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Es ist wiederholt die These vorgebracht worden, die Grundmuster der europäischen Metaphysik entsprängen den grammatischen Grundmustern der zur Darstellung dieser Metaphysik verwendeten Sprache, allgemeiner des indoeuropäischen Sprachtyps. Was ist z. B. das Sein anderes als eine abstrakte Fiktion, ermöglicht durch die Nominalisierung des Hilfsverbs? Weder findet sich in jeder Sprache ein solches Hilfsverb noch muß überall, wo es vorhanden ist, auch Nominalisierung möglich sein. Ist somit die Rede vom Sein, Ontologie, nicht – unbeschadet der Gründe, um derentwillen diese Rede geübt wird – eine bloße Irreführung durch die Mittel unserer Sprache? Und ferner: Ist nicht die im Wort "Ontologie" erwähnte Logik von eben demselben Sprachbau abhängig (wenn schon nicht von der menschlichen Psyche)? Wir analysieren doch das Urteil in Subjekt, Prädikat und Kopula, S ist P; und auch hier taucht in verräterischer Weise das Hilfsverb auf. Philosophie? Philosophie der Logik? "Die Philosophie ist ein Kampf gegen die Verhexung unseres Verstandes durch die Mittel unserer Sprache." Mit diesen berühmten Worten leitete L. Wittgenstein eine Entwicklung ein ("Wir führen die Wörter von ihrer metaphysischen, wieder auf ihre alltägliche Verwendung zurück.") die E. Tugendhat 1976 schließlich so zusammenfaßte: "Ich kenne keine befriedigende Antwort auf die Frage, wie die sprachanalytische Philosophie von der empirischen Sprachwissenschaft zu unterscheiden ist." Hat das nicht zur Konsequenz, daß am Ende die logisch-philosophischen Probleme – einschließlich aller die Philosophie der Logik betreffenden –, die doch apriori sich aus der Bewußtseinshelle des Menschen herzustellen scheinen, in einer empirischen Disziplin, der Linguistik, aposteriori also, ihre genugtuende Beantwortung finden? Dieser Frage wollen wir nachgehen. Zunächst ist hier kurz zu umreißen, wie sich dem unbefangenen Betrachter die Beziehung von Logik und Linguistik gegenwärtig darstellt.
Mit „Aschenbrödel“ bzw. „Aschenputtel“ beginnt das Goethezeitportal die Publikation einer Reihe von Märchen und ihrer Illustrationen. Dabei werden, wie auch in unseren anderen Text-Bild-Serien, Illustrationen der Hoch- wie der Popularkultur berücksichtigt. Beigegeben sind stets der Text des Märchens, in der Regel also die Fassung der Brüder Grimm in ihren „Kinder- und Hausmärchen“, ggf. weitere Bearbeitungen (z.B. von Ludwig Bechstein; Adaptionen im Theater und Film) sowie Hinweise auf Literatur und Weblinks. Die Geschichte vom „Aschenbrödel“ - trotz aller Intrigen der bösen Stiefmutter und ihrer Geschwister wird die gedemütigte Halbwaise vom Königssohn heimgeführt - wurde eines der bekanntesten deutschen Märchen, nicht zuletzt wohl auf Grund seiner positiven moralischen Botschaft. Dem Text sind 19 Illustrationen auf Postkarten beigegeben.
»Wenn es einen Wirklichkeitssinn gibt, dann muß es« – so folgerte Robert Musil zu Beginn des 20. Jahrhunderts – »auch einen Möglichkeitssinn geben.« Darunter versteht er die Fähigkeit, »alles, was ebenso gut [auch] sein könnte, zu denken und das, was ist, nicht wichtiger zu nehmen, als das, was nicht ist.« Mit dem Begriff des Möglichkeitssinns, der auf die Relativität und Alternativität des individuellen Denkens sowie auf die Utopie eines anderen, hypothetischen Lebens verweist, hat Robert Musil in seinem Jahrhundertroman Der Mann ohne Eigenschaften dem Kontingenzbewusstsein des modernen Menschen Ausdruck gegeben, welches am Ende des 20. Jahrhunderts zum Grundmodus der Existenz und der Verfasstheit des Individuums überhaupt werden sollte. Dem Begriff der Kontingenz liegt bei aller Unschärfe ein grundlegendes, auf Aristoteles zurückgehendes Verständnis zugrunde, welches Niklas Luhmann folgendermaßen definiert: Kontingent ist etwas, was weder notwendig ist, noch unmöglich ist; was also so, wie es ist (war, sein wird), sein kann, aber auch anders möglich ist. Der Begriff bezeichnet mithin Gegebenes (zu Erfahrendes, Erwartetes, Gedachtes, Phantasiertes) im Hinblick auf mögliches Anderssein; er bezeichnet Gegenstände im Horizont möglicher Abwandlungen.
This paper is the report of a study conducted by five people – four at Stanford, and one at the University of Wisconsin – which tried to establish whether computer-generated algorithms could "recognize" literary genres. You take 'David Copperfield', run it through a program without any human input – "unsupervised", as the expression goes – and ... can the program figure out whether it's a gothic novel or a 'Bildungsroman'? The answer is, fundamentally, Yes: but a Yes with so many complications that it is necessary to look at the entire process of our study. These are new methods we are using, and with new methods the process is almost as important as the results.
In the last few years, literary studies have experienced what we could call the rise of quantitative evidence. This had happened before of course, without producing lasting effects, but this time it’s probably going to be different, because this time we have digital databases, and automated data retrieval. As Michel’s and Lieberman’s recent article on "Culturomics" made clear, the width of the corpus and the speed of the search have increased beyond all expectations: today, we can replicate in a few minutes investigations that took a giant like Leo Spitzer months and years of work. When it comes to phenomena of language and style, we can do things that previous generations could only dream of.
When it comes to language and style. But if you work on novels or plays, style is only part of the picture. What about plot – how can that be quantified? This paper is the beginning of an answer, and the beginning of the beginning is network theory. This is a theory that studies connections within large groups of objects: the objects can be just about anything – banks, neurons, film actors, research papers, friends... – and are usually called nodes or vertices; their connections are usually called edges; and the analysis of how vertices are linked by edges has revealed many unexpected features of large systems, the most famous one being the so-called "small-world" property, or "six degrees of separation": the uncanny rapidity with which one can reach any vertex in the network from any other vertex. The theory proper requires a level of mathematical intelligence which I unfortunately lack; and it typically uses vast quantities of data which will also be missing from my paper. But this is only the first in a series of studies we’re doing at the Stanford Literary Lab; and then, even at this early stage, a few things emerge.
If there is one thing to be learned from David Foster Wallace, it is that cultural transmission is a tricky game. This was a problem Wallace confronted as a literary professional, a university-based writer during what Mark McGurl has called the Program Era. But it was also a philosophical issue he grappled with on a deep level as he struggled to combat his own loneliness through writing. This fundamental concern with literature as a social, collaborative enterprise has also gained some popularity among scholars of contemporary American literature, particularly McGurl and James English: both critics explore the rules by which prestige or cultural distinction is awarded to authors (English; McGurl). Their approach requires a certain amount of empirical work, since these claims move beyond the individual experience of the text into forms of collective reading and cultural exchange influenced by social class, geographical location, education, ethnicity, and other factors. Yet McGurl and English's groundbreaking work is limited by the very forms of exclusivity they analyze: the protective bubble of creative writing programs in the academy and the elite economy of prestige surrounding literary prizes, respectively. To really study the problem of cultural transmission, we need to look beyond the symbolic markets of prestige to the real market, the site of mass literary consumption, where authors succeed or fail based on their ability to speak to that most diverse and complicated of readerships: the general public. Unless we study what I call the social lives of books, we make the mistake of keeping literature in the same ascetic laboratory that Wallace tried to break out of with his intense authorial focus on popular culture, mass media, and everyday life.
The nineteenth century in Britain saw tumultuous changes that reshaped the fabric of society and altered the course of modernization. It also saw the rise of the novel to the height of its cultural power as the most important literary form of the period. This paper reports on a long-term experiment in tracing such macroscopic changes in the novel during this crucial period. Specifically, we present findings on two interrelated transformations in novelistic language that reveal a systemic concretization in language and fundamental change in the social spaces of the novel. We show how these shifts have consequences for setting, characterization, and narration as well as implications for the responsiveness of the novel to the dramatic changes in British society.
This paper has a second strand as well. This project was simultaneously an experiment in developing quantitative and computational methods for tracing changes in literary language. We wanted to see how far quantifiable features such as word usage could be pushed toward the investigation of literary history. Could we leverage quantitative methods in ways that respect the nuance and complexity we value in the humanities? To this end, we present a second set of results, the techniques and methodological lessons gained in the course of designing and running this project.
We would study not style as such, but style 'at the scale of the sentence': the lowest level, it seemed, at which style as a distinct phenomenon became visible. Implicitly, we were defining style as a combination of smaller linguistic units, which made it, in consequence, particularly sensitive to changes in scale—from words to clauses to whole sentences.
The concept of length, the concept is synonymous, the concept is nothing more than, the proper definition of a concept ... Forget programs and visions; the operational approach refers specifically to concepts, and in a very specific way: it describes the process whereby concepts are transformed into a series of operations—which, in their turn, allow to measure all sorts of objects. Operationalizing means building a bridge from concepts to measurement, and then to the world. In our case: from the concepts of literary theory, through some form of quantification, to literary texts.