has a given property as in Politicians I know like to appear on TV. Thus an ontology must be able to distinguish between a collective entity and what seems to make it up. Again, to address this, (Link 1983) proposed to add some structure to the set of referents of a semantic theory by imposing an algebraic structure (a lattice) on the set of referents E. This lattice is made of atomic referents of a given set (singulars, individual entities) and referents built up from atoms with a sum operator (a function from E × E to E). Thus if b denotes Bunsen and k denotes Kirchoff, b + k would be the sum of Bunsen and Kirchoff, and could be an argument of a predicate (see also Fox 2000; Lønning 1997). This has the advantage of being easily

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related to a mereological theory dealing with part-whole relations, provided a sum operator is properly defined (Leonard & Goodman 1940). Another solution is to treat plurals as denoting sets in the manner of (Kamp & Reyle 1993). For instance: (7) A thousand boats passed under the bridge.

A set-based representation of this sentence could be: (7) boat* (U) ∧ |U| = 1000 ∧ ∀x ∈ U ∃e(pass_under_the_bridge(e, x))

Where U is the set of all the boats, of cardinal 1000, and boat* is a predicate which applies to sets of boats. This means representations become second-order, all the more as collective readings imply sets as arguments of predicates, and that might be considered uncomfortable by some. Moreover this leaves open what is an acceptable argument for a plural predicate. Another problem raised is the question of the exact material extent of the plural entity considered, and that is not always clear with example (7). This logical representation indeed ignores the reading where a boat can be counted many times for each different passing under the bridge. The following example adds another difficulty: (8) The last ten US presidents lived in the White House.

In this extreme case the plural can only be read as time-dependent as there is only one president living in the White House at a given time. This means that at any time at which the truth value of the sentence could be evaluated there is only one existing president. This could be paraphrased with a temporal quantification (At any time, the acting president lives in the White House), because here the reading is distributive, but the plural notion is lost, and this does not extend to collective readings, as in US presidents made the USA what it is today. It is probably apparent by now that handling plural entities is not a problem in a spatio-temporal theory, whether the plural entity includes contemporaneous entities or not. We can keep the same kind of structure as in a lattice-based theory of entities, à la Link. We will use the spatio-temporal sum “+”, and we can express what makes a proper plural entity. For illustrating what our aim is, Figures 6 and 7 show two kinds of admissible plural entities. On the left side, the shaded region x could be the referent for the last three UN presidents, and on the right side, the shaded region x could be the referent for three bald men, for instance during a particular event y. We can express more formally how references to plural entities are allowed. Let us say we have something that can be described by a singular predicate such as “president”. This must be a countable referent, so it has the properties seen in Section 4.1. Now, if the plural “presidents” is applied to a ST history:

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Figure 6. A temporally plural entity

Figure 7. A contemporaneous plural entity

1. this history has at least two different (non connected) parts which can be ascribed the singular property; 2. it is a sum of such entities; Conversely, two disconnected entities that can be said to be president can form a plural entity “presidents”, and as “disconnected” means in space-time, they can be either contemporaneous or not. We can still make the difference if it is needed: if all entities in the sum are temporally disconnected from each other, each slice

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of the plural is a singular denotation. Formally, we express this situation with the following properties, where we use president and president* as representative of a singular predicate and the corresponding plural property. president* (x) → ∃y(president(y) ∧ PP(y, x))

This says that a plural has at least a corresponding singular entity as a proper part. (president(y) ∧ president(z) ∧ ¬C(y, z)) → president* (y + z)

This is the property that two disconnected entities can form a plural entity with respect to a countable predicate. We can go even further, and say that a plural reference can only be a collection of disconnected singular references (a disconnected sum of a plural and a singular, or of two singular entities): president* (x) ↔ ∃y, z(x = y + z ∧¬C(y, z) ∧[( president* (y) ∧ president(z)) ∨(president* (z) ∧ president(y)) ∨(president(z) ∧ president(y))])

There is one caveat, though: this can apply to separate slices of the history of a same object. Thus do we want to consider that the sum of two stages of an entity (say, Woody Allen in the 70s, and Woody Allen in the 80s) are two different entities? Art aside, we want to say there is only one Woody Allen, with two stages. As was noted by Noonan (1976: 38), “every time slice of a man is a man and the same man as every other time-slice of him”. So we need a theory of identity if we want to escape a circular reasoning, just as for substantial predicates. What are the criteria for this is beyond the scope of this article but is a heavily discussed matter. A way to explain re-identification of disconnected stages of an entity is to consider some sort of spatio-temporal continuity, as argued in (Hirsch 1982), something that can be formally expressed in a limited manner in a spatio-temporal mereotopological theory as in (Muller 1998). . Objects and events Our use of the word “event” has been somewhat loose up to now. We want in fact to include both temporally homogeneous eventualities (more usually called processes) and heterogeneous ones (for which “event” is a widespread denomination). We have claimed earlier that objects in a classical sense and eventualities are not that different, so that we could consider them on a par in our theory of concrete objects. Our first reason was that there is no atemporal object: every concrete entity has a life-span and so must be considered in time. Conversely, we should then ask ourselves whether events and processes have a location in space or in spacetime. This question has been raised for instance by (Dretske 1967) and also in the

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more recent work of Casati and Varzi (1999: Chap. 10). We will assume that events do have an extension in space-time, but their precise extent is a semantic problem, as much as the precise extent of some material objects. Besides, it has often been noted a similarity between certain kinds of eventualities and objects: it has been said that processes, being homogeneous in time, behave in a similar manner as mass terms, that are considered homogeneous in space. Actually, if things are considered in space-time, the similarity is more obvious between persistent objects and processes, both being homogeneous in time, as noted by Whitehead or Quine. So the real distinction to be made here is between two kinds of eventualities: events with a culmination point and objects/processes. Consider for instance: (9) Youri kept the ball for ten minutes. (10) Youri lost the ball.

Every temporal part of the eventuality of Youri keeping the ball is a keeping of the ball by Youri, cf. example (9). This is usually called a reference to a process. But the same can be said for instance of “the ball”: every temporal part of the history of the ball is an history of the ball. In contrast, no part of losing the ball is a losing of the ball cf. example (10), because this eventuality demands a culmination in time. We will call this a proper event. Now, if we come back to this example: (7) A thousand boats passed under the bridge.

Its representation seen in the preceding section ignores the reading where a boat can be counted many times for each different passing under the bridge. What has been argued by a few authors (Krifka 1990; Musan 1999; Tonhauser 2002) is that this sentence in fact expresses a quantification on events, or “stages” of objects; they are here stages of boats, i.e. parts of the histories of boats, corresponding to what we called temporal slices above. .. Spatio-temporal properties of events We are going to mention here where we put a limit between objects and events, as discussed above. We have previously defined quantities of substance as spatiotemporally homogeneous entities and countable persistent entities as temporally homogeneous. We have also discussed the property of cumulativity of reference and shown what this means for mass terms (they are cumulative in space-time); for collective entities, we have seen that the sum of non-identical, disconnected, entities define a plural. We could add that the property of cumulativity itself defines identity in a circular manner: if the sum of two stages of two entities can be described as having

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a singular countable property (e.g., “dog”), then there is really only one entity (it is the same dog). Events, if we mean eventualities with a culmination point in time, are not cumulative in that sense, but they are different from processes and persistent objects as they are not homogeneous in time either. We can express this in space-time with the following property, for instance for events of the type “losing a ball” (or “winning a race”, etc.) losing_a_ball(e) → ¬∃x(PP(x, e)∧losing_a_ball(x))

This expresses that no spatio-temporal part (and hence no temporal part either) of the event are of the same type. We will now return to the question of the interpretation of certain collective entities that could be seen as plural events. .. Plural events Let us go back to example (7), this time with less boats, so that it is easier to illustrate: (11) Three boats passed under the bridge.

Most of the discussion about this example is on the underspecification of the actual number of different boats passing under the bridge. According to a lot of authors (Musan 1999; Barker 1999; Krifka 1990), this example is ambiguous between two kinds of readings; under one reading, the number of different boats is irrelevant and what is quantified on is the number of events described by the verb phrase. Under another one, the boats are all different and passed under the bridge at the same time. Actually, the first reading can be considered as an underspecified version of all the readings: there are three events of a boat passing in the past of the utterance time. As the plural can only be read distributively in this case, there is no need to wonder whether the boats did something together, at the same time. We can see here that we can easily represent this as quantifying over events involving slices of objects rather than objects per se: ¬C(e1 , e2 ) ∧ ¬C(e2 , e3 ) ∧ ¬C(e1 , e3 )∧passing_under(e1 , x1 )∧ passing_under(e2 , x2 )∧passing_under(e3 , x3 )∧boat(x1 )∧boat(x2 )∧boat(x3 )

Here we have left undetermined the relation between ei and xi (i = 1,2 or 3), but our proposal is compatible either with the hypothesis (1) that each event extent is only the slice of a boat, in which case we should say that each xi = ei or (2) that the event may involve something else “spatially”, in which case we only have P(xi , ei ). In all cases, the treatment is very similar to the treatment of plurals we have presented above, since objects and events have similar properties from a spatio-temporal point of view.

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Figure 8. Three events of a boat passing under a bridge

Figure 8 is an illustration of this form of quantification on events. Here is a boat going twice through whatever can be considered as the “under a bridge” region of space-time, and another boat going through it at another time. This is perfectly consistent with the representation given above.

. Conclusion and open questions We have studied how considering concrete objects in their temporal dimension as well as their spatial one can bring a somewhat new light into a few classical problems for categorizing language reference to such objects. We have looked at the amount of substance/object distinction, the singular/collective distinction, and to some extent the difference between objects and eventualities. While doing this, a few problems have been left open. We tried to stay neutral with respect to some of these issues, whereas others have an influence on the choices we have made, and should be further studied. Other issues have not be mentioned yet but are still central to the ontology of spatial entities, which we prefer to call spatio-temporal entities. While we remain rather agnostic on these, they are worth mentioning as further tests of ontological theories. Some of these open problems are: – –

how many entities can there be in one space-time region? what is the precise extension of an event? (spatially for instance)

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–

how can we account for temporal vagueness: (12) I saw the statue when it was just a piece of clay.

–

This amounts to determining where does a thing ends and when something “else” begins, that is made of some of the parts of the previous entity. Does temporal vagueness raise the same kinds of problem as spatial vagueness of objects? when can we say that something is the same entity or not? This is the problem of re-identification of stages of a same entity. This is also related to the possibility of testing the existence of categories, if one accepts that two objects of the same category cannot occupy the same portion of space (or space-time, from our point of view). For instance, is the following example a relevant test? (13) A student went to the library when it was an empty building/? a city hall.

Finally we hope to have shown that the ontological issue of categorizing material entities cannot avoid the question of the temporal dimension of existence and identity.

References Aurnague, Michel & Laure Vieu (1993). A three-level approach to the semantics of space. In Zelinski-Wibbelt (Ed.), Semantics of prepositions in natural language processing (pp. 393– 439). Berlin: Mouton de Gruyter. Barker, Chris (1999). Individuation and quantification. Linguistic Inquiry, 30(4), 683–691. Carlson, Greg N. (1980). Reference to kinds in English. New York, NY: Garland. Casati, Roberto & Achille Varzi (1999). Parts and places. The structures of spatial representation. Cambridge, MA: The MIT Press. Cohn, Anthony G. (1996). Calculi for qualitative spatial reasoning. In J. Calmet, J. Campbell, & J. Pfalzgraf (Eds.), Artificial Intelligence and Symbolic Mathematical Computation [Lecture Notes in Computer Science, 1138] (pp. 124–143). Heidelberg: Springer. Davidson, Donald (1967). The logical form of action sentences. In N. Rescher (Ed.), The logic of decision and action. University of Pittsburgh Press. Dretske, Fred (1967). Can events move? Mind, 76, 479–492. Fox, Chris (2000). The ontology of language. Stanford, CA: CLSI. Geach, Peter T. (1972). Logic matters. Oxford: Basil Blackwell. Goodman, Nelson (1977). The structure of appearance, 3rd ed. Dordrecht: Reidel. Guarino, Nicola, Massimiliano Carrara, & Pierdaniele Giaretta (1994). An ontology of metalevel categories. In J. Doyle, E. Sandewall, & P. Torasso (Eds.), KR’94: Principles of Knowledge Representation and Reasoning (pp. 270–280). San Francisco, CA: Morgan Kaufmann. Hacker, P. M. S. (1982). Events and objects in space and time. Mind, 91, 1–19. Hayes, Patrick J. (1985). Naive physics I: Ontology for liquids. In J. Hobbs & R. Moore (Eds.), Formal theories of the commonsense world (pp. 71–107). Norwood, NJ: Ablex.

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Heller, Mark (1990). The ontology of physical objects: Four-dimension hunks of matter. Cambridge Cambridge University Press. Hirsch, Eli (1982). The concept of identity. New York, NY: Oxford University Press. Kamp, Hans & Uwe Reyle (1993). From discourse to logic. Dordrecht: Kluwer. Krifka, Manfred (1990). Four thousand ships passed through the lock: Object-induced measure functions on events. Linguistics and Philosophy, 13, 487–520. Leonard, Herbert & Nelson Goodman (1940). The calculus of individuals and its uses. The Journal of Symbolic Logic, 5(2), 45–55. Lesniewski, Stanislaw (1992). Collected works. Dordrecht/Warszawa: Kluwer/Polish Scientific Publishers. Link, Godehart (1983). The logical analysis of plurals and mass terms: A lattice-theoretical approach. In R. Bäuerle, C. Schwarze, & A. von Stechow (Eds.), Meaning, use and interpretation of language. Berlin: de Gruyter. Lønning, Jan Tore (1997). Plurals and collectivity. In J. van Benthem & A. ter Meulen (Eds.), Handbook of logic and Language (pp. 1009–1054). Amsterdam: Elsevier. Muller, Philippe (1998). Space-time as a primitive for space and motion. In Proceedings of the international conference on Formal Ontology in Information Systems (FOIS98). Amsterdam: IOS Press. Muller, Philippe (2002). Topological spatio-temporal reasoning and representation. Computational Intelligence, 18(3), 420–450. Musan, Renate (1999). Temporal interpretation and information-status of noun phrases. Linguistics and Philosophy, 22, 621–661. Noonan, Harold W. (1976). The four-dimensional world. Analysis, 37, 32–39. Pelletier, Francis J. (1979). Non-singular reference: Some preliminaries. In F. Pelletier (Ed.), Mass terms: Some philosophical problems (pp. 1–14). Dordrecht: D. Reidel. Pelletier, Francis J. & Lenhart K. Schubert (1989). Mass expressions. In D. Gabbay & F. Guenthner (Eds.), Handbook of philosophical logic, Vol. 4 (pp. 327–407). Dordrecht: Reidel. Quine, Willard V. O. (1960). Word and object. Cambridge, MA: The MIT Press. Russell, Bertrand (1959). The problems of philosophy. Oxford: Oxford University Press. (Reprinted, 1971; original edition: Home University Library, 1912) Sider, Theodore (1997). Four dimensionalism. The Philosophical Review, 106, 197–231. Simons, Peter (1987). Parts – A study in ontology. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Thomson, Judith (1983). Parthood and identity across time. Journal of Philosophy, 80(4), 201– 220. Tonhauser, Judith (2002). A dynamic semantic account of the temporal interpretation of noun phrases. In B. Jackson (Ed.), Proceedings of Semantics and Linguistics Theory XII (SALT XII). Cornell, CA: CLC Publications. Whitehead, Alfred N. (1929). Process and reality. New York, NY: MacMillan. Wierzbicka, Anna (1996). Semantics: Primes and universals. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Wiggins, David (1980). Sameness and substance. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Winston, Morton E., Roger Chaffin, & Douglas Herrmann (1987). A taxonomy of part-whole relations. Cognitive Science, 11, 417–444.

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Part-of relations, functionality and dependence Laure Vieui,ii and Michel Aurnagueiii i

Institut de Recherche en Informatique de Toulouse (IRIT–UMR 5505) CNRS, Université Paul Sabatier, INPT & UT1 ii Laboratory of Applied Ontology (LOA) ISTC–CNR, Trento (Italy) iii Equipe de Recherche en Syntaxe et Sémantique (ERSS–UMR 5610) CNRS & Université de Toulouse-Le Mirail

That language hosts a multiplicity of part-whole relations is largely accepted, but no complete formal account is currently available. We first show how most distinctions between part-whole relations can be explained by considering the ontological categories of the arguments. We then focus on “Component-integral whole” (CIW), a most important but formally little-studied relation. The analysis of the functional concepts involved leads us to introduce lexical categories and to characterize a notion of functional dependence. On this basis, four cases of CIW are distinguished and formally defined. The contrastive acceptability of determinative compound nouns shows the linguistic relevance of these distinctions. Lastly, we show how the definitions provide a simple solution to the elusive issue of variable transitivity patterns.

.

Introduction1

Constructions referring to part-whole relations are quite usual in language: (1) Ma main fait partie de mon corps. (‘My hand is part of my body.’) (2) la poignée de la porte (‘the handle of the door’) (3) le haut de l’armoire (‘the top of the cupboard’)

. This research was carried out within the project “Spatial entities and their categorization in language and cognition” (COG135; 1999–2001) that was financially supported by the Program “Cognitique” of the French Ministry of Research. We would like to thank Stefano Borgo, Carola Eschenbach, Giancarlo Guizzardi, Claudio Masolo, as well as two anonymous reviewers for their comments on a previous draft of this paper.

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(4) Ce plat est constitué de poivrons et de morue. (‘This dish is made up of pepper and cod.’) (5) Cet atome a un électron. (‘This atom has an/one electron.’)

Genitive constructions with (3) or without (2) “relational nouns” play an important role in the expression of part-whole relations (Barker 1995; Partee & Borschev 2003). This paper mainly focuses on such constructions as well as on several wellknown structures like Det Npart est une/fait partie de Det Nwhole (‘Det NPpart is (a) part of Det Nwhole’) (1) or Det Nwhole a un Det Npart (‘Det Nwhole has a Det Npart’) (5) which have been already addressed in other works on partwhole relations (Cruse 1986; Winston et al. 1987; Iris et al. 1988; Pribbenow 1995; Tamba 1994). However, the constructions calling, to some or other extent, to partwhole relations are much more numerous and varied (4).2 Such a large range of expressions illustrates the importance of part-whole relations in language. As we will see in next section, a semantic analysis of these kind of structures shows that language makes sharp distinctions among part-whole relations. This paper proposes a formal analysis of the semantics of the part-whole relations distinguished by language and shows, at the same time, that these relational distinctions heavily rely on distinctions among entities, more precisely on ontological and linguistic categories of entities. Besides the restrictions on linguistic constructions addressed in this work, additional constraints apply to the entities and configurations considered. We will limit ourselves to the study of descriptions that involve “spatial entities”, i.e., spatially extended entities and especially, material objects. A particular attention will be paid to the inferential properties of our formal proposal which is supposed to account for the deductions linguistically expressed. More generally, we make the assumption that the part-whole relations distin. In the case of French, let us, for instance, evoke attributive constructions with generic part nouns (e.g., Ce pignon est un composant du mécanisme (‘This cogwheel is a component of the mechanism’)), descriptions integrating spatial prepositions (e.g., Le cerveau est dans la tête (‘The brain is in the head’), Le rétroviseur est à l’avant de la voiture (‘The driving mirror is at the front of the car’)) (Vieu 1991; Vandeloise 1986), Nwhole à Npart structures (e.g., un verre à pied (‘a stemmed glass’), un stylo à plume (‘a fountain pen’)) (Borillo 1996; Bosredon & Tamba 1991; see also below, Section 5.3), “composition” verbs (e.g., comporter/comprendre (‘to be made/composed of ’, ‘to consist of ’), contenir (‘to contain’), avoir/posséder (‘to have’/‘to own’)), “assembling/pulling away” verbs (e.g., assembler (‘to assemble’), réunir (‘to gather’), découper (‘to cut’), structurer (‘to structure’)) (Landelle 1988) or “extraction/addition” verbs calling or not for particular derivational processes (e.g., ôter/retirer (‘to take out’/‘to remove’), ébrancher (‘to prune’), décapiter (‘to behead’), plumer (‘to pluck’), ajouter (‘to add’), emperler (‘to put pearls’), plâtrer (‘to plaster’)) (Aurnague & Plénat 1996; Gerhard 1997).

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guished by language and the theory built for representing their semantics have a wider cognitive grounding and validity. Previous semantic analyses and formalizations already exist for some partwhole relations in linguistics, cognitive psychology, and philosophy, but curiously, for the “main” part-whole relation – the one involved in (1), (2) and (5) above, the existing proposals are very sketchy at best and puzzles regarding its inferential behavior remain unsolved. As a result, this work is mainly dedicated to this relation and the underlying notion of “functional dependence”.

. The multiplicity of part-whole relations As the expression of part-whole relations in language appears quite diverse, it is legitimate to investigate whether different kinds of expressions refer to a single relation or to several ones. From a linguistic point of view, the selectional restrictions induced by “generic” part nouns (e.g., partie (‘part’), bout (‘piece’, ‘bit’), constituant (‘constituent’), composant (‘component’), élément (‘element’, ‘member’), fragment (‘fragment’), membre (‘member’), ingrédient (‘ingredient’)) are not homogeneous (Iris et al. 1988; Aurnague 2004). This would indicate a variety of relations, to which also points the complex distribution of some genitive markers (e.g, possessive and locative genitives of Basque) (Aurnague 2002). On the other hand, logical accounts of part-of relation traditionally appear in formal ontology, where, as for any formal relation, it is taken to universally apply to all domains and therefore to be unique. Theories of this fundamental relation in this field are grouped under the term “mereology”, coined by Lesniewski’s seminal work. (Lesniewski 1927–1931; Simons 1987; Casati & Varzi 1999) . Part-whole relations in language are not just mereology In the standard theory (Simons 1987), also called “classical mereology”, the partof relation, often noted P (or PP for the proper part-of relation) is a partial order, equipped with a fusion (sum) operator, and assumed to be extensional, i.e., no two different entities have the same proper parts. As they are partial orders, P and PP are transitive. However, it has been pointed out long ago (Lyons 1977; Cruse 1986) that there are frequent cases of intransitivity of part-of relation as expressed in language. For instance, (6) Marguerite’s tail is part of Marguerite the cow, and Marguerite is part of the herd, but Marguerite’s tail is not part of the herd;

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similarly, (7) even if The house has a door and The door has a handle are true, The house has a handle cannot describe the same state of affairs (it evokes at best a toy house with a carrying handle on top).

Additional features make classical mereology inadequate. The fusion operator being general, fusioning whatever entities makes up a new entity, and in particular, the fusion of any parts is itself a part. As a result, my left little finger plus my nose is “a” part of me, although this construct has no linguistic existence as a single entity, neither, arguably, conceptual existence. Extensionality too, is controversial. Starting with the same parts, one would like to distinguish several wholes, as it has been argued since Aristotle that Marguerite the cow is different from the mere collection of its organs. Motivated especially by the intransitivity issue, and following Lyons’s suggestion, several authors have explored the hypothesis of a multiplicity of part-whole relations. . The multiple relation hypothesis The much cited article (Winston et al. 1987) distinguishes six relations, namely “component-integral object” (e.g., handle-cup), “member-collection” (e.g., treeforest), “portion-mass” (e.g., slice-pie), “stuff-object” (e.g., steel-bike), “featureactivity” (e.g., paying-shopping), “place-area” (e.g., oasis-desert). This distinction is based on three binary parameters, described in terms of properties that are external to mereology: the “functional” role of the part with respect to the whole being supported or not by the specific spatial/temporal position of the part within the whole; the part and the whole being or not “homeomerous”, that is, “similar” or “of the same kind”; and the part being “separable” from the whole or not. Each relation corresponds to a different combination of the three parameters. The paper argues that each of the six relations is transitive and that intransitivities occur when two different relations are mixed. For instance, the invalidity of argument in example (6) is due to the fact that it combines “component-integral object” and “member-collection”. Although attractive, this thesis is too simple, as several relations are not themselves transitive: “member-collection” is never transitive, and (7) is usually taken to be an example of intransitivity of “component-integral object”. (Iris et al. 1988) examine dictionary data in which the term part or some of its synonyms (portion, piece, member. . .) appears. The authors conclude that it is necessary to distinguish four “models” or “schemata” of the part-whole relation: “functional component” (e.g., organ-body, engine-car), “segment” (e.g., slicebread), “membership” (e.g., sheep-flock), and “subset” (as the authors focus on

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lexical classes rather than collections, the examples given for this case, e.g., tulipflower, actually illustrate a taxonomic relation rather than a part-whole one). As far as transitivity is concerned, Iris et al. claim that neither “functional component” nor “membership” are transitive, but that “segment” and “subset” are. . The role of ontological distinctions among entities In the work just reported, especially in (Winston et al. 1987), there appears to be a pervasive parameter on which the distinctions between part-whole relations rely: the nature of the relata. Indeed, the terms themselves used by Winston et al. to designate their six relations, “object”, “collection”, “mass”, “stuff ”, “activity” or “area”, refer not so much to relations, but to kinds of entities. Exploiting the existing analyses of such kinds, studied both in formal ontology and in formal semantics, we propose to examine what in the part-whole relation(s) is specific to the ontological nature of the entities related. This study should result in the identification of the part-whole relations that it is legitimate to distinguish from the ontological and linguistic points of view. There are two orthogonal dimensions of linguistically relevant ontological distinctions, one which we will call “number”, and one which we will call “category”. .. Number In French, English and many languages, number is marked in a regular way both by syntax (determiners, number proper) and in the lexicon (countable/uncountable terms, collective terms). Formal semantics, through the study of plural expressions has developed several theories of number. Classical analyses of plurals and groups (Landman 1996; Link 1997) distinguish between atomic entities (atoms), which can be singular or collective, and plural entities (see also Muller’s chapter in this volume). Any collective atomic entity, e.g., un groupe de garçons (‘a group of boys’), un orchestre (‘an orchestra’) or un troupeau (‘a herd’), is obviously “constituted of ” some plural entity, e.g., John, Paul et Roy (‘John, Paul and Roy’), les garçons (‘the boys’), les musiciens (‘the musicians’), or les vaches (‘the cows’), which are “sums” of boy-atoms, musicianatoms, or cow-atoms. These classical theories of plurality are based on Boolean algebras with the null element removed, in other words, classical mereology. We have shown in (Vieu 1991; Aurnague & Vieu 1993) that using a theory of plurality which builds on (Link 1983) (see also Muller’s chapter, this volume), the characterization of the relations of “Member-collection” and “Subcollection-collection” is immediate.



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Member-collection is the relation that holds between a singular entity and either3 a plural entity or a collection. It appears already in both (Winston et al. 1987) and (Iris et al. 1988), and is illustrated by the relation that may hold between une vache (‘a cow’) or la vache Marguerite (‘Marguerite the cow’) and either les vaches (‘the cows’) or le troupeau de vaches (‘the herd of cows’), le Texas (‘Texas’) and les Etats-Unis (‘the USA’), etc., as expressed by une de ces vaches (‘a cow from these cows’), Marguerite fait partie de mon troupeau de vaches (‘Marguerite is part of my herd of cows’), or Le Texas fait partie des Etats-Unis (‘Texas is part of the USA’). It can be proven that this relation is not transitive, as illustrated by the counterexample Le Texas fait partie des Etats-Unis (‘Texas is part of the USA’) and Les Etats-Unis font partie de l’ONU (‘USA is part of the UN’) but Le Texas ne fait pas partie de l’ONU (‘Texas is not part of the UN’). Subcollection-collection is the relation that holds between two plural entities – or collections constituted by such plural entities, all the atoms of the first being also atoms of the second. (Winston et al. 1987) doesn’t consider it, and (Iris et al. 1988) appears to confuse it with the taxonomic relation “is-a”. Linguistic examples are not very numerous, but we can still hold that this relation is referred to by expressions such as: Le Benelux est dans l’Union Européenne (‘The Benelux is in the European Union’), Le couple Dupont fait partie des gagnants (‘The Dupont couple is part of the winners’),4 les pins de cette forêt (‘the pines of this forest’). This relation is transitive, and we can also show that Member-collection and Subcollection-collection give rise to a mixed transitivity, as illustrated by a case in which Marguerite fait partie de mon troupeau (‘Marguerite is part of my herd’), mon troupeau fait partie du troupeau de toutes les vaches de mon village (‘my herd is part of the herd of all cows in my village’), and thus Marguerite fait partie du troupeau de toutes les vaches de mon village (‘Marguerite is part of the herd of all cows in my village’): (Mb-Coll(x,y,t) ∧ Subcoll-Coll(y,z,t)) → Mb-Coll(x,z,t)

. Even though the examples here don’t seem to make much difference between a singular collection and a plural entity, the two have to be distinguished to account for surface syntactic number as well as complex distributivity and cumulativity behaviors with respect to predication. Such linguistic grounds converge with the metaphysical argument that collections involve some kind of unity criteria that mere sums lack (see Moltmann 1997). . This sentence is ambiguous between a reading in which the single winners are persons, in which case we do have a Subcollection-collection relation, and a reading in which the single winners are couples (like in a dance competition), in which case we only have a Member-collection relation.

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.. Categories Categories are expressed linguistically in a variety of ways. In many languages, syntax already encodes certain important distinctions: temporal (tense and aspect), spatial (pre- or post-positions, cases) or material (mass terms). Such distinctions often correspond to the “top-level” or fundamental categories in a formal ontology (Guarino 1998). In the present work, we are using a set of “ontological categories” forming a coherent top-level ontology from a metaphysical and logical point of view and as faithful as possible to the semantic distinctions deeply encoded in languages. Obviously, the lexicon covers a much larger range of distinctions, not all of them being relevant from a philosophical point of view, i.e., not prominent in an ontological analysis. The lexicon is often modeled as a taxonomy of “lexical types”, for instance as in WordNet (Fellbaum 1998). Such taxonomies can be improved from an ontological point of view using formal ontology methods (Welty & Guarino 2001) and in particular restructured according to a top-level ontology (Oltramari et al. 2002). Actually, a taxonomy is only the backbone of the lexicon, which needs to be given some flesh through the use of a large number of axioms and definitions, connecting linguistic conventions to ontological knowledge and, more generally, world knowledge. We will see in Section 4 that such a lexicon wealth and depth, with its taxonomy of lexical types, is essential for the analysis of part-whole relations. The notion of matter belongs to the ontological distinctions that in French and English are marked in syntax. In fact, mass terms and substance expressions have been studied extensively in formal semantics (see, e.g., Parsons 1970, 1975; Pelletier & Schubert 1989), as well as in analytic philosophy (Quine 1960), often using mereology as a theoretical basis (see also Muller’s chapter, this volume). These studies have helped understand what is the relationship between an “amount of a substance” (de l’eau (‘some water’)) and the “substance” itself (l’eau (‘water’)), as well as the correspondences between substances and “material objects” denoted by count nouns as in, e.g., un gâteau (‘a cake’)/le gâteau5 (‘cake’). The properties of being dissective or homeomerous (any part of an amount of water is an amount of water) and being cumulative (the mereological sum of two amounts of water is an amount of water) have been largely discussed, some authors retaining that they always hold from a linguistic point of view, others noting that dissectivity poses granularity problems (more conspicuously for mobilier (‘furniture’) than for eau (‘water’)). Let’s note that the spatial property of connectedness also alters cumulativity, at least from a linguistic point of view: deux morceaux de bois (‘two pieces of wood’) usually don’t make up un morceau de bois (‘a piece of wood’) and deux . Substance reading, as in Le gâteau fait grossir (‘Cake fattens’).

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verres d’eau (‘two glasses of water’) is ambiguous between a single amount and a plural whose atoms are amounts. As shown in (Vieu 1991; Aurnague & Vieu 1993), the use of three categories, “substance”, “amount of a substance” and “material object”, and a theory of amounts of substance based on Parson’s, makes the formalization of two partof relations, “Portion-whole” (“portion-mass” in Winston et al. 1987, “segment” in Iris et al. 1988) and “Substance-whole” (“stuff-object” in Winston et al. 1987), quite straightforward (see also Muller’s chapter in this volume). Portion-whole may hold between two amounts of the same substance, as in de l’eau de ce verre d’eau (‘some water from this glass of water’), or between an amount of a substance and a singular entity which is constituted of an amount of the same substance, as in une tranche de ce gâteau (‘a slice of this cake’). Portionwhole is transitive. Substance-whole can link two amounts of different substances like in le sucre de ce verre de limonade (‘the sugar in this glass of soda’) or an amount of a substance and a singular entity which is constituted of an amount of different substance, as in la farine du gâteau (‘the flour in the cake’).6 Again, Substance-whole is transitive. Formal semantics, often coupled with ontological investigations, yields the identification of further categories. Time has been extensively studied in many languages as well as in formal ontology, and, as a result, several proposals for the subdivision of the “eventuality” category exist. The study of the semantics of French spatial expressions, in particular spatial prepositions (Aurnague & Vieu 1993) and “Internal Localization Nouns” (e.g., haut (‘top’), bord (‘edge’), coin (‘corner’), centre (‘center’)) (Aurnague 1996, 2004; Borillo 1999), as well as the study of the Basque genitives (Aurnague 2002), have shown the necessity to distinguish the categories of, again, “material object” (e.g., un gâteau (‘a cake’)), “geographical location”7 (un champ (‘a field’)) and “space portions” (l’espace sous . These definite descriptions make reference to the maximal amount of a certain substance in a whole. The relation Substance-whole actually applies to any amount of substance included in the whole. . The object/location distinction is, from a most general point of view, contextual: any entity classified as a material object can (e.g., during a game) play the role of a “landmark” and temporarily be handled as a location, i.e., as spatially fixed in some frame of reference, in spite of its potential mobility in a larger environment. As a result, in formal ontology, “location” should be considered as a subcategory of “material object” or even not considered as a category at all because of this context sensitivity. But since the terrestrial frame of reference is permanently available for the description of most of our activities, the more specific “geographical location” can be considered as a separate category, and it is in fact encoded so in many languages. It is on this basis only that we can account for the French preposition à (Vandeloise 1988)

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la table (‘the space under the table’), l’intérieur du verre (‘the inside of the glass’), un trou (‘a hole’)). In the remainder, we will focus on the category of material objects only. In-depth formal studies of the possibly specific8 part-whole relations between temporal entities (corresponding to “feature-activity” in Winston et al. 1987), geographical locations (corresponding to “place-area” in Winston et al. 1987) or space portions are left aside in this work and, to the best of our knowledge, remain yet to be done. .. The missing relations Restricting our investigation to the categories of “amount”, “substance” and “material object” and taking into account the orthogonal numerical dimension, we have been able to define four relations: Member-collection, Subcollectioncollection, Portion-whole and Substance-whole. However, even considering only material objects, the picture is not complete. The arguably most typical part-whole relation, the one involved in (1), (2) and (5), named “component-integral object” in (Winston et al. 1987) or “functional component” in (Iris et al. 1988), is missing. Although all these examples bear on material objects, this relation is apparently not directly dependent on the nature of the relata, as it rather focuses on a “functional link” between the part and the whole. Most descriptions point out that the part “plays a role” in the whole, and that both are conceived as “integral objects”, i.e., as presenting a clear unity due to some specific “function” and as having definite “boundaries”. However, existing analyses, including our own previous work, stop at this level of description without giving a deeper account of what exactly is the functional link between the part and the whole. With the objective to make a significant progress in the characterization of the semantics of the part-whole relations, the remainder of this paper is devoted to this relation, which we will call “Component-integral whole”9 or CIW for short.

and Basque genitives; the semantics of Basque genitives also requires “mixed entities” of type object•geographical location (Aurnague 2002, 2004; see also Asher’s chapter in this volume). . One can notice here that we are assuming a “segregation principle” (Vieu 1991) that is implicitly or explicitly widely accepted in linguistics (Kleiber 1999): a part-whole relation cannot relate two entities of two disjoint fundamental ontological categories. For instance, neither the substances l’eau (water) and le bois (wood) nor the material objects la mer (the sea) and le bateau (the boat) can be part of the event la régate (the regatta); only events can be part of events. Note that some examples of portion-whole and substance-whole apparently relate an amount and an object, but the analysis shows that they always involve two amounts. . This relation was named “Component-assembly” in our earlier work, but we felt that “assembly” preferentially referred to the sub-category of artifacts.

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Before turning to the analysis of the functional aspects essentially involved in CIW, let’s point out that there is still another part-whole relation between material objects. The relation involved in example (3) as well as in un morceau de la tasse (‘a piece/shard of the cup’) and l’avant de la voiture (‘the front of the car’) is not captured by any of the five ones we have listed. This relation, that we call “Piecewhole”, is linguistically expressed using relational nouns that mostly are Internal Localization Nouns. It is perhaps the relation that is the closest to the mere spatial inclusion, except that the part is spatially connected, and that part and whole are material objects. We have proposed in (Vieu 1991; Aurnague & Vieu 1993) to define it on the basis of these properties, with an additional feature stating that there is no functional link, i.e., that “Piece-whole” and CIW are disjoint relations, to account for the fact that components cannot be described by means of terms like morceau (‘piece’).

. Analysis of functionality The notion of function has been addressed in philosophy mainly with the objective of conciliating neo-Darwinism and the functional, teleological, talk widely used in biology (Allen et al. 1998). Although some authors have tried to extend their analysis of function in biology to a broader notion of function which would apply to artifacts as well, it is only recently that philosophers have dealt specifically with artifacts. In computer science, researchers have focused on the analysis of function in engineering. We will now quickly go through this literature to extract the key ideas to reuse, keeping one observation in mind. Even though language arguably makes a distinction between the natural and artificial realms in some occasions,10 and leaving aside the special case of animate entities and some of their body parts,11 it can be claimed that most languages do not systematically distinguish CIW relations on organisms from those on artifacts and other inanimate entities. We will therefore look for a generic notion of functionality. This very remark allows us to immediately reject as dedicated exclusively to artifacts the definition of function proposed in (Dipert 1993) for it is based on the intentions, deliberations and actions of the artifact’s creator, and cannot therefore

. This is the case of French derivative verbs calling for the prefix -é (e.g., ébrancher (‘to prune’), écosser (‘to shell’), égoutter (‘to wring out, to drain’)) which mainly apply to natural entities or “rough” artifacts (e.g., canvas) (Aurnague 2004; Aurnague & Plénat 1995). . Compare: ??Les poumons sont dans le (corps du) chat (‘The lungs are in the cat(’s body)’) and Les poumons sont dans le thorax du chat (‘The lungs are in the cat’s thorax).

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apply to organisms and their parts.12 It can be noted that, probably for this reason, other scholars consider that function and creator’s intentionality are two separated notions, although they are both at play in the categorization of artifacts (Bloom 1996). In philosophy of biology, the major trend is constituted by etiological approaches to functionality (see, e.g., Wright 1973; Millikan 1989). Function is there understood as the reason, or “purpose”, why a given component is present in a given organism, and is analyzed in terms of a causal history of the ancestors of this organism. The “disposition” of the trait that contributed to the survival and reproduction of its ancestors explains the presence of the current trait in the organism. Extensions to function of artifacts have been suggested by their proponents themselves, but such approaches are discussed and shown to fail in (Vermaas & Houkes 2003); they appear in any case extremely complex and hardly applicable. We strongly doubt that the notion of function needed to account for the CIW relation makes necessarily reference to the causal history of a chain of items connected by some reproduction mechanism. On top of organisms and artifacts, CIW clearly applies to example (5) and other pairs of natural inanimate entities like an oxygen atom and a molecule of water, a planet and a solar system, a plate and the earth’s crust, a pond and the hydrological system of some area, etc. for which no sort of etiological account makes any sense. The philosophy of biology offers other solutions though, some authors rejecting the “backward-looking” notion of function to adopt a behavioral approach. The perspective is to explain how a component performs a function rather than why it is there. One of the most developed and famous account in this trend is that of (Cummins 1975). Cummins proposes the following definition: “The function of x in the system s is to φ, relative to an analytical account a of s’s capacity to ψ if and only if x has the capacity to φ in s, and a accounts for s’s capacity to ψ by, in part, appealing to the capacity of x to φ in s.” For instance, the function of a pigeon’s wing with respect to some analytical account of the pigeon’s capacity to fly is to generate lift and propulsion. This approach appears to be much more suitable to our generic needs, as it can apply to organisms as well as all inanimate entities, including artifacts. Philosophy of biology meets clearly here engineering approaches to functionality, such as (Chandrasekaran 1994), in which function is also essentially based on structural knowledge and on the behavior of components. In this work, behavior of components are taken to be “local”, while functions are relative to the whole system. This is very similar to Cummins’s distinction between function and capacity, . Dipert actually suggests at some point that his approach could be adequate for organisms as well, based on an alleged necessity of our cognition to conceive function in terms of intentions, although no detailed proposal is actually made in this direction.

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the capacity of φ-ing being understood as a disposition, i.e., a regularity in behavior (when a certain type of event occurs, the entity which has the capacity of φ-ing systematically manifests its capacity, it is φ-ing), while a function is a capacity which contributes to the capacity of a more general system. The function of wholes makes reference to the “capacity” of some larger system comprising, for an artifact, the user or even some social system, and, for an organism, its community together with its ecological niche. Defenders of etiological approaches (e.g., Millikan 1989) have criticized the behavioral ones in that they miss out the normative aspects of functions, and are unable to attribute a function to a diseased organ or a broken component of an artifact. This is due to the fact that capacities are defined on the basis of regularities in behavior under certain conditions, considering only the behavior of the item considered, and not that of some “family” of items. They also point out that it is not trivial to fully characterize the “normal conditions” under which the regularities of behavior are supposed to be observed. In addition, we observe that Cummins’s (as well as Chandrasekaran’s) notion of function presupposes an analytical account of a system (or some structural knowledge of it). That is, it presupposes that the system is already decomposed into components and therefore assumes the very relation CIW that we would like to define on the basis of the notion of function. It seems then difficult to apply for our needs, as a definitional circularity would result. In fact, the same argument sheds some doubt on the behavioral analyses of function themselves, since their authors have apparently not paid much attention to what exactly are the notions of component and analytical system they are assuming. However, we do not want to propose here a new account of functionality in general; we just aim at capturing the functionality aspects involved in the semantics of the linguistic expressions of the CIW relation. Even though we will retain some of the basic concepts of the behavioral approaches, our proposal departs somewhat from them. It could be related to Searle’s, who considers that functions, be they of artifacts, of organisms and of inanimate natural entities, are not intrinsic as they are always “assigned” by an “observer” (Searle 1995). We do not subscribe though to the bottom line of Searle’s approach which is to assume teleology necessarily underlies function; we only consider that the normative aspects of function are attached to socially relevant categories of entities, namely the lexical types used to describe them. We will therefore (i) focus on the notion of function that does not only concern the actual entities at hand, but that is conventionally associated with the “types” of the entities as expressed by the lexical items used to denote them.13 And instead of making . This move appears to fit with cognitive psychology studies that show that categorizing an artifact under type X relies on (the recognition of) the creator’s intention of making an entity of type X, rather than making an entity having a given “objective” function (Bloom 1996).

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explicit reference to mental attitudes of some agents, to some causal history of a family of entities within a type, or to a previous behavioral-analytical account of the whole-type, we will more simply (ii) rely on a primitive notion of “functional dependence” between types to account for the normative links between the component and the whole.

. Function of entities “under a description” . Lexical types Let’s first examine why the functions that we should take into account are not those of the entity considered with all its properties, but only those that are associated to the lexical type of the entity. We hold that the way the entity is described by a noun phrase filters out the properties, including the functions, that are relevant for the interpretation of natural language expressions, including those denoting the CIW relation. In other words, the function of the part and that of the whole, as well as the roles these functions play one with respect to the other, may be made apparent or not by the lexical items chosen, and the resulting expression may denote or not a CIW relation. To see this, consider the differences between the following genitive phrases and sentences: (8) la tête du lit / ?la tête du meuble / ??la tête de l’artefact / *la tête du (morceau de) bois (‘the bedhead / the head of the piece of furniture / the head of the artifact / the head of the (piece of) wood’) (9) Le moteur fait partie de la voiture / Le moteur fait partie du véhicule / ??Le moteur fait partie de l’artefact (‘The engine is part of the car / The engine is part of the vehicle / The engine is part of the artifact’) (10) une plume du canari / une plume de l’oiseau / une plume de l’animal / ??une plume de l’organisme (‘a feather of the canary / a feather of the bird / a feather of the animal / a feather of the organism’)

In some cases, the difference in acceptation can simply be explained by a difference in denotation. Le lit (‘the bed’) and le (morceau de) bois (‘the (piece of) wood’) can arguably be considered as denoting different entities. Even though the literature in formal ontology on this controversial topic is very large, a respectable position holds that the (amount of) wood constitutes the bed, but the wood is not a bed and the bed is not wood, as both have different identity criteria (Welty & Guarino 2001). This is the position we have taken above in our account of mass

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terms and the part-whole relations “Portion-whole” and “Substance-whole” (see also Muller’s chapter in this volume). Matters are very different for the objects le lit (‘the bed’) and le meuble (‘the piece of furniture’, a countable noun in French), la voiture (‘the car’) and le véhicule (‘the vehicle’). In those cases, we unquestionably have taxonomic relations between the corresponding categories, i.e., the bed is a piece of furniture and the car is a vehicle. We have categories of varying degrees of generality, but in each case, certainly the same entity. So, if the denotations are exactly the same, why is it that la tête du lit (‘the bedhead’) is perfect while la tête du meuble (‘the head of the piece of furniture’) is at best awkward? It has been argued that the interpretation of the genitive involves the recovering of some linking relation from the terms used (Barker 1995; Partee & Borschev 2003), and similarly, we hold that when an expression (not necessarily a genitive) may denote the relation CIW, this relation can be recovered only if its functional aspects can be inferred from the terms used in the expression. And since it is not typical for a meuble to have a tête (unlike to have a pied (‘leg’)), nor for a tête to be a part of a meuble, the functional relationship is not available, and the interpretation of the genitive phrase is difficult. Obviously, a discourse context in which the entity denoted by le meuble is known to be a lit makes the interpretation available: (11) Un très grand lit occupait toute la chambre. La tête du meuble, bizarrement ouvragée, attirait l’attention. (‘A very large bed filled the room. The head of the piece of furniture, strangely carved, drew the attention.’)

Another phenomenon is at work with the unacceptability of ??-rated expressions in examples (9)–(10) which use very generic descriptions, as l’artefact (the artifact) or l’organisme (the organism). It is certainly “typical” for an engine to be part of an artifact, and for feathers to be part of an organism, although the opposite is not true. But those generic lexical types, which correspond probably to ontological categories,14 do not belong to the basic level (Rosch 1978). In a study confronting taxonomies and “partonomies”, (Tversky 1990) shows that it is unusual to describe such abstract entities by referring to their parts, so that the functional link may be difficult to recover. This could explain the data, but our analysis will not go any further in this respect in this paper.

. We leave for a future paper the issue of whether and how language draws the line between fundamental ontological categories and lexical types, and in that case, how to deal with the lexical perspective given by terms arguably referring to such categories (e.g., entity, organism, or artifact).

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We will therefore take into account in the semantics of CIW the “lexical types” of the entities. We achieve this in a manner similar to that of (Masolo et al. 2004) for dealing with roles and, more generally, concepts considered from a constructive perspective. In this way, CIW doesn’t relate entities, but entities-as-alexical-type, i.e., entities from a given descriptive point of view. So doing, we base our analysis on the normativity of linguistic types and allow for mal-functioning entities; functionality is not inferred from the actual current properties of the entities at hand, but from those properties that they would have if the entities were fully “functioning-as-a-lexical-type”. Lexical types are reified, and are thus distinguished from the fundamental (top-level) ontological categories which are treated as unary predicates. Reifying lexical types enables us to predicate over them and establish dependency links between those types and their linguistic and sociocultural context (Masolo et al. 2004). Obviously, our approach relies on a rich theory of lexical types. (Pustejovsky 1995) and even more (Asher this volume) show that a structured lexicon is possible, although our work here, as well as others (Hathout et al. 2003) tend to show that an even richer account, that integrates more distinctions between lexical types and larger amounts of world knowledge, is necessary (Thomason 2003). . Function Now, what is the notion of function associated to a lexical type X? Defining capacities associated with a lexical type requires characterizing what are the “normal conditions” under which a certain behavior is observed. To avoid this, we do not simply adapt the behavioral approach to lexical types. Instead of considering capacities, i.e., potential behavior, we concentrate on the actual performance of the function at a given time. In other words, we do not focus on “being functional” but on “being functioning”. In addition, we want to characterize the full function, and not the local behavior. For instance, we do not consider as being functioning an engine switched on and “working” flawlessly, i.e., producing motion power, while detached from any machine; we want to describe as “being functioning as an engine”, an engine working flawlessly within the larger system of some machine using its motion power. We will therefore use the property of “x being functioning as a X at time t”, considering the functional behavior that entities are typically supposed to be able to show to be described as a X.15 Of course, something can be described as a type at . We want to point at a weakness of this proposal that arises if one needs to take into account complex functions. It is very unlikely that a Swiss knife displays at a same time all dispositions that it has to possess for it to fall under the description “a Swiss knife”. Similarly, birds don’t fly and lay eggs simultaneously. In addition, defining expected behavior may be difficult. I can

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a given time (e.g., this entity is described or classified as an engine), and not being at that time actually behaving as entities of that type typically do (as if the engine is currently switched off), and even not being capable of behaving as that type (as if the engine is flawed or broken). Conversely, something can be functioning as a type, while not being actually described as that type: many large enough and strong enough boxes could be used as stools, tables, etc., without being classified as such; so, in focusing on “functioning as” rather than on “having the function of ”, we clearly depart from the classical approaches to function. Two different predicates, CF(x,X,t) for “the entity x is classified as a X at time t” (Masolo et al. 2004) and Functioning(x,X,t) for “the entity x is functioning as a X at time t”, are then needed. CF covers a wider range of properties than Functioning does, as a lexical type X is not only characterized by function, but also by shape, size or matter etc. (see, e.g., Bloom 1996). On the other hand, Functioning is not just a restriction of CF with respect to functional aspects, because it stresses the actuality of the manifestation of such functional aspects, while for CF their typicality and potentiality is enough. Aristotle referred to the fact that “a hand without the body is not a hand, except in an equivocal sense”, adding that “all things are defined by their function and capacity, so that when they are no longer such as to perform their function they must not be said to be the same things, but to bear their names in an equivocal sense”. Our approach is less demanding than Aristotle’s: it allows for detached or malfunctioning hands to be “classified as a hand”, while not “functioning as a hand”. We assume that “functioning as a X” could be defined for each lexical type X, perhaps relying on different approaches for artifacts or biological entities, even though we do not attempt this here. In the remainder, we will consider only the inferential properties common to all instances of Functioning, that is, we will take Functioning as a primitive predicate.

. Functional dependence The predicate Functioning accounts for the expressed function of entities-as-a-X, for which the literature shows the need to refer to some larger system. We have seen though that to avoid the circular reference to the CIW relation we need to abandon the original idea of the behavioral approach of a system with its analytical account. So, how to account for the functional links between parts and wholes involved in CIW? We will use what we will call “functional dependence”, a special consider that my car is properly working while its CD player is off or even broken; the issue is less clear when I’m driving with a flat tire, although I’m still being transported by the car. “Functioning as” surely requires further investigations, and the proposal further refinements.

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kind of generic dependence between the types X and Y. Functional dependence between a part and a whole states that the part plays a role within the whole, but doesn’t explain what exactly is this role. This yields a weaker notion of function than Cummins’s, but we will see in the next section that it is already quite powerful. Studying dependence between parts and wholes is certainly not a new idea, as it dates back at least to (Husserl 1970). In formal ontology, mereological essentialism holds that parts are essential to their wholes (Chisholm 1976), and many authors use the distinction between essential and non-essential parts (Simon 1997: Ch. 7), as e.g., for a human, between its brain or its heart and one hair; the notion of “being essential” is based on that of existential dependence, either in its specific (brain) or generic (heart) form. In addition, the classical approach to the notion of unity of a whole is based on dependence relations between the parts (Simon 1997: Ch. 9). In linguistics, the focus is rather on the dependence of the part with respect to the whole, since many lexical types describing components are relational nouns or more generally, syncategorematic nouns.16 For instance, tête (‘head’), tige (‘stem’), poignée (‘handle’), all make an implicit reference to an including entity of some kind, and genitive constructions in which such nouns are the head usually refer to the CIW relation. The functional link we are looking for, though, is not that of essential part or whole, for we want to account for the CIW between a hair and a human or between a handle and a door: humans and hairs can exist separately,17 just as handles can exist without doors and doors can exist without handles. What we need to consider is whether the entity-as-a-X which is the part (or the entity-as-a-Y which is the whole), to be functioning as a X (Y), requires the existence of some entity which is both classified as a Y (X) and functioning as a Y (X). For instance, the functional relationship in the CIW between a handle and a door refers to the generic dependence between handles and, not doors, but more generically, “objects that can be moved or used by hand”, such that for an handle to be “functioning as a handle” there exists some object “functioning as an object that can be moved or used by . Generic part names like partie (‘part’) or composant (‘component’) and Internal Localization Nouns are truly relational nouns, just as husband, sister or gift are: their denotation directly involves a (binary or ternary) relation and they are necessarily (perhaps elliptically) modified by a possessive or a genitive (de Bruin & Scha 1988; Barker 1995; Partee & Borschev 2003). No similar syntactic-semantic property exists for the dependence of the whole on the part, and the literature ignores “whole names”. Most part names (e.g., handle, feather) are not relational nouns, though; they nevertheless belong to the class of syncategorematic nouns (Kleiber 1999), which make reference to some dependence relation in their semantics. . A hair can exist even when no animal and no human exists any longer. There is no existential dependence, although there is a “genesic dependence”, a kind of “historic dependence”. And of course, there are humans without hair.

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hand”, i.e., being moved or used by some hand at the time considered. Similarly, in the opposite direction, a car (in the sense of automobile), to be functioning as a car, requires the existence of a functioning engine. And it can be argued together with Aristotle that a hand (or a human hair) to be “functioning as a hand” requires that some human exists which is “functioning as a human”. Let’s now see how such a functional dependence can be formally characterized. . Generic functional dependence The most basic dependence relation is the one that holds between two individuals, namely specific existential dependence (Husserl 1970; Simons 1987: Ch. 8; Fine 1995). x is dependent on y if and only if necessarily the existence of x implies that of y. The precise nature of the alethic modality and that of the existence predicate (the existential quantifier will obviously not do here) is certainly debatable, but here, modifying slightly the proposals of (Simons 1987: Ch. 8), (Fine 1995) and (Masolo et al. 2003), we will choose a S5 modality18 and a temporalized existence primitive: D(x,y) ≡ ∀t(E(x,t) → E(y,t)) ∧ ¬x=y ∧ ∃t E(x,t) ∧¬∀t E(y,t)19

The second, third and fourth atoms in this definition avoid trivial cases that make the first atom true, when x and y are equal, when necessarily x doesn’t exist or when necessarily y always exists. Using the “classified as” predicate CF as axiomatized in (Masolo et al. 2004), we further define generic existential dependence between types. It is important to note that in the axiomatization of CF, classification implies existence, i.e., CF(x,X,t) → E(x,t). GD(X,Y) ≡ ∀x,t (CF(x,X,t) → ∃y (¬y=x ∧ CF(y,Y,t))) ∧ ∃x,t CF(x,X,t) ∧ ¬∀t∃y CF(y,Y,t)

It only remains to introduce the Functioning predicate in this formula to obtain Generic functional dependence: GFD(X,Y) ≡ ∀x,t ((CF(x,X,t) ∧ Functioning(x,X,t)) → ∃y (¬y=x ∧ CF(y,Y,t) ∧ Functioning(y,Y,t))) ∧ ∃x,t (CF(x,X,t) ∧ Functioning(x,X,t)) ∧ ¬∀t∃y (CF(y,Y,t)) . With or without the Barcan formula is not important, since what we need to prove our theorems is the Barcan converse, which we have anyway. . The language used is a sorted first-order logic with one modality. Uppercase letters are variables ranging over reified categories, and lowercase letters over standard individuals. ≡ is the syntactic relation of definition.

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We assume the following simple axioms on the primitive Functioning, where ⊆ is the mereological part-of relation between times20 and Subtype is defined on CF: Subtype(X,Y) ≡ ∀x,t (CF(x,X,t) → CF(x,Y,t)). (Functioning(x,X,t) ∧ t’⊆t) → Functioning(x,X,t’) (Functioning(x,X,t) ∧ Subtype(X,Y)) → Functioning(x,Y,t)21

On the basis of the properties of the modal operator and these axioms, it can be proved that GFD is transitive, provided that X and Z are disjoint types (in terms of CF, i.e., Disjoint(X,Y) ≡ ¬∃x,t (CF(x,X,t) ∧ CF(x,Y,t))), and that GFD propagates from types to supertypes, provided the supertype is not necessarily always instantiated. (T1) (GFD(X,Y) ∧ GFD(Y,Z) ∧ Disjoint(X,Z)) → GFD(X,Z) (T2) GFD(X,Y) ∧ Subtype(Y,Z) ∧ ¬∀t∃x (CF(x,Z,t)) → GFD(X,Z)

. Individual functional dependence The functional link involved in a CIW relation between an entity x-as-a-X and an entity y-as-a-Y refers to the generic functional dependence between their lexical types X and Y, but we need in addition to establish that the link holds precisely between x and y. We thus now define “Individual functional dependence”, between a x-as-a-X and a y-as-a-Y at some time t: IFD(x,X,y,Y,t) ≡ GFD(X,Y) ∧ CF(x,X,t) ∧ CF(y,Y,t) ∧ ∀t’ ((t’⊆t ∧ Functioning(x,X,t’)) → Functioning(y,Y,t’))

IFD requires that x and y are respectively classified as a X and a Y at time t, but it does not imply that x and y must be functioning (as a X and as a Y respectively) during all of time t; the conditional only states that when x is functioning, y must be functioning as well. So a car can be individually functionally dependent on an engine even though it is at times parked with its engine off, or even if the engine is broken and the car cannot run.22 . We assume extended times (intervals or sums of intervals). Any version of mereology is adequate for parthood on times. Only the concern of not making unnecessary assumptions justifies the use of ⊆ instead of the general mereological relation (see Note 25). . This axiom should be adapted to deal with typicality and non-monotonicity correctly. For instance to accommodate the existence of penguins, if functioning as a bird means flying. . This account of functional dependence is in principle not restrictive enough, since if x is flawed and never functions as a X during t, the conditional is true for any y. Some kind of causal connection between x and y is missing. However, for our purposes, the definition of CIW, a

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We have already noticed that a door could have or not a handle, and that a handle, to be functioning, requires not necessarily a door (there are handles for knifes, bags, etc.) but more generally, some “object that can be moved or used by hand”,23 like, e.g., a door. Between a x-as-a-handle and a y-as-a-door there therefore is what we will call “indirect individual functional dependence”, based on the generic functional dependence between “handle” and some other lexical type subsuming “door”. “Indirect individual functional dependence” is thus defined: IIFD(x,X,y,Y,t) ≡ CF(y,Y,t) ∧ ∃Z (Subtype(Y,Z) ∧ IFD(x,X,y,Z,t))

Of course, we have as a theorem: (T3) IFD(x,X,y,Y,t) → IIFD(x,X,y,Y,t).

. Formalizing Component-integral whole We are now in position to define the CIW relation. There are four cases, according to the fact that the individual functional dependence is direct or not, and according to the sense of the generic functional dependence between the lexical types, i.e., either the part is dependent on the whole, or the whole is dependent on the part. In all cases, a CIW between x-as-a-X and y-as-a-Y at time t requires that both x and y are material objects24 and that x is included in y during t.25 CIW-direct1(x,X,y,Y,t) ≡ Obj(x) ∧ Obj(y) ∧ PP(x,y,t) ∧ IFD(x,X,y,Y,t) CIW-direct2(x,X,y,Y,t) ≡ Obj(x) ∧ Obj(y) ∧ PP(x,y,t) ∧ IFD(y,Y,x,X,t) CIW-indirect1(x,X,y,Y,t) ≡ Obj(x) ∧ Obj(y) ∧ PP(x,y,t) ∧ IIFD(x,X,y,Y,t) CIW-indirect2(x,X,y,Y,t) ≡ Obj(x) ∧ Obj(y) ∧ PP(x,y,t) ∧ IIFD(y,Y,x,X,t) connection will be partially guaranteed by a mereological relation P between x and y. This is not a causal connection, but it excludes most irrelevant entities. . It appears here that, in a given language, the lexicon may require more lexical types to express its semantic interrelationships than are actually lexicalized. . We have focused here only on the case of CIW between objects. If, after further studies, it turns out that our analysis is also valid for “functional” part-of relations between geographical locations (an oasis and a desert), substances (water and milk), eventualities (a battle and a war), or even space portions (the inside of the drawer and the inside of the closet), then to account for the category segregation of part-whole relations, we could simply replace the first two atoms by Same-Category(x,y). . We use mereology for modeling spatial (or spatio-temporal) inclusion, without any additional “parthood” flavour. PP(x,y,t) means the extension of x is strictly included in that of y during t. According to generic assumptions on the spatio-temporal of concrete individuals, a 3D or a 4D version of a (possibly non-extensional) mereology or mereotopology can be used. In our past work, we have been using a 4D version; see also Muller’s chapter in this volume.

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Let’s now see how several examples, already mentioned or not, distribute among the four cases: CIW-direct1: cuff-sleeve, stem-plant, carburetor-engine, finger-hand, hand-arm, armbody, hand-body, heart-circulatory system, nucleus-cell CIW-indirect1: handle-door (with “objects that can be moved or used by hand” for type subsuming “door”), door-house (with “wall, enclosure, building, cupboard or vehicle” subsuming “house”), engine-car (with “machine” subsuming “car”), brick-wall (with “construction” subsuming “wall”), valve-carburetor (with “fluidholding device” subsuming carburetor), feather-canary (with “bird” subsuming “canary”) CIW-direct2: wall-house, engine-car, electron-atom, atom-molecule, finger-hand, hand-arm, cell-heart, feather-canary CIW-indirect2: heart-circulatory system (with “pump” subsuming “heart”), brickwall (with “construction material” subsuming “brick”)

These examples show that in many cases (engine-car, finger-hand, hand-arm, brick-wall, heart-circulatory system, feather-canary. . .) we have both a CIW-1 and a CIW-2, that is, the part depends on the whole and the whole depends on the part. The existence of one CIW relation between two entities licenses the use of the corresponding genitive constructions (e.g., Le carburateur du moteur (‘The carburetor of the engine’)) as well as of other part-whole descriptions (e.g., Le carburateur fait partie du moteur (‘The carburetor is part of the engine’)). In addition, distinguishing different CIW relations allows us to make predictions about determinative compound nouns of the form Npart de Nwhole (Nwhole Npart / NPpart of Nwhole; e.g., un moteur de voiture (‘a car engine’)) or Nwhole à/avec Npart (Npart Nwhole / Nwhole with Npart; e.g., un bateau à moteur (‘a motor boat’/‘a boat with engine)) (Borillo 1996; Bosredon & Tamba 1991). The predictions that can be made for each CIW relation can be stated as follows.26 When there is a direct dependence of the type of the “head noun” on that of the “modifier”, the modifier adds no information with respect to the head noun, that is, the compound does not denote a proper subclass, and is thus ill-formed. So, if a CIW-direct1 relation holds between x-as-a-X and y-as-a-Y then the construction NX de NY is ruled out: *un pétale de plante (‘a plant petal’), *un carburateur de . It can be noted that these predictions heavily depend on the lexicon structure of each language and the approach adopted here consisting in formalizing functional dependences via lexical types seems to be well suited for grasping these differences. Among those peculiarities, let us highlight that the French noun doigt (‘finger’, ‘toe’) can apply to both hands and feet whereas pouce (thumb) is exclusive for hands, and that the English handle can identify a larger variety of parts (of objects that can be moved or used by hand) than the French terms manche, poignée, anse or queue which are restricted to narrower categories.

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moteur (‘an engine carburetor’), *un pouce de main (‘a thumb of hand’), *une main de bras (‘an arm hand’). Similarly, if a CIW-direct2 relation holds between x-as-aX and y-as-a-Y then the construction NY à/avec NX is ruled out:27 *une maison à/avec mur(s) (‘a wall house’/‘a house with wall(s)’), *une automobile à/avec moteur (‘a motor automobile’/‘an automobile with engine), *un atome à/avec électrons (‘an electron atom’/‘an atom with electrons’), *une main à/avec doigts (‘a finger hand’/‘a hand with fingers’). On the other hand, when the dependence is indirect, the modifier may contribute to specify a class of entities, provided that these entities are distinct enough from the rest of those denoted by the head noun, which is, indeed, often the case. So, if a CIW-indirect1 relation stands between x-as-a-X and y-as-a-Y, then the construction NX de NY is often acceptable: une poignée de porte (‘a door handle’), un moteur de voiture (‘a car engine’), une valve de carburateur (‘a carburetor valve’), une plume de canari (‘a canary feather’). And if a CIW-indirect2 relation stands between x-as-a-X and y-as-a-Y, then the construction NY à/avec NX is often acceptable: un ordinateur ?à/avec touchpad (‘a touchpad computer’/‘a computer with a touchpad’), un bateau à voile/moteur (‘a sailing/motor boat’), un mur en/de brique(s)28 (‘a brick wall’). These different predictions on the (un)acceptability of determinative compound nouns show that the four CIW relations distinguished above have a real linguistic – more precisely, semantic – ground. Further proof of their relevance is now provided by the analysis of transitivity, a well-known elusive issue.

. Transitivity . Is Component-integral whole transitive? We have seen in Section 2 that opinions on the transitivity of CIW are varied. Example (7) has been given quite early in the literature as a counterexample (Lyons 1977; Cruse 1986; Iris et al. 1988). Nevertheless, (Winston et al. 1987) hold that each kind of part-whole relation is transitive, and since they do not distinguish different cases of CIW, they assume it is transitive. (Simons 1987) as well as (Casati & Varzi 1999) suggest that according to the additional constraints that specific . Constructions calling for à are more grammaticalized than those calling for avec, giving rise to real compound nouns (Borillo 1996; Bosredon & Tamba 1991). This is probably the reason for which in these examples the constructions with à sound even less acceptable than the constructions with avec. . When the integrated whole is constituted by a collection of functional components of a same type, the prepositions en (‘in’) or de (‘of ’) are used instead of à/avec: NY en/de NX.

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part-whole relations impose on top of the mere mereological relation, the relation may be transitive or not, but they do not analyze CIW any further. Some authors, though, have focused on the fact that CIW is at times transitive and at times not. (Lyons 1977) compares the two examples (7), reformulated below, and (12): (7) The house has a door and the door has a handle but the house doesn’t have a handle. (12) The jacket has a sleeve, the sleeve has a cuff, and the jacket has a cuff.

(Cruse 1986) tries to explain this difference on the basis of the notion of “functional domain”: the functional domain of the handle is restricted to the door, while that of the cuff, by its embellishment role, encompasses the whole jacket. To explain similar cases, (Moltmann 1997) introduces the somewhat related idea of contextualizing the notion of “integral whole”. If, in a given “situation” s in which both x is part of y and y is part of z, y (e.g., in (12), the sleeve) is not considered as an integral whole, then the inference goes through and x is part of z in s. On the contrary, if y is considered as an integral whole in s (e.g., in (7), the door), the inference is blocked. Such explanations are not totally satisfactory because, apart from the fact that it is not trivial to formally characterize the notions of functional domain, integral whole29 or situation, they appear to fail to explain examples in which the transitivity goes through: (13) Le carburateur fait partie du moteur, le moteur fait partie de la voiture et le carburateur fait partie de la voiture. (‘The carburetor is part of the engine, the engine is part of the car and the carburetor is part of the car.’)

In (13), there is no obvious reason for a carburetor to have a functional domain including the car, nor for the engine to be a non-integral whole, or at least a “less” integral whole than a door in the situation in which the door is part of the house. We follow Cruse and Moltmann in trying to acknowledge the fact that there are both cases of transitivity and cases of non transitivity of CIW, but propose a new account. Before getting into the details, let’s observe that there is a simple way to turn example (7) into a case of transitivity: (7’) The house has a door, the door has a handle, and the house has a door-handle (which is made of brass). . (Simons 1987) proposes for instance to rely on some dependence relation between the parts to define an integral whole as a maximum sum of interdependent entities. With such a definition, simply no integral whole can be part of another integral whole.

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This observation confirms what we claimed in Section 4, namely that CIW holds when it is possible to recover from the terms used what is the functional link between the part and the whole. Here, changing “handle” in “door-handle” contributes to specifying what is the role of the handle with respect to the house, i.e., a component of a door, which is (assumed to be) a component of the house. . (In)Transitivity of CIW revisited and other inferential properties On the basis of the transitivity of the mereological relation PP and the formal properties of the relations of functional dependence that we have introduced, in particular (T1), the following theorems can be proved: (T4) (CIW-direct1(x,X,y,Y,t) ∧ CIW-direct1(y,Y,z,Z,t) ∧ Disjoint(X,Z)) → CIW-direct1(x,X,z,Z,t) (T5) (CIW-direct2(x,X,y,Y,t) ∧ CIW-direct2(y,Y,z,Z,t) ∧ Disjoint(X,Z)) → CIW-direct2(x,X,z,Z,t) (T6) (CIW-direct1(x,X,y,Y,t)∧ CIW-indirect1(y,Y,z,Z,t)∧ Disjoint(X,Z)) → CIW-indirect1(x,X,z,Z,t) (T7) (CIW-indirect2(x,X,y,Y,t)∧ CIW-direct2(y,Y,z,Z,t)∧ Disjoint(X,Z)) → CIW-indirect2(x,X,z,Z,t)

In contrast, the following formulas are not theorems: (i) (ii) (iii) (iv)

(CIW-indirect1(x,X,y,Y,t)∧ CIW-direct1(y,Y,z,Z,t)∧ Disjoint(X,Z)) → (CIW-indirect1(x,X,z,Z,t) ∨ CIW-indirect2(x,X,z,Z,t)) (CIW-direct2(x,X,y,Y,t)∧ CIW-indirect2(y,Y,z,Z,t)∧ Disjoint(X,Z)) → (CIW-indirect1(x,X,z,Z,t) ∨ CIW-indirect2(x,X,z,Z,t)) (CIW-direct1(x,X,y,Y,t) ∧ CIW-direct2(y,Y,z,Z,t) ∧ Disjoint(X,Z)) → (CIW-indirect1(x,X,z,Z,t) ∨ CIW-indirect2(x,X,z,Z,t)) (CIW-direct2(x,X,y,Y,t) ∧ CIW-direct1(y,Y,z,Z,t) ∧ Disjoint(X,Z)) → (CIW-indirect1(x,X,z,Z,t) ∨ CIW-indirect2(x,X,z,Z,t))

We can note at this point that the assumption of (Winston et al. 1987) that all part-whole relations are transitive, and that intransitivities occur when mixing different relations is again not confirmed by our analysis, even though we have distinguished four relations. Indeed, (T4–5) tell us that CIW-direct1 and CIW-direct2 are transitive (provided the lexical types X and Z are disjoint), but CIW-indirect1 and CIW-indirect2 are not (because of ¬(i), ¬(ii) and (T3)). In addition, there are cases of “mixed” transitivities (T6–7). So, because of (T6) we can explain why (12) and (13) are examples of transitivity of CIW, seen as a global relation: any cuff functionally depends on a sleeve, any sleeve functionally depends on a garment, e.g., a jacket, therefore any cuff functionally depends on a garment, e.g., a jacket; any carburetor functionally depends

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on an engine, any engine functionally depends on a machine, e.g., a car, therefore any carburetor functionally depends on a machine, e.g., a car. Similarly, (14) is an example of transitivity because of (T4), (15) because of (T5), and (16) because of (T7).30 (14) Ma main fait partie de mon bras, mon bras fait partie de mon corps, donc ma main fait partie de mon corps. (‘My hand is part of my arm, my arm is part of my body, therefore, my hand is part of my body.’) (15) Cet électron fait partie de cet atome, cet atome fait partie de cette molécule, donc cet électron fait partie de cette molécule. (‘This electron is part of this atom, this atom is part of this molecule, therefore, this electron is part of this molecule.’) (16) Cette brique fait partie de ce mur, ce mur est une partie de la maison, donc cette brique fait partie de la maison. (‘This brick is part of this wall, this wall is part of the house, therefore, this brick is part of the house.’)

On the other hand, because (i) is not a theorem (and because of (T3)), (7) and (17) are examples of non transitivity. As for (18), even though the dependence goes both ways for the second premise, since (ii) and (iv) are not theorems, the inference doesn’t get through. (17) One says: la valve du carburateur (‘the carburetor valve’) and le carburateur de la voiture (‘the carburetor of the car’), but not ??la valve de la voiture (‘the valve of the car’), nor ??La voiture a une valve (‘The car has a valve’) and not even ??Cette valve fait partie de la voiture (‘This valve is part of the car’). (18) Cette cellule fait partie du coeur (‘This cell is part of the heart’), Le coeur fait partie du système circulatoire (‘The heart is part of the circulatory system’), but not ??Cette cellule fait partie du système circulatoire (‘This cell is part of the circulatory system’).

Finally, let us note that our analysis can explain further inferential patterns, involved in the contrast between the first pairs of sentences of examples (8)–(10) – leaving aside the problem of referring to ontological categories such as those of artifacts and organisms. Even if CF is transitive and Functioning and GFD propagate from subtypes to types, the following combinations only yield theorems on CIW: (T8) CIW-direct1(x,X,y,Y,t) ∧ Subtype(Y,Z) ∧ ¬∀t∃z (CF(z,Z,t)) → CIW-direct1(x,X,y,Z,t)

. See the classification of examples in Section 5.3 for the clarification of the premises.



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(T9) CIW-direct2(x,X,y,Y,t) ∧ Subtype(X,Z) ∧ ¬∀t∃z (CF(z,Z,t)) → CIW-direct1(x,Z,y,Y,t)

The other combinations, i.e., the following formulas, are not theorems: CIW-direct1(x,X,y,Y,t) ∧ Subtype(X,Z) ∧ ¬∀t∃z (CF(z,Z,t)) → CIW-indirect1(x,Z,y,Y,t) (vi) CIW-indirect1(x,X,y,Y,t) ∧ Subtype(Y,Z) ∧ ¬∀t∃z (CF(z,Z,t)) → CIW-indirect1(x,X,y,Z,t) (vii) CIW-direct2(x,X,y,Y,t) ∧ Subtype(Y,Z) ∧ ¬∀t∃z (CF(z,Z,t)) → CIW-indirect2(x,X,y,Z,t) (viii) CIW-indirect2(x,X,y,Y,t) ∧ Subtype(X,Z) ∧ ¬∀t∃z (CF(z,Z,t)) → CIW-indirect2(x,Z,y,Y,t)

(v)

(T8) suffices to explain that la plume de l’oiseau (‘the bird’s feather’) in (10), which involves a CIW-direct1, can be described as la plume de l’animal (‘the animal’s feather’). On the other hand, since the relationships underlying the genitive expression la tête du lit (‘the bedhead’) in (8) are CIW-direct2 and CIW-indirect1 (with a very heterogeneous lexical type subsuming “lit” (‘bed’)), la tête du meuble (‘the head of the piece of furniture’) is unacceptable in most contexts.31 In example (9), Le moteur fait partie de la voiture (‘The engine is part of the car’) is still a case of CIW-indirect1 (with “machine” (‘machine’) subsuming “voiture” (‘car’)) and CIW-direct2. What makes Le moteur fait partie du véhicule (‘The engine is part of the vehicle’) acceptable is the additional knowledge that all vehicles are machines, or that a functioning vehicle requires a functioning engine. So, the notion of functional dependence goes a long way in explaining the behavior of CIW with respect to inferential patterns. Some puzzling cases remain, though. For instance, (19) should be an example of transitivity because it is an instance of both (T4) and (T5), but the consequent remains at best awkward. (19) Le doigt fait partie de la main / un doigt de la main (gauche) / La main a un doigt (‘The finger is part of the hand / a finger of the (left) hand / The hand has a finger’), La main fait partie du bras / la main du bras (gauche) / Le bras a une main (‘The hand is part of the arm / the hand of the (left) arm / The arm has a hand’), ??Le doigt fait partie du bras / ??un doigt du bras (gauche) / ??Le bras a un doigt (‘The finger is part of the arm / a finger of the (left) arm / The arm has a finger’)

To explain the intransitivity of (19) in its “has a” version, Cruse argues that the relationship between the hand and the arm is an attachment and not a part-whole. . In a context in which the piece of furniture is known to be a bed, the anaphoric resolution procedure should be extended to cover the substitution of the lexical types within the CIW relation.

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But if the first version of the second sentence of (19), la main fait partie du bras, is fine, this explanation is hard to accept. However, it is certainly true that “bras” (‘arm’) – just as “jambe” (‘leg’) with “pied” (‘foot’) – ambiguously denotes either the whole limb including the hand or only the part of the body between the shoulder and the wrist. This ambiguity may explain the unacceptability of the third sentence in (19). There are probably other problematic cases, and we cannot claim to have fully explored the meaning of CIW. The notion of function used here is perhaps too general and arguably weak, simply relying on a “functioning as” primitive predicate, very lightly axiomatized. The real “functional role” of the part within the whole, surely coming in different flavors according to the corresponding pair of lexical categories, remains unanalyzed in this proposal. On the other hand, what is proposed here can be useful to focus a future study of such functional role on relevant phenomena, eliminating the noise introduced by generic dependences in inferential patterns.

. Conclusion We have shown in this paper that the analysis of part-whole expressions is largely dependent on both ontological categories and lexical types. Our proposal to account for the Component-integral whole relation on the basis of functional dependence between lexical types is capable of explaining wellknown puzzles regarding its inferential behavior, without the need to generically characterize function in a deep way. There are nevertheless several issues regarding to what does or doesn’t count as a CIW that are left open. Regarding organisms, there is perhaps the need to distinguish CIW from the relation of “being a product of ”. For instance, bodily secretions (e.g., sweat), or even fruits on a tree are usually not considered as parts of the body or the tree, even though they arguably play a functional role in the organisms. It appears that the genesic (historic) dependence involved is more relevant in such cases than the functional dependence (Aurnague 2004; Aurnague & Plénat 1996). Regarding artifacts, similarly, the boundary between replaceable parts and consumables appears to be blurred: the role of the petrol in a car is conceptually distinguished from that of the brake fluid, for instance. Finally, the distinction between attachments and non-essential components is also often not clear, and may change along with the evolution of concepts associated to lexical types. For instance, since a radio doesn’t require to be part of a larger artifact to be considered as functioning, while cars are not conceptualized as typically requiring radios to be functioning as a car, the relationship between a

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radio and a car is not one of CIW as we have analyzed it. Of course, if the lexical type used is that of auto-radio (‘car radio’), then, we have a functional dependence between the auto-radio and the car and therefore a CIW.

References Allen, Colin, Mark Bekoff & George Lauder (Eds.). (1998). Nature’s purposes. Analyses of function and design in biology. Cambridge, MA: The MIT Press. Aurnague, Michel (1996). Les noms de localisation interne: Tentative de caractérisation sémantique à partir de données du basque et du français. Cahiers de Lexicologie, 69(2), 159–192. Aurnague, Michel (2002). Relations de partie à tout, configurations typiques et dépendances: Analyse sémantique de quelques constructions génitives du basque. Revue de Sémantique et Pragmatique, 11, 69–85. Aurnague, Michel (2004). Les structures de l’espace linguistique: Regards croisés sur quelques constructions spatiales du basque et du français [Bibliotèque de l’Information Grammaticale 56]. Leuven & Paris: Peeters. Aurnague, Michel & Marc Plénat (1996). La préfixation en é- et la relation de partie à tout. In D. Genthial et al. (Eds.), Actes du séminaire lexique: Représentations et outils pour les bases lexicales, morphologie robuste (pp. 43–52). Grenoble: CLIPS-IMAG. Aurnague, Michel & Laure Vieu (1993). A three-level approach to the semantics of space. In C. Zelinski-Wibbelt (Ed.), Semantics of prepositions: From mental processing to natural language processing [Natural Language Processing 3] (pp. 393–439). Berlin: Mouton de Gruyter. Barker, Chris (1995). Possessive descriptions. Stanford, CA: CSLI Notes. Bloom, Paul (1996). Intention, history, and artifact concepts. Cognition, 60, 1–29. Borillo, Andrée (1996). La relation partie-tout et la structure [N1 à N2] en français. Faits de Langue, 7, 111–120. Borillo, Andrée (1999). Partition et localisation spatiale: Les Noms de Localisation Interne. Langages, 136, 53–76. Bosredon, Bernard & Irène Tamba (1991). Verre à pied, moule à gaufres: Préposition et noms composés de sous-classe. Langue Française, 91, 40–55. de Bruin, Jos & Remko Scha (1988). The interpretation of relational nouns. In 26th Annual Meeting of the ACL (pp. 25–32). Buffalo, NY: Association for Computational Linguistics. Casati, Roberto & Achille Varzi (1999). Parts and places – The structures of spatial representation. Cambridge, MA: The MIT Press. Chandrasekaran, Balakrishnan (1994). Functional representation and causal processes. Advances in Computers, 38, 73–143. Chisholm, Roderick (1976). Person and object. London: Allen & Unwin. Cruse, Alan (1986). Lexical semantics. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Cummins, Robert (1975). Functional analysis. Journal of Philosophy, 72, 741–765. (Reprinted in Allen et al., 2003: 169–196). Dipert, Randall (1993). Artifacts, art works, and agency. Philadelphia, PA: Temple University Press. Fellbaum, Christiane (Ed.). (1998). Wordnet. An electronic lexical database. Cambridge, MA: The MIT Press. Fine, Kit (1995). Ontological dependence. Proceedings of the Aristotelian Society, 95, 269–90.

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Gerhard, Francine (1997). Dérivés verbaux préfixés par dé- dit négatif et relations partie-tout. Verbum, 3, XIX, 309–320. Guarino, Nicola (1998). Some ontological principles for designing upper level lexical resources. In A. Rubio, N. Gallardo, R. Castro, & A. Tejada (Eds.), First International Conference on Language Resources and Evaluation (pp. 527–534). Paris: European Language Resources Association. Hathout, Nabil, Marc Plénat, & Ludovic Tanguy (2003). Enquête sur les dérivés en -able. Cahiers de Grammaire, 28, 49–90. Husserl, Edmund (1970). Logical investigations. London: Routledge. Iris, Madelyn Anne, Bonnie E. Litowitz, & Martha Evens (1988). Problems of the part-whole relation. In M. Evens (Ed.), Relational models of the lexicon: Representing knowledge in semantic networks (pp. 261–288). Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Kleiber, Georges (1999). Anaphore associative et relation partie-tout: condition d’aliénation et principe de congruence ontologique. Langue Française, 122, 70–100. Landelle, Martine (1988). Analyse syntaxique de l’expression de la segmentation dans le lexique français. D.E.A. report. Toulouse: Université de Toulouse-Le Mirail. Landman, Fred (1996). Plurality. In S. Lappin (Ed.), Handbook of contemporary semantics (pp. 425–457). Oxford: Blackwell. Lesniewski, Stanislaw (1927–1931). O podstawach matematyki [On the foundations of mathematics]. Przeglad Filosoficzny [Philosophical Review] (pp. 30–34). (English translation in: Topoi, 2, 7–52). Link, Godehard (1983). The logical analysis of plurals and mass terms: A lattice theoretical approach. In R. Bäuerle, C. Schwarze, & A. V. Stechow (Eds.), Meaning, use and interpretation of language (pp. 302–323). Berlin: de Gruyter. Link, Godehart (1997). Algebraic semantics in language and philosophy. Stanford, CA: CSLI Lecture Notes. Lyons, John (1977). Semantics. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Masolo, Claudio, Stefano Borgo, Aldo Gangemi, Nicola Guarino, & Alessandro Oltramari (2003). The WonderWeb Library of Foundational Ontologies and the DOLCE ontology (WonderWeb (EU IST Project 2001–33052) Deliverable D18. Masolo, Claudio, Laure Vieu, Emmanuele Bottazzi, Carola Catenacci, Roberta Ferrario, Aldo Gangemi, & Nicola Guarino (2004). Social roles and their descriptions. In D. Dubois & C. Welty (Eds.), Knowledge representation and reasoning, KR2004 (pp. 267–277). Menlo Park, CA: AAAI Press. Millikan, Ruth Garrett (1989). In defense of proper functions. Philosophy of Science, 56, 288–302. (Reprinted in Allen et al., 1998: 275–312). Moltmann, Friederike (1997). Parts and wholes in semantics. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Oltramari, Alessandro, Aldo Gangemi, Nicola Guarino, & Claudio Masolo. (2002). Restructuring WordNet’s Top-Level: The OntoClean approach. In OntoLex’2 workshop, LREC2002 (pp. 17–26). Paris: European Language Resources Association. Parsons, Terence (1970). An analysis of mass terms and amount terms. Foundations of language, 6, 363–388. Parsons, Terence (1975). Afterthougths on mass terms. Synthese, 31, 517–521. Partee, Barbara & Vladimir Borschev (2003). Genitives, relational nouns, and argumentmodifier ambiguity. In E. Lang, C. Maienborn, & C. Fabricius-Hansen (Eds.), Modifying adjuncts (pp. 67–112). Berlin: Mouton de Gruyter. Pelletier, Francis J. & Lenhart Schubert (1989). Mass expressions. In D. Gabbay & F. Guenthner (Eds.), Handbook of philosophical logic, Vol. IV (pp. 327–407). Dordrecht: Reidel.

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Pribbenow, Simone (1995). Modelling physical objects: Reasoning about different kinds of parts. In P. Amsili, M. Borillo, & L. Vieu (Eds.), Time, space and movement: Meaning and knowledge in the sensible world, Part C (pp. 31–44). Toulouse: LRC. Pustejovsky, James (1995). The generative lexicon. Cambridge, MA: The MIT Press. Quine, Willard V. (1960). Word and object. Cambridge, MA: The MIT Press. Searle, John (1995). The construction of social reality. New York: The Free Press. Rosch, Eleanor H. (1978). Principles of categorization. In E. H. Rosch & B. Lloyd (Eds.), Cognition ad categorization (pp. 27–48). Hillsdale, NJ: Lawrence Erlbaum. Simons, Peter (1987). Parts – A study in ontology. Oxford: Clarendon Press. Tamba, Irène (1994). Un puzzle sémantique: Le couplage des relations de tout à partie et de partie à tout. Le Gré des Langues, 7, 64–85. Thomason, Richmond H. (2003). Non-monotonic formalisms for natural language semantics. In Proceedings of the Second International Workshop on Semantics, Pragmatics, Rhetoric (pp. 4–19). Donostia/San Sebastián: ILCLI. Tversky, Barbara (1990). Where partonomies and taxonomies meet. In S. L. Tsohatzidis (Ed.), Meanings and prototypes: Studies in linguistic categorization. New York, NY: Routledge. Vandeloise, Claude (1986). L’espace en français: Sémantique des prépositions spatiales. Paris: Seuil. Vandeloise, Claude (1988). Les usages spatiaux statiques de la préposition à. Cahiers de lexicologie, 53, 119–148. Vermaas, Pieter & Wybo Houkes (2003). Ascribing functions to technical artefacts: A challenge to etiological accounts of functions. British Journal for the Philosophy of Science, 54(2), 261– 289. Vieu, Laure (1991). Sémantique des relations spatiales et inférences spatio-temporelles: Une contribution à l’étude des structures formelles de l’espace en langage naturel. PhD dissertation. Toulouse: Université Paul Sabatier. Welty, Chris & Nicola Guarino (2001). Supporting ontological analysis of taxonomic relationships. Data and Knowledge Engineering, 39(1), 51–74. Winston, Morton E., Roger Chaffin, & Douglas Herrmann (1987). A taxonomy of part-whole relations. Cognitive Science, 11, 417–444. Wright, Larry (1973). Functions. Philosophical review, 82, 138–168. (Reprinted in Allen et al. 1998: 51–78).

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Objects, locations and complex types* Nicholas Asher Department of Philosophy University of Texas at Austin

This paper investigates certain puzzling predications about locations and physical objects. I argue first that locations and physical objects are distinct types of things. Locations and physical objects have different individuation conditions. So this should entail that nothing is both a location and a physical object. However, there are commonplace sentences in which terms seem to denote things that are both locations and physical objects. I provide a formal model for how to understand such sentences.

.

Introduction

Recent advances in the study of the lexicon and discourse have suggested a rich and complex theory of composition. While examples of coercion exploiting telic and other functional roles are relatively wellknown, I will look here at another, related class of lexical items with a somewhat different behavior. My interest is in objects that seem to have two conflicting types at once, of which the most frequently quoted example occurs in (1): (1) The book is a great piece of literature and 800pp long.

Here book seems to type its argument in two incompatible ways, as an informational, abstract object and as a concrete, physical object. The incompatibility might be avoided in some accounts, but in a type theory that distinguishes between concrete and abstract objects, an object typed as both concrete and abstract typically causes difficulties. Asher and Pustejovsky (2000) attempt to model such complex types via “dotted types” in the “generative lexicon” or GL (Pustejovsky 1995). In this paper, I will argue that lexical elements in the spatial domain also give rise to * This paper grows out of joint work with James Pustejovsky. In addition I would like to thank Sheila Asher, Michel Aurnague, Tim Fernando, Ivan Sag, Stan Peters, David Israel, Alex Lascarides, Ann Copestake, Johanna Seibt and Laure Vieu for helpful comments.

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such complex types. My starting point is the well known distinction between places (fixed elements in the terrestrial reference frame) and objects (elements that have a complex internal structure and typically move with respect to the terrestrial reference frame). As Aurnague (2004) and also Vieu (1991) show, a failure to keep the types of object and place distinct will lead to difficulties in formulating relations of inclusion for spatial prepositions like dans. (2) Max est dans l’île. L’île est dans la mer. ? Alors, Max est dans la mer. (‘Max is in the island. The island is in the sea. Then, Max is in the sea.’) (3) Max est dans la maison. La maison est dans l’île. Alors Max est dans l’île. (‘Max is in the house. The house is in the island. Then, Max is in the island.’)

It also appears that a failure to distinguish between objects and places will miss grammaticalizations of these categories. For instance, in Basque there are two genitive cases -ko and -ren and they have a quite interesting distribution, once one distinguishes between geographical locations and objects; locations in general easily take the genitive -ko but not -ren, whereas objects in general do the reverse Aurnague (2004). There’s also evidence that Dutch makes a distinction between locations and objects within the system of pronominal reference: while in English we appear to be able to refer to places or objects with the pronoun it as in (4b–c), Dutch requires a different anaphoric pronoun to refer to a place. (4) a. That’s a nice field. b. It’s where I keep my cows. c. I keep my cows in it. (5) a. Dat is een mooi weiland. (‘That’s a nice field.’) b. Daarin houd ik mijn koeien. (‘Therein I keep my cows.’) c. *In het houd ik mijn koeien. (‘In it I keep my cows.’)

A possible test for the distinction between an object and a location is the alternation in English between the use of the prepositions in or at versus inside. One can easily say that one is at or in a location. One can also be in or inside a physical object. On the other hand, it is dispreferred to say that something is inside a location but quite alright to say that it is inside an object, if it’s enclosed. Similarly, the relative pronoun where refers to locations rather than physical objects. (6) a. The worm is inside /in the apple. ??The apple is where the worm is. b. John is in/?inside New York. New York is where John is. c. The tractor is in/??inside the field. The field is where the tractor is.

Given the conceptual and grammatical reasons for making the distinction between places and object, it’s very surprising to note, as Aurnague (2004) does, that some lexical items appear to act both like objects and like places. Aurnague calls these “mixed entities”. Mixed entities are things like buildings; they have a complex in-

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ternal structure like other movable objects but they are also fixed elements with respect to the terrestrial reference frame. Thus Aurnague (2004) distinguishes the following: – – –

places: valley, field, river, mountain, hill . . . objects: apple, glass, chair, car . . . “mixed entities”: house, church, town hall . . .

Using the grammatical clues given in Basque, Aurnague suggests that a mixed entity noun (as castle in the example below) functions both as an object and a place. (7) Gazteluko paretak harriz eginak dira, haren dorre zaharra aldiz egur eta buztinez. (‘The walls of the castle are made of stone, its old tower however (is made) of wood and clay’).

If we attend to the distribution of in and inside in English with objects that have an inside and use that as a key to distinguishing between the way their objects are typed, then it appears that houses, as well as trains and drawers, can be understood not only as physical objects but as locations as well. In fact, it is the predicational context, it seems at least in English, that determines whether the object is understood as an object or a location. (8) a. b. c. d.

The checkbook is inside the drawer. The drawer is where the checkbook is. I’m inside a train where there are some very comfortable seats. John must be inside the house where there are some very expensive paintings. There are some beautiful paintings inside the house where John resides.

A careful study of ontological categories relative to the spatial domain reveals both a distinction between locations, objects and mixed entities and various means for shifting from one type to the other. In fact this is not surprising at all, if we follow Aurnague and Vieu (1993) and analyze locations in a relational sense as in some sense both physical objects and a portion of space that the object together with its spatial relations to other objects defines. This is of a piece with and provides convincing evidence for a general picture of lexical semantics that I will sketch below. In this paper, I’ll use joint work with James Pustejovsky to develop a composition logic and an account of complex types.

. The argument for dot objects One enrichment to a standard type system, proposed in the Generative Lexicon of Pustejovsky (1995), is the notion of a “dot object”. Dot objects are objects with a complex dot type. I understand this as an ontological thesis, not merely one about

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words; it’s not that the word has a type but that a variable in the bit of logical form that captures the semantics of the word has a complex type, and this in turn means that the objects that the variable ranges over must have some property corresponding to this complex type. I’ll write a complex, dot type with component types σ and τ as σ•τ. Pustejovsky (1995) introduced dot objects to explain copredications in the context of polysemy. Here’s how this is supposed to work. The translation of two conjunctively coordinated verb phrases VP1 and VP2 should introduce a lambda abstracted formula λx(φ1 (x) ∧ φ2 (x)) in which two properties (the property of being φ1 and the property of being φ2 ) whose arguments are of different types have a common variable. This variable must have a type that is in some sense compatible with the types t1 and t2 of the arguments of the two properties, and the subject noun phrase will combine with this variable only if it is of the requisite type. If the variable and the subject noun phrase both have a simple or complex type according to which they have in some sense both types t1 and t2 , then the predication succeeds; it will fail if either a type mismatch between the subject and the complex predicate occurs or the type logic fails to construct a common type for the abstracted variable in the complex predicate. A similar story obtains when we have a noun phrase that consists of a noun and relative clause that assign to their arguments different types. When these both have to be composed together to form a complete noun phrase logical form they will have to share a variable with a type compatible with both the type of the noun and that of the relative clause. The reason that copredications are crucial to the argument that dot objects exist is that they create problems for a simpler and attractive account of the apparent two faced nature of objects like book. The simpler account supposes that some predicates can coerce book to be a physical object, and some predicates coerce book to be an informational object. The problem with the copredication examples is that we have only one subject and two coordinated predicates that require their arguments to be of distinct and incompatible types. Unless we “distribute” the subject across the verb phrases, we won’t be able to use the simple coercion story. But then the distribution story gets the truth conditions wrong when the subject is an indefinite as in (9): (9) A book that I bought yesterday is a great piece of literature and 800pp long.

The distribution strategy predicts that such a sentence means that there is a book that I bought yesterday that is a great piece of literature and there is a book that I bought yesterday and is 800pp long; but (9) states that there is one book that is both a great piece of literature and 800pp long that I bought yesterday. Thus, a story about the informational and physical aspects of books that only countenances simple types has difficulty making sense of the copredication data. Further, we need to keep the information around that given object is both an informational and a physical object at the same time, because of examples like the following:

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(10) John’s mother burned the book on magic before he could master it.

If the verb master involves selecting for the informational sense of book, we cannot simply categorize book as a physical object when predicating burning of it in the first sentence. Otherwise we will be unable to bind the anaphor in the second clause, unless we have the unintuitive rule that master coerces all its physical objects into physical and informational objects (master the stairs, master the maze). This would force knowing how into knowing that, which seems wrong. Sometimes the failure of a copredication points to a lack of a simple or complex type for the complex property resulting from the conjunction of two predicates. In (11) below, we see that ambiguous words (Pustejovsky 1995) do not introduce a dot object. (11) !The bank specializes in IPO’s and is being quickly eroded by the river.

This is interesting because it provides an argument against another simple model of copredication, on which one might suppose that the subject is ambiguous between different types and that it distributes across the VP in some (mysterious) fashion and the ambiguity is resolved. But (11) shows that copredications that attempt to link together two types that apply to an ambiguous noun phrase sound at best strongly zeugmatic, at worst completely incoherent. A last simple hypothesis concerning copredication is that the coordination of predicates leads to a coercion of one predicate’s type by the other. Thus, one might hypothesize that in (10) the coordination of a predicate that takes a physical object as argument and one that takes an informational object as argument coerces the informational predicate into a physical one – in this case master becomes something like masters the informational content of or associated with. This coercion appears plausible enough in this case, but unfortunately this simple hypothesis doesn’t work. If all copredications were to be explained in this way, then we would suppose that this coercion should work regardless of the type of physical object that is the argument of the complex predicate. But this doesn’t happen. If (10) sounds fine, (12) is very strange: (12) ?John’s mother burned the table before he could master it.

That’s because there’s no informational content that’s conventionally associated with a table. The copredication fails here because table isn’t of the requisite type. By failure I mean that it’s difficult to assign (12) a coherent proposition that is capable of being true or false in a given circumstance, and that’s what a story about type mismatch would predict – no logical form for the sentence can be constructed. The VP coercion story would predict that (12) is false since tables don’t contain information, but it would predict that it’s perfectly meaningful. Many common nouns appear to accept complex types for the objects that fall under them, though not all copredications are equal. For instance, (13b) sounds

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zeugmatic and somewhat odd, whereas (13a) is fine. Contrast also (11) and (14c). The facts here are complex, so let’s sort them out patiently. While dot objects that we consider both as informational objects and physical vehicles of that information are commonplace (13a, c), it appears that one construct a complex type from a type of entity and a type of something the entity produces, as in (13b), where the copredication requires an argument that’s somehow both an institution or company and a physical object that company produces. On the other hand as we’ve seen, we may view certain entities both as locations or as objects with a particular volume and shape (14a). It would seem that bays, as well as castles and houses (7) can also function as Aurnague’s mixed objects which I claim here are dot objects. Other examples of dot objects are cities (14b); a city can be understood as a location, a government, even a collection of people – all simultaneously. (14c) indicates that we may also consider banks both as financial institutions and as locations. So we can form more complex types using the type location than simply the type of mixed entity noted by Aurnague. (13) a.

The Sunday newspaper weighs 5 lbs and documents in depth the economic news of the week. b. ??The newspaper was founded in 1878 and weighs 5 lbs. c. The novel was amusing and only 100pp long – a quick and enjoyable read.

(14) a. The bay where John swam curved from the lighthouse to a sandy spit. b. The city that John lives in and that thrives off its tourist economy just passed a law against smoking in bars. c. That bank specializes in IPO’s and is just around the corner. (7) Gazteluko paretak harriz eginak dira, haren dorre zaharra aldiz egur eta buztinez. (‘The walls of the castle are made of stone, its old tower however (is made) of wood and clay’).

From this small survey of copredication data, it appears that many objects can or should be categorized as dot objects. These complex types must be accessible at the lexical level if we are to use them in our explanation of copredication data. But the question is, do nouns like city, beach, book and so on have a lexical entry of the form λxφ(x), according to which x must be typed as complex or is this complex type on the argument coerced by the presence of the conjoined verb phrases to which the noun phrase that includes such nouns serves as an argument? We’ve noticed, however, that not just any pair of conjoined verb phrases makes for a felicitous utterance. It is difficult to tell whether the coordination of the VPs itself fails to give a coherent complex property or whether it is the typing clash between an established type for the subject and the type demanded by the complex VP. One way to tell is whether we can find a felicitous sentence of the form ‘X was founded in 1878 and weighs 5 lbs’, but I can’t think of any appropriate filler for X. This suggests that the complex type itself just can’t be formed at the VP level. But

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Objects, locations and complex types 

there are also constraints that suggest that the coercion story isn’t simple either. If coercion here were a simple matter of the VP simply assigning the appropriate type to subject DP, then we wouldn’t expect to get the following sorts of pairs, one perfectly normal and the other definitely zeugmatic. (15) a. The guide is very informative and yet is small enough to fit in your pocket. b. ??The sonata is very complex and yet is small enough to fit in your pocket.

Sonatas are the sort of thing that could at least in principle have a physical manifestation. We say things like: (16) I lost the sonata I composed yesterday.

But yet the copredication that fits easily with books works badly with sonatas. So type coercion by the corresponding VP isn’t the whole story. The noun in the subject noun phrase also has to be of the right, complex type. So what we can conclude is that certain nouns have complex types and certain grammatical constructions yielding copredications force us to give a complex type to their common argument. Besides conjoined verb phrases or copredications involving relative clauses there are some simple predicates that require a dot object as complement; Pustejovsky (1998) concluded on the basis of the following data that read, for instance, coerces its direct object into something of the complex type. (17) a. Mary read the book. b. John read the rumor about his exwife. c. Mary read the subway wall.

For both (17b) and (17c) the predicate coerces its complement to the appropriate type, that of physical•information. In each of these cases, there is a “missing element” to the complex type: for (17b) the coercion effects the introduction of the physical manifestation to the otherwise informational type; for (17c) the coercion results in the introduction of an informational component to an otherwise merely physical type. But even here the coercion is not completely free. Suppose, for instance, someone has written a message in the sand on a beach using a stick. It’s perfectly clear what I want to say with (18) but it still sounds pretty awful: (18) John read the sand.

The bounds on the coercion are highly conventionalized. Sometimes dot objects are explicitly encoded in the lexicon, other times not as with rumors and subway walls. But even these types of entity are conventionally associatable with either physical manifestions or informational contents. The opponent of complex types might have one other way of accounting for the copredication data suggested in fact by other work in the GL framework. One of GL’s best known features are the so called qualia structures (see also Moravcsik

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1975), which encode in the type structure the four Aristotelian causes. One might think that one could use these types to handle copredications. For example, let’s consider a particular dot type, that introduced by book. How would we analyze book without dot types? We could imagine an Aristotelian explanation of the following kind: the formal cause of book is the information it contains; the material cause (constitutive role) is the physical realization of the book, while the efficient (agentive) cause is the writing and its telic role is to be read. But in fact, the information in a book has a separate mode of coming into being from the physical object itself; similarly, the constitution of the information refers to notions such as, for example, narratives, chapters, sections, and so on, while the constitution of the physical object refers to pages, binding, and the physical components of the object. Another problem with this approach is that the predicates that are sui generis related to entities that are both physical objects and information bearing objects are actually mistyped here; that is, both read and write are only understandable in terms of a complex typing system. Many lexical types behave in the same way as book that don’t have an analysis in terms of qualia. For instance, temperature, human or city (an organization, a location, a collection of people) all clearly seem to denote dot objects. The Aristotelian model simply breaks down on such objects; that is, the constituent types here don’t correspond in any way to the Aristotelian causes. My conclusion is that dot objects appear to be the best shot at explaining the data about copredication.

. Lexical semantics and common-sense metaphysics In order to explore the rich lexical data about copredication both in and outside of the spatial domain, it appears that we need to have a finegrained system of types of objects, as well as the standard functional types used for compositional semantics since Montague. The question is, how do these things go together? We’ve seen that in some cases complex types can be formed or need to be somehow coerced at least locally into their simple type constituents. It is not easy to see how that might go. Further, we’ve seen that some dot objects cannot be formed. It appears that while some of this is conventional there are also information from common-sense metaphysics that militate against some of these constructions. The generative lexicon (GL), developed largely by Pustejovsky in various articles and books (e.g., Pustejovsky 1991, 1995), is a first attempt to model a rich ontology for the lexicon in which there are a variety of type shifting operations. GL attempts to capture complex interactions between lexical elements that cannot be captured within a framework countenancing only operations like application of functions to arguments or merge. But GL so far has not been completely successful

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in setting out a clear logic of composition that would account for the phenomena that it seeks to understand. A further complication is context sensitivity. The linguistic facts show that we can consider one type of object as another type when the context is appropriate. Even categories that are relatively fixed can function as other types in discourse, again a point made by Aurnague. Consider a situation in which there’s a race for little children around the living room. A parent could be giving a sports commentary of the following sort: (19) Emma’s at the chair.

Without the context that I’ve given (19) is very hard to interpret, because at selects for a particular type of location while chair is a garden variety physical object. That’s what a richly typed theory of predication would predict. But when the appropriate context is presented, we can coerce that argument of at into a location, rendering (19) perfectly intelligible. The ramifications of content by context is something that a context sensitive theory of composition has to take account of, just as a context sensitive theory of discourse interpretation has to take account of a similar context sensitivity. One such theory of discourse representation, Segmented Discourse Representation Theory (SDRT) (Asher 1993; Lascarides & Asher 1993; Asher & Lascarides 2003) solves the problem of contextual ramifications by making use of a special purpose logic with limited access to other domains for building up logical forms of discourses from underspecified logical forms for clauses. This “glue” logic has a limited and partial access to the information content of discourse constituents, Lascarides and Asher (1993) and Asher and Fernando (1997) argue, because a full access to information content would render the task of computing logical forms hopelessly complex. Though not all of linguistic understanding should necessarily be computationally simple, computing logical forms, which is the prerequisite to any deeper understanding, should be a simple matter. This in turn leads to a strong distinction in SDRT between information available to the linguistic system, of which the glue logic is part, and non-linguistic, world knowledge. This separates SDRT and the present attempt to construct a logic of composition for complex types from competing approaches (e.g., Hobbs, Stickel, Appelt, & Martin 1993) based on Quinean scruples in which a general purpose reasoning system is used with no distinctions between linguistic and non-linguistic knowledge. With partial access to common-sense metaphysics and contextual factors, the composition logic can exploit that information in guiding shifts in type during composition efficiently. Thus, like SDRT’s view of discourse interpretation, GL’s view is that word meaning is distinct from non-linguistic or world knowledge. This is a tricky point, because of course world knowledge informs the meaning of words as well as influences discourse structure. The point again that I want to make

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is that the linguistic system has at best partial access to that information. Metaphysical information will be simplified into type information; the type logic will be a drastically simplified reflection of the logic that underlies general reasoning. SDRT’s approach to computing logical form is thus reflected in a GL composition logic, which is what we will provide below. Common-sense metaphysics informs lexical semantics by providing the basic types and basic relations between types, and a lexical semantics reflects thus a background metaphysical picture. It also acts as one constraint on whether certain complex types are admissible (discourse context is another). The general metaphysical picture is that complex types have parts or aspects to them that fall under the simple types. A suggestive metaphysical picture for dot objects is that of Spinoza’s: perspectives that are constitutive of the dot are modes of a single substance – though unlike Spinoza, common-sense metaphysics countenances many substances and many different modes. But luckily for the purpose of doing lexical semantics, we don’t have to investigate the deep underpinnings of this view. The information encoded in metaphysical categories is “lifted” conventionally into the type structure and then exploited in semantic composition. When we need to look only at one aspect of a complex, dot object, we’ll just assume that the predication involving the simple aspect is an “object-elaboration” of the dot object – it’s elaborating on one aspect of the object.1 For short, I’ll call this link O-Elab. There is a further connection between common-sense metaphysics and the lexicon but it’s not a direct one. Metaphysics permit the construction of some complex types but not others. For example tables can’t be dot objects, though subway walls can. I’ll represent this simply as a condition in the composition logic x: σ•τ, which says that it’s consistent with information sources like metaphysics that are relevant to the lexicon that the variable x have the complex type σ•τ. I’m supposing in effect a fence (a filter) from common-sense metaphysics to lexical information.2 Clearly one reason to distinguish common-sense metaphysics from the lexicon is that metaphysics is only one contributory factor to the logic of composition. Clearly syntax and perhaps also morphology contribute to the semantic argument structure, and the discourse context can contribute to the complex semantic types that correspond to syntactic categories. Context may also contribute to certain specialized senses or types in the lexicon. x: σ•τ may also function as a purveyor of information from context. The main reason for distinguishing between the lexicon and metaphysics is computational. The lexicon simplifies reasoning in many ways. First, type in. The name is intended to evoke an analogy to a similar relation in discourse. But the development of that analogy is for another time. . For more on fences and their usefulness in discourse semantics, see (Asher & Fernando 1997).

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formation is quantifier free, whereas it’s hard to imagine any formalization of common-sense metaphysics doing without quantification (in fact it typically exploits higher-order quantification). In fact, our type logic will only feature conjunction and conditionals. We’ll capture incompatibility between types in terms of their common join, bottom. A second way our type logic will be more efficient is that it will exploit type hierarchies, in which for instance incompatibilities are already precomputed (given by metaphysics). This makes defeasible inference feasible – taking it out of the realm of the uncomputable to the possibly quite efficient. More generally, it makes the knowledge of the meaning of words much simpler and computationally much easier. And after all, building logical forms, which is what we are trying to account for should be easy; it’s a minimum standard of semantic competence. The language of the lexicon is also less expressive than that of common-sense metaphysics. If the lexicon is distinct from metaphysics, we open up the possibility that complex types only attach to some words and not others. Conventions will decide what words introduce complex types and what those complex types are. We will show how to account for these examples below in detail, but our point here is that by distinguishing metaphysics from the lexicon, we can both maintain that something like a door or a bathroom has a proper function without being required to claim that that function is part of the lexical entry. It is just such functions that sometimes don’t make it over to the lexicon from the metaphysical scheme.

. The composition logic Having set out our notions for complex types and the underlying relations between them, we now need a logic for manipulating these types that will allow us to construct logical forms for interpretation that capture the motivating data. The data our logic should address are those that arise from the process of combining meanings. In general this means building a logical form for an entire discourse, thus combining both the composition logic and the glue logic; we will concentrate on the composition logic here – leaving the interactions with discourse contexts for another time (see also Lascarides & Copestake 1998). Our logic will extend the lambda calculus for functional types with rules for manipulating complex, dotted types like σ•τ. We’ll also assume that reasoning with our background lexical axioms obeys the logical rules conjunction introduction and elimination and Modus Ponens (though not necessarily any introduction rules for the conditional nor any rules for negation). This is not the only way one could go about implementing a composition logic to account for GL intuitions. One could simply write down a little theory about the dot objects and other complex types – which is presumably what is in common-sense metaphysics (maybe it’s not

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such a little theory either). But as I argued in the previous section, there are conceptual and computational advantages to making the distinction. Building logical forms is different and easier than grasping their full content. We want an efficient process for logical form construction and thus one that is distinct from deep understanding which is given by the proof theory for the logical forms themselves. Our logic of the lexicon and of logical form construction at the clause level is like that of unification and other forms a logic of types; its complexity is no worse than simple unification, given that its operations are all driven by type adjustments and information about types in the lexicon. . The set of types The first thing to do is to describe the general set of types. There are simple types and then two sorts of complex types, dot types and functional types. – – –

e the general type of entities with lots of subtypes and t the type of truth values. Below σ, τ range over all simple type, the subtypes of e as well as e and t. If σ and τ are types, then so is the functional type (σ ◦τ) (I use ◦ to distinguish a functional type from a material implication →) If σ and τ are types, then so is the dot type (σ•τ).

I assume here the • is a type forming operator that is associative, idempotent and commutative. Our composition logic will have the usual lambda terms familiar from compositional semantics, together with a set of type assignments, of the form x: σ or x: σ•τ. The usual rules for the typing of lambda terms apply here. Thus, if we have a term t and another term variable t and the formula in logical form t(t ) (i.e. where t successfully applies to t ), then t has type σ ◦τ iff t has type σ and t(t ) has type τ. Similarly if a variable x is of type σ and t is of type τ, then λxt is of type σ ◦τ. We need to use type information too; for instance, we may need to know that σ is a subtype of τ or that σ and τ have a common meet, something I’ll write as σ τ or στ = ⊥ respectively. Correspondingly if σ and τ have no meet, I’ll write σ τ =⊥. We also need our “fence” formula from discourse context and metaphysics v: σ•τ, as well as a formulas that allow us to put constraints on what types variables may be. Finally, we need a formula to tell us what the head of a construction is; I’ll use Head(φ) to express the fact that φ is the head of a construction. Let’s look at bit more closely at what goes on in a derivation where a type coercion may take place. Consider for instance trying to construct the noun phrase: (20) a heavy book

Let’s suppose that the adjective heavy yields the lambda term λPλx(Heavy(x) ∧ P[x]) where x: p is the assignment to x of the type physical. Given the type of x

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and the fact that P must apply to x (written P[x]), this implies of course: P: p ◦t. The adjective phrase itself then has type (physical ◦t) ◦t. This has to combine with the lexical entry for book to get a full noun phrase in the DP analysis of syntax that then combines with the determiner. Let us suppose that book yields the term λvBook(v) together with the typing context v: physical • informational or p•i for short. Then λvBook(v) has type (p•i) ◦t. So we have a type clash between the adjective’s type and the noun’s type. One question is, where does the type adjustment take place on the noun’s type, on the type of the adjective itself, on the noun, or on some lower variable? The second question is, what sort of adjustment do we make? Do we adjust the type of the noun or one of its variables to fit the adjective’s type or the other way around? For the second question there seems to be something of a principled answer: it’s the head whose type should percolate to the top of the projection. And so in the example of (20) we should adjust the adjective’s type. When we combine a DP in object position with the verb to form a VP, we want the verb’s categorization to affect the way the DP is interpreted, given our principle that the head of the category should win out. Our principle that the head’s typing of arguments should win in any resolvable conflict involving complex types, dictates where we should make the adjustments. The key to our approach is that type adjustment makes us add more information into the logical form; our type inferences actually change the formula. For instance for (20), we want to say that it is the physical aspect of the book that is heavy, but we don’t want this type to percolate up into the main predication. So we will close the variable typed p off existentially before the adjective and the noun combine, but we also need to add that is a generalized part of the variable that will end up being the argument to book. Formally for (20), this amounts to adding to the lambda term for the adjective the formula ∃z(O-Elab(z, y) ∧ P[y]) where z: p, y: p•i; by adjusting the type of the argument of P, the adjectival phrase can now combine with the translation of the noun phrase, carrying the appropriate typing on the head variable. It turns out that conjoining this information with the predicate variable P in either the DP or adjectival phrase gives the quantificational closure just the right scope. If we follow our principle that the head type should be preserved on the main argument, then the proper treatment for (20) must introduce a dot type within the adjectival phrase. This leads us then to posit two sorts of rules, a rule of •-exploitation, and a rule of •-introduction. Now type conflicts between types involving a dot type may occur not only when we attempt to apply a quantifier or property of properties to a property as in (20) or when we apply a higher-order property to a quantifier. It appears simplest to state the rules for each of these applications, and that’s what I do below.

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. The rules for the composition logic Crucial for our rules are the types assigned to variables and other terms in our calculus. I define a “type context” to be a set of type assignments. One of the things I’ll be doing is revising type contexts; when a type context is revised with the assignment t: α, which I’ll write as c ∗ (t: α), then the revised context contains t: α and all the types of terms that involve t have their functional types changed accordingly. If t does not occur in c then c ∗ (t: a) just extends c with the assignment of a to t; i.e.; c ∗ (t: a) = c + (t: a). c(t: a) simply means that the type assignment c includes the assignment of a to t. I’ll write c + c to denote the merging of two typing contexts or the extension of c by c . I now present our extension of the lambda calculus with type shifts. A lambda expression denotes a ◦ type. All these rules should be understood as reduction rules and so giving rise to equivalent term expressions. Merging Contexts: λxφ, c[t, c ] λxφ[t], (c + c ) Merging contexts is a book keeping rule that allows us to combine typing contexts prior to the application of the following rule, which is standard from the normal lambda calculus. φ[t] means of course that φ is to apply to t, though the operation below of Application has not yet been carried out. Application: λxφ[t], c(x: α, t: α) φ[t/x], c The rules of “type accommodation” allows us to shift the types in the case of compatible types to the meet of the two. Type Accommodation: λxφ[t], c(x: α, t: β), αβ = ⊥ λxφ[t], c ∗ (x, t: αβ) Type accommodation takes care of what happens in unification, in which a supertype can unify with a subtype yielding the subtype as the result. . Rules for complex types We’ll first look at a rule that allows us to exploit a • type during composition. We need to make explicit the object variable that needs to shift so that the whole expression can get the right type to combine with the relevant argument. In the first form of •-exploitation, we are trying to fix a clash of types between a property of properties and a property, where the head is the property. This is the case when we

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Objects, locations and complex types

try to combine a subject with the verb phrase, since technically the subject is a DP that combines with an I’ (VP + tense) and the head in such a construction is the I’. What this rule does is change the property of properties by adding a variable y that ranges over the appropriate aspects of the objects of complex types so that it may combine with the type of the head. O-Elab(y, x) says that y picks out the aspect of x that is of the relevant type, where an aspect should be understood as some sort of individual trope. But what we have to do here is to shift the entire type of the DP, so we have to make sure that head variable of the DP gets the right type condition. The existential quantifier relevant to the O-elab condition needs range over the entire subformula in which the variable that is the argument of the property variable in question occurs. To this end, let us designate ∆(φ, x) the subformula of the term φ in which x receives its type; in the case of an adjectival phrase, prepositional phrase or even a relative clause, this would constitute the material contributed to the lambda term from the adjective, the PP, or the relative clause. In the case of DPs ∆ would be the restrictor of the generalized quantifier. We can now statethis version of •-exploitation with a pair of substitutions, which look like this χ φψ . Recall once again that when I write P[x] we haven’t yet applied the property that P stands for to x; similarly the lambda expression with its typing context, [ψ, c ] hasn’t yet been integrated with the lambda expression with its context on its left. I enclose the complex expression that is to apply to [ψ, c ] to help for readability. •-Exploitation

{λPφ(P[x]), c(P: (α•β) {λPφ{

◦γ)}[ψ, c (ψ: (α∨β)

∃v(∆(φ,x){ xv }∧O-Elab(x,v)) ∆(φ,x)

◦γ)], Head(ψ)

}, c ∗ (x: α∨β, v: α•β)}[ψ, c ]

Let us look at an example of •-exploitation at work. Consider the sentence in (21), where the VP in effect predicates only of the physical aspect of a p•i. (21) The book is heavy.

1. [[the]] = λQλP∃x(Q[x] ∧ P[x]), P, Q: e ◦t, x: e3 2. [[book]] = λvBook(v), v: p•i 3. [[the book]] = {λQλP∃x(Q[x] ∧ P[x]), P, Q: e ◦t, x: e}[λvBook(v), v: p•i] 4. As e (p•i) = p•i, by Accomodation, which revises the typing context, we get: {λQλP∃x(Q[x] ∧ P[x]), P, Q: (p•i) ◦t, x: p•i}[λvBook(v), v: p•i] 5. Now we use Application and Merging Contexts to get a term for the book: λP∃x(Book(x) ∧ P[x]), P: (p•i) ◦t . We assume for illustration purposes that the computation will accommodate the presuppositions of definiteness locally in the composition.



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 Nicholas Asher

6. The logical form for is heavy, and the interpretation in this sentence is the following: λuHeavy(u), u: p 7. The syntax dictates: {λP∃x(Book(x) ∧ P[x]), P: e ◦t, x: p•i}[λuHeavy(u), u: p] 8. By •-exploitation, {λP∃x(∃v(Book(v) ∧ O-Elab(x, v)) ∧ P[x])v: p•i, x: p} [λuHeavy(u), u: p] 9. By Merging Contexts and Application, ∃x(∃v(Book(v) ∧ O-Elab(x, v)) ∧ λuHeavy(u)[x]), x: p, u: p, v: p•i 10. By Application: ∃x(∃v(Book(v) ∧ O-Elab(x, v)) ∧ Heavy(x)), v: p•i, x: p The rule of •-exploitation lets us take any modifier of a noun that would force a dot type (the adjective readable would be one such example) and apply it to a noun with a simple type that is the constituent of the modifier’s type. We could then combine the two together to get a noun phrase of the simple type as required. Thus if we have a sentence such as (22) below: (22) John turned off every readable screen.

our rule will compose a noun phrase that looks like the following, before the determiner meaning is applied: (22’) λx(∃v(Readable(v) ∧ O-Elab(x, v) ∧ screen(x)), x: p, v: p•i

When the determiner meaning is applied, we will get a quantification over all physical screens, which is what is intuitively required. Our rule of •-exploitation makes the quantification over objects of the constituent types always have scope over the quantification over objects of • type. There is one final case to consider, and that’s where the complex type / simple type conflict occurs between an expression that has a generalized quantifier as an argument and a generalized quantifier. This could occur for instance when a verb types its argument as a physical object but the noun in the complement types its argument as a complex object, say p•i. This situation occurs for example in (23) A thief stole every book.

If steal’s object argument has to be a physical object and nevertheless as our Head Principle would dictate that the object DP has type p•i, then we would need some way to coerce the object DP into having the right type to allow the λ conversion to go through. Let’s look at the details. In (23), we have the following problem: (23’) λΦλwΦ[λuSteal(w, u)], Φ: (p P(x)), P: (p•i) ◦t, x: p•i

◦t)

◦t, u: p, w: p[λP∀x(Book(x) →

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Now we don’t want to change the type of the variable Φ over DP denotations; we want to change the type of the DP instead. In that case •-exploitation won’t apply directly, but we can use a type shifted version of it, •-exploitationts . To save space in its statement I won’t state all the relevant type declarations in the premise rule. •-Exploitation

ts

{λΦφ, c(Φ: ([α∨β]

◦δ)}[λPψ(P[x]), c(P: (α•β)

◦γ)

∃v(∆(ψ,x){ vx }∧O-Elab(x,v)) {λΦφ, c}[λPψ{ }, c ∆(ψ,x)

◦γ)], Head(φ)

∗ (v: α•β, x: [α∨β])]

The type shifted version of •-exploitation applies to (23’), and we can now rewrite the object DP so that λ reduction can take place. (23”) λΦλwΦ[λuSteal(w, u)], Φ: (p ◦t) ◦t, u: p, w: p[λP∀x(∃v(Book(v) ∧ O-Elab(x, v)) → P[x]), P: p ◦t, x: p, v: p•i]

If we now apply Merging and Application, we get (23”’) λwλP∀x(∃v(Book(v) ∧ O-Elab(x, v)) → P[v])[λu Steal(w, u)], P: p ◦t, x: p, v: p•i, w: p, u: p

We can now continue the λ reductions with Application to get: (23””) λw∀x(∃v(Book(v) ∧ O-Elab(x, v)) → Steal(w, v)), w: p, x: p, v: p•i

When we apply this to the subject DP, we get the desired reading: namely, that a thief stole every physical manifestation of every book. So if he stole all the books from the library, the library should be empty. .. •-Introduction Whereas •-exploitation merely related together an argument of constituent type of a • type to facilitate application, sometimes predicates like read or conjoined expressions coerce an argument into being a dot type. Following on from our earlier discussion, sometimes predicates like read actively select for dot types of a certain kind. So if read is the head verb, it may force its object to take on a dot type. The mechanism for doing so is already implicit in our •-exploitation rule. To turn that rule into a •-introduction rule, we need to readjust which variables are being introduced and existentially quantified over. Instead of existentially binding the dot typed variable in •-exploitation, we’ll existentially quantify over the constituent typed variable allowing the dot typed variable to combine with its dot typed property. •-Introduction

{λPφ(P[x])c(P: [α∨β] λPφ{

◦γ, x: α∨β)}[ψ, c (ψ: (α•β)

∃v(∆(φ,x){ vx }∧O-Elab(v,x)) ∆(φ,x)

◦γ)], Head(ψ)

}, c ∗ (v: α∨v: β) ∗ (x: α•β)

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 Nicholas Asher •-introduction

is needed to construct the properly typed lambda term for (20), a heavy book. Recall that heavy has a logical form λPλx(Heavy(x) ∧ P(x)) where x: p and P: p ◦t. book yields the term λv Book(v) together with the typing context v: p•i. Using •-introduction on the lambda term for heavy we get (24) λPλx∃z(Heavy(z) ∧ O-Elab(z, x) ∧ P[x]) where x: p•i, z: p and P: p•i ◦t.

This can now combine with the head noun book to give us: (25) λx∃z(Heavy(z) ∧ O-Elab(z, x) ∧ Book(x))

and this will combine with the determiner to give the right meaning for the whole DP. Sometimes the head is the term with the property variable. But we’ve already taken care of that situation, since then •-exploitation will allow a local accommodation to take account of whatever the term with the property variable applies to. The only other case we need to consider is where a higher-order lambda abstracted variable carries the complex type and it is a head with respect to its argument. Such is the case when we have something like (26) John read every wall.

read takes a DP as its object that it must coerce into a dot type. This is done through a variant of the type shifted version of •-introduction. It looks very similar to •-exploitationts : ts •-Introduction

{λΦφ, c(Φ: ((α•β)

◦γ)

◦δ)}[λPψ(P[x]), c(P: [α∨β]

∃v(∆(ψ,x){ vx }∧O-Elab(v,x)) {λΦφ, c}[λPψ{ }, c ∆(ψ,x) •-introduction

ts

◦γ)], Head(φ)

∗ (x: α•β, v: [α∨β])]

transforms the DP logical form for every wall into

(26’) λP∀x(∃v(wall(v) ∧ O-Elab(v, x)) → P[x]), c(x: p•i, v: p)

This now allows us to combine the DP with the verb, while allowing the verb’s argument type to win out and get the appropriate quantificational force from the DP. We need one final rule to handle copredication. Let’s look at a rather innocuous example of copredication, where the two types are in fact compatible. (27) John picked up and read three books.

We suppose that read must take a dot object as an argument and pick up must take a physical object. Key to this example is what the copredication itself gives, an identity of types between the two conjoined phrases. Let us suppose that the syntax of coordinated conjunction is not itself symmetric but rather of the form [XP

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Objects, locations and complex types

[and/orXP]]. So then, working up from the bottom, the coordinate construction must apply first to the second V and then to the first. And so ignoring the details of transitive verbs and just looking at the object argument for the moment, – – –

the meaning of and applies to λuRead(u), u: p•i, v: p which yields after Merging and Application: λPλx(P[x] ∧ λuRead(u)[x]), u: p•i, x: , P: ◦t By Type Accommodation we get an accord between the types of x and u, and we can then use Application: λPλx(P[x] ∧ Read(x)), x: p•i, P: p•i ◦t

At this point we would like to apply the meaning of and to the meaning of pick up, we get, however, a type conflict, since pick up types its object as physical only. We could say that the construct on the right is the head leading to the use of •-introduction to introduce a dotted type for the whole VP. But that seems ad hoc; why prefer the right V in a coordinate conjunction to the one on the left? Alternatively, then we could take the type on the left as the head and exploit •-exploitation. In this coordination, we have several ways to resolve the type inconsistency. But what about when we have a coordination of two elements neither of whose types is a constituent of the other? That is what happens with many of the classic copredication examples. For these we need a rule for coordination, which allows us to conjoin the two types into a dot type if it’s metaphysically permissible. To state the rule with some generality, let’s suppose that and takes a lambda term λδΘ(φ) and returns an expression of the form λP λδ(Θ(P [δ ] ∧ φ)), where P is of the same type as φ, δ is a sequence of all the variables that are free in φ that are either bound by the λδ or Θ prefixes and where Θ may contain a sequence of lambda bound variables together with higher-order variables bound by the λδ prefix and is determined by meaning postulates (e.g., for the coordination of transitive verbs). For simple VP, IP, adverbial or adjectival coordination, Θ is just an empty string. P [δ ] means of course that the property variable is to be applied to the sequence of variables in δ starting with the last one first. It suffices for the coordination of transitive verbs, verb phrases, adjectives, adverbs and sentences to assume that φ is a first order formula and so δ is a sequence of first order variables – i.e, of the form (v, u). We now want to apply our Coordination-•-introduction rule to an expression of this form before applying it to some argument ψ. What we want to do is to replace those formulas P (δ ) and φ with ones that express a restricted predication on an object of complex type, and which introduce existentially bound aspects of that object – the same sort of replacement that our •-introduction rules make. Only now we make the replacement in two places at once. As we must change the types of the first order variables, it is important the δ be a sequence of first order formulas. Our rule works on the last element of the



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 Nicholas Asher

sequence, but we can apply the rule recursively eventually to each element of the sequence. Coordination-•-Introduction {λPλδ(Θ(P[v, u] ∧ ψ(v, u)), c(u: β)}[φ(v , u )), c (u : α)], x: α•β {λPλδΘ(∃z(P[ v, z] ∧ O-Elab(z, u)) ∧ ∃z (ψ(u, z ) ∧ O-Elab(z , u))), c1 }[φ, c ] where c1 = c ∗ (u: α•β, z: β) Note that coordination creates a complex dot type whenever possible, if the constituent types of the two are incompatible. Let’s first look at how this rule works with a complex verb predication as in (28) pick up and master

Rehearsing what we did above but in more detail, we apply the conjunction to the transitive verb master to get (I leave out the typing for the higher-order variables for the sake of readability): (29) λPλΦλx(Φ(λw(P[x, w] ∧ Master(x, w)))), w: i, x: p

To apply this to the meaning of pick up we must suppose a downward typeshifting operation that allows us to take a transitive verb of the form λΦλxΦ(λuψ(x, u)) and transform it into a first order relational expression – e.g., λuλxψ(x, u). If we do this transformation, then we can apply Coordination-•-introduction: (30) {λPλΦλx(Φ(λw(∃z(P[x, z] ∧ O-Elab(z, w)) ∧ ∃z (Master(x, z )∧ O-Elab(z , w))))), z: p, v: p, z : i, w: p•i, x: p}[λu1 λv1 Pick-up(v1 , u1 ), u1 , v1 : p]

We now can reduce the lambda terms using Application and get the proper logical form for the complex verbal predicate in (28): (31) λΦλx(Φ(λw(∃z(Pick-up(x, z) ∧ O-Elab(z, w)) ∧ ∃z (Master(x, z ) ∧O-Elab(z , w))))), z, x: p, z : i, w: p•i

Had there been a clash on the x variable, we could have used Coordination•-introduction to form a complex type on the subject as well. We can in effect use the Coordination rule with the (27) as well, since • is idempotent, associative and commutative. Idempotence means that if we have two distinct types one of which is a constituent of the other (complex) type, then adding the constituent type with a dot doesn’t actually change the type. So this means that we could use Coordination •-introduction to give a correct semantics for the two conjoined verbs in (27) and still get the same result.

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Objects, locations and complex types 

–

–

Via Coordination we would get: λΦλwΦ(λx∃z(Pick-up(w, z) ∧ O-Elab(z, x)) ∧ ∃z (Read(w, z )∧ O-Elab(z , x))), z : p•i, z: p, w: p, x: (p•i) •i Using the fact that • is idempotent, associative and commutative, we can change the type of x from (p•i) •i to simply p•i.

There’s just one wrinkle left here. We have O-Elab holding between two objects of the same type. I’ll assume an axiom on O-Elab that in fact makes these two objects identical. We now get the intuitively right result, which can now combine with the DP meaning for three books to give the right truth conditions for the entire VP.

. Complex types, physical objects and locations Let’s look at a case of VP coordination that brings us back to the complex types involving locations and physical objects. (32) a.

The bay curves from the lighthouse to a sandy spit and is well worth going to. b. The bay curves from the lighthouse to a sandy spit and has lots of shoals. c. ?The bay has lots of shoals and curves from the lighthouse to a sandy spit.

Let’s first consider (32a). We have to combine the two VPs, but the first one plainly types its subject as a physical object, as having a shape, or even more as a sort of line that we can follow with our eyes (and hence a very large object), while the second VP types its subject as a location (one goes to locations). Having distinguished these types for a variety of conceptual reasons, such copredications might cause trouble if we did not have our rule for constructing complex types from coordinated predications. – –

– –

Assuming that the type physical • location makes sense – i.e. that y: physical • location holds, we may combine the two VPs via Coordination: λy(∃v(O-Elab(v, y)∧ curves-from-the-lighthouse-to-a-sandy-spit(v))∧ ∃x(O-Elab(x, y)∧ is-well-worth-going-to(x)) v: physical, x: location, y: physical • location). Given the following entry for bay, λP∃x(Bay(x)∧P(x)), P: (physical • location) ◦t, x: physical • location the types of the subject DP and the conjoined VP are now compatible and can combine via Merging and Application.

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 Nicholas Asher

We might go further and analyze locations themselves as having a complex type, the type physical•space.4 Bays would be locations and the complex predication would give us the familiar conjunction of a physical property and a property of objects (locations) of complex type. As we’ve already seen, Coordination •-introduction works for these cases as well. It may well be that the analysis of locations as dot objects is in fact the right analysis; if so, the system of complex types developed here shows us how to make sense of the idea of a physical object with its associated portion of space. While our composition for complex types accounts for a variety of phenomena, we haven’t yet investigated some of the properties of dot objects. It appears that the copredications in (32b–c) aren’t entirely equivalent. The second sounds a little more awkward than the first. Why should that be given that • is commutative? One idea is that certain • objects give rise to certain discourse connections between constituents containing the predications of the two types. In (32b) the first predication makes the bay a figure something that we can locate and talk about, whereas the second assumes it as ground, to use some terminology from cognitive linguists. Discursively, the first predication provides a good background for talking about other properties of the bay; giving the shape of the bay is a good background information that helps locate it and make it more determinate.5 Shifting the predication around as in (32c) is not as good, because the locating purpose of the figure and its backgrounding rhetorical function is now otiose. An open question is whether such categories of figure and ground, which are very context relative, are in fact type distinctions that our complex types must make use of. Another application of this view is that type distinctions, in particular the distinction between locations and physical objects, can account for the failure of the inferences involving dans noted at the outset, quoting from (Vieu 1991). Vieu (1991) postulated two types of containment relations to explain why this inference is bad, but by using complex types and the mechanisms described here, we can avoid postulating the simple ambiguity. Instead one postulates, as with in, that the second argument of the preposition is typed as a location, or coerced into being a complex object, whereas the first is typed as a physical object or location. I assume that dans denotes spatio-temporal inclusion. The specific type of the second argument will further specify the relation denoted by dans, as was proposed in (Vieu 1991). In the case of an object and a location analyzed as a contour in 4D of some surface, the appropriate topological relation will hold between the spatio-

. Thanks to Laure Vieu for this point. . For more discussion concerning rhetorical relations in discourse, see e.g., (Asher 1993; Asher & Lascarides 2003).

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Objects, locations and complex types 

temporal projection of the object onto that contour. In the case of locations, I’ll assume straightforward spatio-temporal inclusion. Now let’s turn to the examples that appear to motivate an ambiguity in dans. I have reproduced them below. (2) Max est dans l’île. L’île est dans la mer. ? Alors, Max est dans la mer. (‘Max is in the island. The island is in the sea. Then, Max is in the sea.’) (3) Max est dans la maison. La maison est dans l’île. Alors Max est dans l’île. (‘Max is in the house. The house is in the island. Then, Max is in the island.’)

The first thing to note is that the location provided by the island in the first clause of (2), i.e. its surface, is not included in the sea. In fact it’s above sea level – that’s why it’s an island! So we cannot treat the relation between the island and the sea in the second clause as one obtaining between two locations, since the one is not spatio-temporally included in the other. That is, we must treat the variable introduced by l’île as of type physical-object in the second clause. Further, we have to understand the relation of spatio-temporal inclusion in a way determined by the second argument – we’re talking about the object’s projection onto the plane provided by the sea (which includes, I would argue, the projection of the island); otherwise we would have said that L’île est sous la mer instead. The argument from Max est dans l’île and L’île est dans la mer to Max est dans la mer is now plainly fallacious in several ways. First, the island in the first premise is used as a location and in the second as a object because of the impossibility of interpreting the island as a location in the second clause. If islands are in fact dot objects, then this inference exploits two different aspects of the dot object, and the inference is no more intuitively valid than the following: from ∃y(Fyx ∧ I(p, y)) and ∃z(Gzx ∧ I(z, m)), infer I(p, m). However, there is another source of invalidity that is best seen by looking at a similar inference. Consider (33) which uses part of, understood as denoting the standard mereological relation.6 This argument isn’t valid either; given our understanding of the second premise, it simply doesn’t follow on this analysis that if L’île est dans la mer that all of its parts are also dans la mer. (33) a. La montagne fait partie de l’île. (‘The mountain is part of the island.’) b. L’île est dans la mer. (‘The island is in the sea.’)

So c.

La montagne est dans la mer. (‘The mountain is in the sea.’)

. This argument is also due to Laure Vieu.

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 Nicholas Asher

On the other hand, where we have a special type of location that is also (as a dot type) an enclosure like a garage, then the second premise has the literal interpretation, and the inference from (34) a. La montagne fait partie de l’île. (‘The mountain is part of the island.’) b. L’île est dans le garage. (‘The island is in the garage.’)

to c.

La montagne est dans le garage. (‘The mountain is in the garage.’)

is valid. By distinguishing between types and locations and making sure that these types affect predications – in particular taking into account coerced predications, we can avoid postulated ambiguities. We can also follow surface lexical semantics more closely without having to distinguish different entries for dans.

. Conclusions I have presented an approach where a rich system of lexical types opens up a new approach to lexical semantics and accounts potentially for a wealth of linguistic data. It offers us a way to economize on postulated ambiguities making the lexicon a more structured, and a more logically well grounded enterprise. I have given a particular example of how this might work with an admittedly superficial but univocal analysis of dans. A more ambitious project would show how the distinct implications for the containment relation follow from reasoning about the effects of the composition of the predicate’s meaning with arguments of a particular type. But that is for another time.

References Asher, Nicholas (1993). Reference to abstract objects in discourse. Dordrecht: Kluwer. Asher, Nicholas & Alex Lascarides (2003). Logics of Conversation. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Asher, Nicholas & James Pustejovsky (2000). Metaphysics of words in context. (manuscript) Asher, Nicholas & Tim Fernando (1997). Effective labeling for disambiguation. In Proceedings of the Second International Workshop in Computational Linguistics, Tilburg, the Netherlands. Aurnague, Michel (2004). Les structures de l’espace linguistique: Regards croisés sur quelques constructions spatiales du basque et du français [Bibliothèque de l’Information Grammaticale 56]. Leuven: Peeters. Aurnague, Michel & Laure Vieu (1993). A three-level approach to the semantics of space. In C. Zelinsky-Wibbelt (Ed.), Semantics of prepositions: From mental processing to natural language processing [Natural Language Processing 3] (pp. 393–439). Berlin: Mouton de Gruyter.

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Objects, locations and complex types 

Hobbs, Jerry R., Mark Stickel, Douglas Appelt, & Paul Martin (1993). Interpretation as abduction. Artificial Intelligence, 63(1–2), 69–142. Lascarides, Alex & Ann Copestake (1998). Pragmatics and word meaning. Journal of Linguistics, 34(2), 387–414. Lascarides, Alex & Nicholas Asher (1993). Temporal interpretation, discourse relations, and common-sense entailment. Linguistics and Philosophy, 16(5), 437–493. Moravcsik, Julius (1975). Aitia as generative factor in Aristotle’s philosophy. Dialogue, 14, 622– 636. Pustejovsky, James (1991). The generative lexicon. Computational Linguistics, 17(4), 409–441. Pustejovsky, James (1995). The generative lexicon. Cambridge, MA: The MIT Press. Pustejovsky, James (1998). The semantics of lexical underspecification. Folia Linguistica, 32(3– 4), 323–347. Vieu, Laure (1991). Sémantique des relations spatiales et inférences spatio-temporelles: Une contribution à l’étude des structures formelles de l’espace en langage naturel. PhD dissertation, Université Paul Sabatier, Toulouse.

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Language index

A Amerindian languages , , , , , , , ,  B Basque , , , , , , , ,  Bocota  Bribri  Burmese , , , –,  C Cabecar  Cayuga  E English , –, , –, , , , , , , , , , –, –, , , –, –, –, , , , , , , , , 

F French , , , , , , , , , , , , –, –, –, –, –, –, , –, , , –, –, , , , , , ,  Old  H Haida , 

Kwakwala , ,  L Longgu  M Movere-Ngwabere  O Oceanic languages , , , 

I Ika , , 

P Panare ,  Ponapean , 

J Jakaltek-Popti’ , , , –, , , 

S Serbian , , 

K Korean , , , , , –, , , –, , , –,  Kuna , , , 

T Tzeltal , , , , ,  Tzotzil , , , , , 

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Subject index

•-exploitation •-introduction

– , 

A à , , , , , , , , –, –, , , , , , , , ,  à travers , , , , , , , – ablative , , , , , –, , , ,  accusative , , , –, –, , –,  acquisition , , –, , , , , , , , , , , , ,  adverbial modification ,  aerodynamicity , , , , –,  af , ,  aggregate , , , , –, , , ,  see also mass agonist , , –, , , ,  alienability ,  antagonist , , –, , , , ,  see also force (counterforce) aperture , , , , , –,  Aristotle , , , ,  artifact , , – aspect , , , , ,  assortment , , – see also mixture attachment , –, ,  manner of , , , , –, –,  atom , , ,  see also mereology, part Atomists  au-dessus , , , , ,  avant , , , –, 

axis , , , ,  vertical , , , , , ,  sagittal  B background , , , , , ,  blend , , – see also mixture body , , , , , , ,  part , , , , , , , , , , , ,  C capacity ,  see also function category see also type category boundary , , ,  categorization , –, , –, , , , , , , –, , , , , –, , , , , , , , , , , –, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , –, , , –, , , , , , , ,  lexical see lexical category ontological –, , –, –, –, , , , , –, , –, , –, , , , , , ,  semantic , –, , , , , , , , , , , , 

spatial , , , , , , , , , , , –, , , ,  causativity , , ,  causal relation ,  cause , , , , , , ,  charity, principle of  clash, violent ,  class term , , ,  classifier classifier system , –, –, ,  general , , ,  genitive , –, , , , – nominal classification system , , –, , , ,  noun , –, , , , , – numeral , , –, , , –, –, –,  specific , , ,  unique , , , ,  verbal , , , , , , – closed-class element , , , , ,  see also grammatical element coercion –, , – cognition , , –, –, –, –, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , –, –, , , , , , , –, , , –, , , , , –, , , , , ,  component cognitive system ,  cognitive complexity 

JB[v.20020404] Prn:20/03/2007; 12:10

F: HCP20SI.tex / p.2 (149-228)

 Subject index non-linguistic , , ,  universal (cognitive) determinants, of spatial representations , ,  collection , –, , , , , , , , , , , , , –, –, , , ,  see also group, plural collective term  color preposition , , , ,  component , , –, –, ,  see also part component noun , – functional , , , , –, – composition logic , – see also semantics (compositional, formal) concept, conceptual , , –, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,  concept learning  conceptual distinction , , , –,  spatial , –, , , , , ,  mechanical , , ,  conflict, situation of ,  contact , –, , , , , , –, , , , , , , –, , , , , , , , , ,  containment , , , , , , , , , , , –, –, –, , , –, , , –, , , , , , , ,  context , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , –,  continuant, endurant ,  see also object continuum , ,  diachronic , ,  synchronic , , 

contrast , , , , , , , , , , , , ,  contrasting background ,  contrasting opposition  contre , – copredication , –, – count noun, countable term , , , , , , , , –, , ,  see also number, plural covert marker , –, , , , ,  cross-linguistic , , , , , , –, –, , –, – cumulativity , , , , , , , ,  culture-specific determinants, of spatial representations , 

D dans , , –, , , , , , , , , , , , , – deep structure , , , – definite description , – deixis , , , –, –, , , –, –, , , , –, , , , ,  dependence , , , , , , , ,  functional , – generic  derrière , ,  deterioration , ,  determinative compound noun , ,  determiner , , , , , , , ,  devant , –,  development , , –, , , , –, –, , , –, , , , , , , –, , , , , ,  child , , 

cognitive , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,  motor  sensori-motor , , , ,  dimension , , , , , , , , , , , , , –, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , –, ,  direction , , , , , , , , , , –, –, , , –, , , , , ,  disposition, spatial , , , , , ,  distance , , , –,  dissectivity, divisibility , , , , , ,  see also homeomerous, homogeneity diversity lexical  linguistic  of predicates ,  dot object , , –, –, – see also type (complex) dynamic force , –,  predicate ,  dynamic dimensions, of classifier systems , – E entity see also object animate , , –, , , , , , , , , , ,  see also organism homogeneous see homogeneous entity immaterial , , , –, , , , –, , , , , , –, –, –, , , , , , , , , , , ,  see also space portion material , –, , , , , –, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , –, –, , , ,

JB[v.20020404] Prn:20/03/2007; 12:10

F: HCP20SI.tex / p.3 (228-315)

Subject index  , , –, , , , , –,  mixed , –, , , , , ,  mobile , , , , , , , , , ,  natural , –, , , , , , – ontologically dubious ,  plural see plural entity temporal see temporal entity event, eventuality , , , , , , , , , , , , , –, , , –, , , , , , , , –, , , , , ,  see also occurrent, temporal entity homogeneous see homogeneous eventuality motion , , , , , , , , , , , , – opening , , , ,  plural see plural event exchange ,  see also reciprocity existential, negative , – extension , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,  see also generalization over-extension , ,  under-extension 

F facing position , , , , , ,  figure , , , , , , –, –, –, , –, –, –, –, –, –, , , , , , –, , –, , , , , ,  fit –, –, , , , , –, , – tight , , –, , , , , , , – loose , , –, –, , , , –

fixity, stability , , –, , , , , , , , , , , , , ,  force , , –, ,  counterforce , , , , –, –,  see also antagonist force balance , , , ,  force dynamics , , , , ,  opposite , –,  foreground  four-dimensionalism , , , ,  see also spatio-temporal ontology front , , , , , , , , , , , , , –, –, , , , , , , , ,  deictic , ,  intrinsic , , ,  function , –, , , , , , , , , , , , –, , , , , , , , , , , –, , , , , , , –, –, , ,  see also capacity dynamic , , , , –, , , ,  functional interaction  functional relation , , , , ,  functionality , , , –,  static , , , –, ,  fusion , , , ,  see also mixture G gender , ,  generalization , , , –, , , , , ,  see also extension over-generalization , , , ,  genitive , , , , ,  see also classifier (genitive) geometry , –, , –, –, , , ,  goal , , , 

grammaticalization , , , , –, –, , , , , –, , ,  grammatical element , , , , , , , ,  see also closed-class element gravity, force of , , , ,  ground , , –, , , –, –, –, , , –, –, , –, –, –, , , , , , , , , –, –, , , ,  group , ,  see also collection, plural guidance , , , , ,  H habituation , –, –, , , , ,  history ,  homeomerous , , , ,  see also dissectivity, homogeneity homogeneity , , ,  see also dissectivity, homeomerous homogeneous entity , , , –, ,  homogeneous eventuality – I impact, strong , –,  in , –, , , , , , –, –, , , , , , –,  inalienability ,  inclusion , –, , , , , , , , , , , ,  incomplete symbol  infant , , , , –, , –, –, , – inference, reasoning –, , , , , , , , –, , , , , , –, , –, –, , – internal localization nouns (ILNs) , –, , , , , , , , –, , ,  see also relational noun

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 Subject index

internal structure, internal arrangement , , , , , , , ,  inventory of the world ,  see also ontology, taxonomy J joining , , , , –,  judgment task , , , –,  juxtaposition , ,  K kkita , –, , , , , , ,  knowledge , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,  core , , , –, , , ,  knowledge component  prelinguistic , , , ,  L landmark , , , , , , , ,  see also ground language language-specific determinants, of spatial representations , ,  linguistic regimentation see regimentation of language ontologically deceptive ,  satellite-framed see satellite (satellite-framed language) verb-framed see verb-framed language lateralization, degree of  lexicon , , , –, –, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , –, –, , –, –, –,  lexical category, lexical type , , , , –,

, – see also category, type lexical element , , , , , , , , , , ,  see also open-class element lexicalization , , , , –, , , , , ,  lexicalization pattern ,  localized features  location see also place geographical , , , , , , , , , , , ,  location change , , , ,  noun of location , , , , , , , –,  specified , , , , , , ,  locative , , , –, , , –, 

M manner , , , , , , –, , –, –, –,  mass, mass term , –, , , , –, , , , , , , , –, , , ,  see also aggregate, mixture meaning see also semantics and logical inference – meaning postulate  measure term , , ,  mediation, linguistic  mereology , , , , , –, , ,  see also part spatio-temporal see spatio-temporal mereology mixture , , , – motion , , , , , , , , –, , , , , , , –, , –, , , , , , , , –, , , , , 

autonomous , ,  see also spontaneous, voluntary basic intrinsic , , ,  caused , , , , , , , ,  deictic , , –, –, , –, – motion construction , – spontaneous , –, , , , , , , ,  see also autonomous, voluntary verb see verb (motion) voluntary , , , , , , ,  see also autonomous, spontaneous motor impairment , , , , ,  motricity  N nativism, nativist , –, , , , – nehta , ,  noun class , , ,  number, numeral quantifier , –, , –,  see also classifier (numeral), count noun, plural O object see also continuant, entity concrete, physical , –, –, , , , –, –, , , , , –, –, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , –, , –, , , – see also entity (immaterial, material) dot see dot object integral see whole (integral) material , , , , , , , , , , , –,  see also entity (material) noun of object , , , 

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Subject index  object permanence , , , , , –, , ,  persistent ,  see also continuant plural see plural entity object, grammatical ,  object marking –, –, , – object selection –, –, ,  Occam’s razor  occurrent, perdurant ,  see also event, temporal entity off , , , , , ,  on , , , , , , , –, –, , , , , , –,  ontological adequacy ,  assumption, commitment –, , , ,  category see category (ontological) import, of a statement see statement (import of) inclinations, prejudice ,  parsimony , ,  trap – ontology –, –, , –, , , , , , , –, , , , –, –, , , , –, , , ,  see also taxonomy eliminativist strategies in , – formal –, –, , , , , – introductionist strategies in , , ,  and linguistic analysis –, , , – and logical paraphrase , , , – and loose talk  and point of view ,  and the realist-cognitivist divide , , , ,  spatio-temporal , , , – see also four-dimensionalism top-level , , 

open-class element , , ,  see also lexical element organism –, ,  see also entity (animate) orientation , , , , , , , ,  absolute , ,  contextual ,  deictic , , , ,  frontal , , , , , , , , , , , , –,  intrinsic , , , , , , , ,  lateral , ,  orientation motion verb , –, –, – orientation strategy – vertical , , , , , , –, –,  out , , , , , , ,  overt marker , –, , , , ,  P par , , –, , , –, –,  paraphrase eliminativist – hermeneutic understanding of  introductionist , ,  logical , – as meaning preserving  ontologically transparent  revolutionary understanding of  part –, , , , , ,  see also atom, component, mereology body part see body part essential , , , ,  part noun  see also internal localization noun part-whole relation, part-of relation , –, , , –, ,  spatio-temporal see spatio-temporal part temporal see temporal part

particle , , , , , , , , , , ,  path , , , , –, , , , , , , –, –, , , , –, , , , , , , , , ,  of localization , , , – of motion , , –, , ,  of partial trajectory , , ,  of total trajectory , , ,  perception, perceptual , , , , , , , –, , , , , , , , , , , , , , –, , , –,  perceptual process , ,  perceptual model , ,  phonological development  pipe , , –, , , ,  place , , , –, , ,  see also location plural see also collection, count noun, group, number entity, object , , , , , , , –, ,  event ,  expression , , , ,  pointing task , –, ,  positional , , , , , , ,  possession  posture , , , , ,  posture verb , , , –, , , , , , , , ,  predicate dynamic see dynamic predicate individual-level  plural – singular – stage-level  substantial – preferential looking paradigm  prefix , , , 

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 Subject index prelinguistic period, stage ,  preposition , –, –, , , , , –, –, , , , , , , –, –, –, , , , , –, , , –, , , , , , –, , , –, –, , , , , , , ,  pressure , , ,  primitive concept , , , , , ,  proper name, as disguised description ,  proximity , , , , –, , ,  R reality , , , , , , , ,  reciprocity  see also exchange reciprocal construction , ,  reference , , , , –, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , –, , , , –, , , ,  regimentation of language – relational noun , , , , , , –, , ,  see also internal localization noun relativity linguistic , , ,  relativistic approach, model , , , ,  repeater , , , ,  representation , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , –, , , , , , ,  non-linguistic , , ,  road , , , , , , , , , , , ,  S saliency –, , , , , , , –, , , , 

satellite , , , , , , , , , –, ,  satellite-framed language, satellite-framing , , , , , , , ,  schemata, prototypical ,  semantic category see category (semantic) component , , ,  development , ,  motivation , , , , ,  semantics see also meaning compositional, formal , –, , , , , , , – sensori-motor , ,  activity , ,  development see development (sensori-motor) schemata  shape , , , , , , , , , , , , , –, –, , , , , , , , , , , , ,  singular term , –, , , , , , , , ,  genuine  source ,  space portion , , –, , , –, –, –, , , , , , , ,  spatial category see category (spatial) distinction , ,  relation , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , –, –, , , , , , , , ,  spatio-temporal continuity  mereology ,  ontology , , , – see also fourdimensionalism part , , , ,  speaker , , , , , , , , , , , , , , –, , , , , ,

, , , , , , , , –, –, , , , –, –, –, , –,  stage  statement ontological import of – ontologically neutral  Stoics  subordinate clause  substance , –, , , , –, –,  see also mass amount, quantity of (a) substance , , , , –, , – suffix , , ,  functional nominal , , , , –, ,  support , –, , , , , , , –, , –, –, , , , , , , , –, , ,  sur , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , –, ,  surface grammar , –

T taxonomy , –, ,  see also ontology temporal connection  entity , ,  see also event, occurrent inclusion  part , , ,  precedence  property , – slice , ,  tense , , ,  tension , , , ,  tensed balance  theme  holistic  time , , , , , , , , , , , , , –, –, , , , – topology , , , , –, , , –, , , 

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Subject index  topological relation , , , , , , , ,  topological theory , , ,  transitivity , ,  of part-whole relations , , –, , – of dans , , ,  truth-maker , ,  type complex , , – lexical see lexical category typology , , , , , –, , , , , , , , 

typology of classifier systems , , –, ,  U uit , ,  universalism universal , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , –, , , ,  universalistic approach, model , – V verb compound , , –, , 

motion , , , , , , –, , ,  posture see posture verb verb root , , , ,  verb-framed language, verb-framing , , , , , ,  viewer , ,  W what/where opposition ,  whole , , , , , , , , , , , , –, ,  see also part (part-whole relation) integral whole , 

In the series Human Cognitive Processing the following titles have been published thus far or are scheduled for publication: 20 Aurnague, Michel, Maya Hickmann and Laure Vieu (eds.): The Categorization of Spatial Entities in Language and Cognition. 2007. viii, 371 pp. 19 Benczes, Réka: Creative Compounding in English. The Semantics of Metaphorical and Metonymical Noun-Noun Combinations. 2006. xvi, 206 pp. 18 Gonzalez-Marquez, Monica, Irene Mittelberg, Seana Coulson and Michael J. Spivey (eds.): Methods in Cognitive Linguistics. xxviii, 446 pp. + index. Expected June 2007 17 Langlotz, Andreas: Idiomatic Creativity. A cognitive-linguistic model of idiom-representation and idiom-variation in English. 2006. xii, 326 pp. 16 Tsur, Reuven: ‘Kubla Khan’ – Poetic Structure, Hypnotic Quality and Cognitive Style. A study in mental, vocal and critical performance. 2006. xii, 252 pp. 15 Luchjenbroers, June (ed.): Cognitive Linguistics Investigations. Across languages, fields and philosophical boundaries. 2006. xiii, 334 pp. 14 Itkonen, Esa: Analogy as Structure and Process. Approaches in linguistics, cognitive psychology and philosophy of science. 2005. xiv, 249 pp. 13 Prandi, Michele: The Building Blocks of Meaning. Ideas for a philosophical grammar. 2004. xviii, 521 pp. 12 Evans, Vyvyan: The Structure of Time. Language, meaning and temporal cognition. 2004. x, 286 pp. 11 Shelley, Cameron: Multiple Analogies in Science and Philosophy. 2003. xvi, 168 pp. 10 Skousen, Royal, Deryle Lonsdale and Dilworth B. Parkinson (eds.): Analogical Modeling. An exemplar-based approach to language. 2002. x, 417 pp. 9 Graumann, Carl Friedrich and Werner Kallmeyer (eds.): Perspective and Perspectivation in Discourse. 2002. vi, 401 pp. 8 Sanders, Ted J.M., Joost Schilperoord and Wilbert Spooren (eds.): Text Representation. Linguistic and psycholinguistic aspects. 2001. viii, 364 pp. 7 Schlesinger, Izchak M., Tamar Keren-Portnoy and Tamar Parush: The Structure of Arguments. 2001. xx, 264 pp. 6 Fortescue, Michael: Pattern and Process. A Whiteheadian perspective on linguistics. 2001. viii, 312 pp. 5 Nuyts, Jan: Epistemic Modality, Language, and Conceptualization. A cognitive-pragmatic perspective. 2001. xx, 429 pp. 4 Panther, Klaus-Uwe and Günter Radden (eds.): Metonymy in Language and Thought. 1999. vii, 410 pp. 3 Fuchs, Catherine and Stéphane Robert (eds.): Language Diversity and Cognitive Representations. 1999. x, 229 pp. 2 Cooper, David L.: Linguistic Attractors. The cognitive dynamics of language acquisition and change. 1999. xv, 375 pp. 1 Yu, Ning: The Contemporary Theory of Metaphor. A perspective from Chinese. 1998. x, 278 pp.

The Categorization of Spatial Entities in Language and Cognition (Human Cognitive Processing)

Language Diversity and Cognitive Representations (Human Cognitive Processing)

Methods in Cognitive Linguistics (Human Cognitive Processing)

Methods in Cognitive Linguistics (Human Cognitive Processing)

Discourse, Vision, and Cognition (Human Cognitive Processing, Volume 23)

Language, Cognition, and Human Nature

The Structure of Time: Language, Meaning And Temporal Cognition (Human Cognitive Processing)

The Structure of Time: Language, Meaning And Temporal Cognition (Human Cognitive Processing)

Handbook of Categorization in Cognitive Science

Gender Differences in Human Cognition (Counterpoints - Cognition, Memory and Language)

Gender Differences in Human Cognition (Counterpoints - Cognition, Memory and Language)

Space in Language and Cognition: Explorations in Cognitive Diversity (Language Culture and Cognition)

Handbook of Categorization in Cognitive Science

Handbook of Categorization in Cognitive Science

New Directions in Cognitive Linguistics (Human Cognitive Processing)

Motivation in Grammar and the Lexicon (Human Cognitive Processing)

New Directions in Cognitive Linguistics (Human Cognitive Processing)

Cognitive Linguistics: Convergence and Expansion (Human Cognitive Processing)

Cognitive Linguistics: Convergence and Expansion (Human Cognitive Processing)

Spatial Cognition V.. Reasoning, Action, Interaction, Spatial Cognition 2006

Transdisciplinary Advancements in Cognitive Mechanisms and Human Information Processing

Metonymy and Metaphor in Grammar (Human Cognitive Processing)

Epistemic Modality, Language, and Conceptualization: A Cognitive-Pragmatic Perspective (Human Cognitive Processing)

Evolution and the Human Mind: Modularity, Language and Meta-Cognition

Language, Usage and Cognition

Language, Usage and Cognition

Cognitive Models of Memory (Studies in Cognition)

The Human Semantic Potential: Spatial Language and Constrained Connectionism

Language, Usage and Cognition

Language, Usage and Cognition

Spatial Processing in Navigation, Imagery and Perception

The Categorization of Spatial Entities in Language and Cognition (Human Cognitive Processing)

Language Diversity and Cognitive Representations (Human Cognitive Processing)

Methods in Cognitive Linguistics (Human Cognitive Processing)

Methods in Cognitive Linguistics (Human Cognitive Processing)

Discourse, Vision, and Cognition (Human Cognitive Processing, Volume 23)

Language, Cognition, and Human Nature

The Structure of Time: Language, Meaning And Temporal Cognition (Human Cognitive Processing)

The Structure of Time: Language, Meaning And Temporal Cognition (Human Cognitive Processing)

Handbook of Categorization in Cognitive Science

Gender Differences in Human Cognition (Counterpoints - Cognition, Memory and Language)

Gender Differences in Human Cognition (Counterpoints - Cognition, Memory and Language)

Space in Language and Cognition: Explorations in Cognitive Diversity (Language Culture and Cognition)

Handbook of Categorization in Cognitive Science

Handbook of Categorization in Cognitive Science

New Directions in Cognitive Linguistics (Human Cognitive Processing)

Motivation in Grammar and the Lexicon (Human Cognitive Processing)

New Directions in Cognitive Linguistics (Human Cognitive Processing)

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