Pirahã and the Case for Linguistic Relativity
Can language influence how we think?
Pirahã is a topic that has fascinated me since I first heard about it years ago, when I was in high school. It’s a language spoken by a hunter-gatherer tribe in the Amazon that is the last surviving member of its linguistic family. This tribe was the subject of considerable interest when it was first contacted by linguists because it seemed to provide evidence for linguistic relativity — the hypothesis that language influences one’s perception of the world.
Throughout the eighties, the linguist Daniel Everett conducted research on the languages spoken in Amazon basin. He was surprised to find that one of those languages, Pirahã, had no numbers, only terms for “few” and “many.” When he tested speakers’ ability to match two quantities, he found that they performed less accurately when he hid one of those quantities from view and asked participants to recall it. Supposedly, the absence of number vocabulary compromised their ability to count as predicted by the linguistic relativity hypothesis.
Everett also made the startling claim that recursion, the ability to embed syntactic structures — at that time held to be an innate feature of language according to the theories of Noam Chomsky, was not in fact universal, using his research of Pirahã as evidence. The ensuing debate became the point of much controversy, with Chomsky calling Everett a “charlatan.” Pirahã is an outlier in several other respects as well: it also lacks color terms and according to some linguists is among the languages with the fewest phonemes (by some counts ten total), which allows speakers to communicate by whistling or humming.
If it is true that language influences how we think, then speakers of Pirahã are not unlike the fictional inhabitants of Tlön in the famous short story by Jorge Luis Borges, which imagines a language without nouns. Instead of saying “moon,” they say “to moonate,” and so on. In Borges’s story, this makes them idealists in the tradition of philosopher George Berkeley, who holds that the existence of the material world is an illusion.
However, many arguments for linguistic relativity tend to rest on misunderstandings about how language works — for example, by failing to distinguish between synthetic languages (which combine concepts into single words) and analytic ones (which separate them). A famous example is the claim that Inuit (or “Eskimo”) languages have fifty unique words for snow. This view is often attributed to Benjamin Whorf, who lends his name to the Sapir-Whorf hypothesis. The assumption is that having a larger vocabulary grants speakers access to a richer repertoire of concepts, when they have in fact only a few word roots for snow with many different suffixes, similar to compound words in English, because Inuit languages are synthetic. Likewise, that Pirahã might require more words than English to express the same concept should not preclude speakers from learning it.
The debate surrounding linguistic relativity recalls certain philosophical problems regarding the nature of translation. The philosopher Hilary Putnam devised a thought experiment: he postulated a language where the word gavagai could refer to either a rabbit or “undetached rabbit parts.” Both of these are plausible descriptions of the same object, which means that precise translation is impossible. This is relevant to the linguistic relativity hypothesis because proponents often assume that a concept only exists in a language if it can be expressed in a single word — but if any word can be decomposed into arbitrarily simpler concepts, then no word expresses a concept unique to that language.
For instance, the world mamihlapinatapai in the Yaghan language is listed in the Guinness Book of World Records as “the most succinct word.” It is often translated as “a look that without words is shared by two people who want to initiate something, but that neither will start.” Many claims have also been made of “untranslatable” words like saudade in Portuguese or poshlost in Russian. Is “snowflake” a combination of the concepts “snow” and “flake,” or is it a distinct, third concept? Resorting to what philosophers call “natural kinds,” the categories that exist out in the natural world, doesn't really resolve the issue, since it begs the question.
In Uncleftish Beholding by sci-fi author Poul Anderson, we see how the vocabulary for certain concepts might be derived in a language without native words for them. He attempts to explain atomic theory in “purist” English by avoiding French, Greek, and Latin loanwords.[1] This is no easy task, but it is possible. For example, he uses the word “waterstuff” for hydrogen (from the German wasserstoff) and “samestead” for “isotope.” This constraint yields rather inspired sentences: “elements are composed of particles called atoms” becomes “the firststuffs have their being as motes called unclefts.”[2]
While Anderson's essay is facetious, such purism is characteristic of linguistic revival projects around the world, and various scholars have attempted to institute similar proscriptions for other languages in earnest. In one striking example from 1969, Filipino linguist Gonsalo Del Rosario wrote Maugnaying Talasalitaang, a dictionary with proposed translations of numerous academic terms into Tagalog, which traditionally relied heavily on loanwords from Spanish and English.
Everett’s work remains contentious among linguists, and many scholars have rejected his claims. When it comes to Pirahã, I suspect the real explanation for the tribe’s innumeracy is cultural. Sustained isolation and a lack of agriculture would negate the need for counting, which is an acquired skill. If anything, Pirahã shows that culture determines language, rather than the other way around.
[1] In a similar vein, Randall Monroe, the creator of xkcd, wrote an encyclopedia using the thousand most common English words, underscoring the irony that some concepts become harder to understand.
[2] It goes without saying that modern English's dual inheritance is what gives the language its flavor: Borges, who spoke English fluently, noted how a sentence’s meaning shifts when one switches from the Germanic “ghost” to the Latinate “spirit.”