The Central Choice, as Explained in General Semantics

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Recently I poured over a transcript of a recording of Alfred Korzybski, the founder of general semantics.  In the recording, he spoke a lot about extensionalization, which I characterize as becoming oriented to the non-verbal referents that words denote (that is, actual things).  Its contrast is intensionalization.  I characterize that as becoming oriented to the verbal referents the words denote (that is, other words).

Korzybski complained quite a bit about the intensional orientation that many people had, and he worked steadily at retraining people to develop more extensional orientations.  He seemed to feel that this was a central orientation in the development of a sane attitude.  While I won’t get into his argument right now, I’ll just say that there’s a ton of value that I’ve personally derived from becoming more extensional.  That is, instead of paying attention to words, I put more interest in the actual things they denote, and I start to see a) how people try to persuade me by using emotional or deluded language, and b) how I might believe in a reality that doesn’t actually exist.  With a big grain of salt, I start to take people’s use of language, say, to characterize others and their stories.  I tend toward a “show me” attitude.  I need a lot of evidence before I believe the simplest story or characterization.  I find that people spread a lot of bullshit, even without their knowing, and getting extensional has helped me become a better “bullshit detector.”

As I see it, intension is just one kind of extension.  “Extension” is the word used to denote the behavior of defining a word by pointing at its subject.  The extension of the word “zebra” is pointing at a zebra, or maybe a photograph of one.  “Intension” is a word used to denote the behavior of defining a word by listing properties.  The intension of the word “zebra” is something like “a horselike animal with black and white stripes.”  Note that the intension is other words.

What if you think of intension as just pointing at words?  Well, then intension becomes a special kind of extension: intension becomes extension when pointing specificially at words.  That is, I might point at actual things when I define a term, and thus provide an extension, but when I point specifically at words, I still provide an extension, just a special kind I call “intension.”

It might be a bit hard to wrap your head around the problems that come from intension.  But try this: Let’s take my name.  And let’s say you’re reading my name on a list, and there’s a checkmark on the list suggesting you need to talk to me about my membership status in your hypothetical organization.  So you say, “Ben Hauck.”  That’s a term.  You ask, “Where’s Ben Hauck?”  I don’t step forward from the crowd.  You ask again: “Where’s Ben Hauck?”  Someone in the group sees me from afar and says, “There he is!”  You ask, “Where?”  She says, “There!”  You say, “Point him out to me.” …

And so you’re looking for the extension of the term “Ben Hauck.”

… But say she points me out but you still don’t see me.  I disappear.  Wondering about my membership status, you ask, “Who is Ben Hauck?”  Another person speaks up: “He’s a member who joined in 2005 and he volunteers at our annual meetings.”

And so you get an intension of the term “Ben Hauck.”

The difference between extension and intension is the amount of characteristics associated with each referent.  When you point to me, I have a large amount of characteristics associated with me, and you see quite a number of them.  But when you point to words-about-me, I have a significantly smaller amount of characteristics associated with me.  If I’ve stepped out by this time and you never actually see me, I only seem to have a relatively small amount of characteristics associated with me.  The actual quantities of associated characteristics is of no matter.  What matters is that in terms of number of associated characteristics:

extension of a word > intension of a word

That inequality is a lot like saying “A picture is worth a thousand words.”  It says that the denotation of a word–“pointing at the actual referent”–conveys innumerably more characteristics about a person than a list of properties associated with that referent.  Another way to say this is that pointing at something better represents something than providing words about that thing.

When you’re asked to define words, what do you do?  Do you ever provide an extension?  If I ask you “What’s a Republican?,” I am essentially asking for a definition.  Do you ever point out people you call “Republican”?  Or do you simply list properties?  The thinking might go that when you provide intensions, you simplify reality, but you potentially over-simplify reality.  You present a words consisting of relatively few properties, but the actual world consists of indefinitely more.

I could define “Wal-Mart” as a department store … but what to make of it when there’s also a grocery store inside it?  If I pointed to Wal-Mart, you might see the number of different components it has, rather than over-simply defining it in words, which are perhaps always overly simply.

So what is the central choice?  The choice is to provide an extension or an intension when you’re asked, “What does that word mean?”  “What’s a terrorist?”  Well, I could give you an extension by pointing out individuals I apply the label to, or I could give you a list of properties of a terrorist, which probably would not cover the total list of individuals I apply the label to.  That is, characteristics would go ignored when I provide you with the intension of the word.

Extension essentially aims to point to actual reality, in order to circumvent delusional reality, a product in some respects of intension, which can construct an overly simple world in its innocence, and can construct a persuasive (or dissuasive) world in its malevolence.  In hopes of “seeing the truth” and “becoming saner,” the general-semantics advice is to become extensional.  “See what-is-going-on.”

From the neglect of the extensional orientation, a number of unsane problems thus follow, whether they be from the belief in delusion or the persuasion away from healthier choices.  Perhaps unsanity is not bad, or even desired, and for that, worry not about the extensional orientation.  But if unsanity is unwanted, a saner lifestyle appreciated, and a better harmony with actual reality desired, extensionalization may be just the ticket.

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On “Good”

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We now continue our ongoing exploration of the interesting new general-semantics concept called “generic terms.”  Remember that the concept comes from the notion that language, by its nature, is generic, introduced to rival Alfred Korzybski’s notion of seeing language as abstract, which is how general semantics typically frames language.

“Good” is a word of interest when it comes to the discussion of generic terms.  “Good” is a very generic word.  “Good” can mean any number of more specific things in any given context.  Understanding that the word “good” is generic helps listeners understand that the notion is vague and it needs specificity if listeners want to more completely understand their speakers.

For example, take this statement:

“This blog post is good.”

Say you read that statement and you agreed with it.  With what specifically did you agree?

That is, what specifically is good about this blog post?  Is the writing?  Is the editing?  Is the punctuating?  Or is it the color?  The typeface?  Maybe its styling and theming?  Is its news, in light of all the crappy news you’re heard today?  Is its opinion?  Or something else entirely “good” about it?

You don’t really know from the statement “This blog post is good.”  You might think you know, but the context of the statement isn’t given.

This means that in order to understand why this blog post is regarded as “good,” you need to dig a little deeper and ask.  You essentially ask this question:

“What do you mean by ‘good’?”

That is, you ask this:

“You use the word ‘good.’ What more specific term helps me understand what you mean by the word ‘good’?”

Let’s suppose you get a clarification.  What might that clarification sound like?  It might sound like this:

“Well-argued.”

That is:

“This blog post is well-argued.”

This clarification means that the statement “This blog post is good” means more specifically “This blog post is well-argued.”  That is one helluva more specific statement than “This blog post is good”!

So?  So what?  Why care about these kinds of specifications?

Well, take the purchase of new technology.  You might go to your local Best Buy and see the Sony Dash.  The salesperson might say, “Oh yeah, that’s the Sony Dash.  It’s really good!”

If you don’t ask questions into the salesperson’s meaning of the generic word “good,” you might just assume he means the same specific terms that come to your mind when you use the word “good.”

But you might be in for a hassle then.  You might find that “good” for you means “works just like my alarm clock.”  Upon purchasing it, you might find that it lacks some of your alarm clock’s functionality, which immediately disqualifies it as your replacement alarm clock.  Had you investigated the salesperson’s meaning of “good,” you might have learned that for the salesperson, “good” meant something much more generic, such as “puts a lot of content on a bedside device.”

Note that “works just like my alarm clock” is not the same thing as “puts a lot of content on a bedside device.”  And also note that “good” stood for both things.

Why?  Because the word “good” is a generic term that stands for a great number of other things.

Increased understanding that language, by its nature, is generic provokes the mission to dig a bit deeper into speakers’ and writers’ meanings, to get them to be more specific in order to understand them more clearly.  Their being highly generic may make them sound highly agreeable when their being more specific might make them disagreeable.  That is, their being highly generic may make them persuasive when their being more specific might make them dissuasive.  Of course, their persuasive power could be problematic, especially when they persuade you to get on board with something you find objectionable.

“Good” is not the only generic term out there.  By definition, all of language exhibits some magnitude of genericity.  “Good” is just one popular generic word in English, one I find of persuasive power over populations of people.

So I ask you, What are some other highly generic words that come to mind?  Add yours in the comments section below.

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The Demise of Lasting Value

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I got out for dinner with a couple of dear friends tonight, and the topic of Facebook came up.  I’m not on Facebook.  I’m not a fan of its time-suck potential, no matter “how effective it is in helping me keep up with friends and baby photos.”  The one friend agreed.  The second friend was more of a fan.

I started to talk about how Facebook cheapens relationships and people, makes me care so much less about photos than those three hypothetical baby photos I’d received  in the past, mailed with a greeting card.  How engagement announcements had become less important, just clicks and momentary glimpses before clicking on and forgetting.  People even because clicks, emails, or just texts I respond to with colons and parentheses.  I said something to the effect, “Photos and engagements had no lasting value” … and that phrase brought me pause.

“Lasting value.”  The value of something lasting.  The value of something persisting.

That value wasn’t valued anymore.

Compare an essay by Orwell, and an essay by me in this blog.  Granted, I’m no Orwell, but the Orwell essay will be read and read and read.  A blog post by me?  Not so much.  Maybe a better comparison would be a blog post written by Orwell: They probably wouldn’t be read as much as an essay.  Blog posts are fleeting.  You don’t really read the old ones.  You move on to the next.

I argue, the same with online baby photos, emails announcing engagements, birthday invites, friends, and so on.  Their lasting value diminishes when they go online.  You don’t spend time with them the way you would were you to be acquainted with them in the offline world.

That is, the online world diminishes lasting value.

Meanwhile, the online world increases fleeting value.  The online world values now-now-now.  The fast connections, the short tweets, the instant publicity.  There is a deluge of new to supplant the minutes-old.  Do you remember the minutes-old?  Well, no.  It’s not in a greeting card sitting on your desk, awaiting your filing its contents in a photo album.  It’s not a hello and a handshake from a friendly neighbor knocking on your door.  It’s an image, a click, and you’re done with them both, performed clinically removed from it all.

I find it sad.  There’s a value to “going e”–going electronic–but at what cost?  If going online increases fleeting value and diminishes lasting value, will we lose an appreciation for history?  Will we repeat the mistakes of the human past, lacking knowledge of them?  Will we continue to want to be entertained at all hours, jonesing for the next fleeting valuable?

The computer still sucks my time.  I don’t always know how.  It makes me think of the time I was on that cruise, and I was going to play the slot machines, but then I watched the old people mindlessly drop coin after coin into the machines.  The colors, the sounds.  All very captivating.  But I decided then not to do the slots.  Disgusint.

I start to wonder if my computer is little different from the slot machine–

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Generic Terms and Their Relationship with Truth

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When I say something terribly generic, I may make an incredibly true statement.  Get me to make a more specific statement that’s true and I might find that I can’t do it.  So what becomes the value of generic statements?  What is truth in light of these observations?  In continuing my ongoing general semantics discussion of language as generic, let’s see.

But first, let’s exemplify by giving you a generic, true statement:

My name is Ben Hauck.

A true statement, yes.  But generic?  “Generic” is a relative term, meaning that something may be generic from one vantage, but from the opposite vantage it may be specific.  So I’ll offer up a more specific sentence to show the genericity of my statement above:

My name is Benito Hauck.

This second sentence is a more specific–i.e., less generic–statement.  It is clueing you into my fuller name.  In terms of what it specifies, it specifies that my longer name is “Benito,” which is more information than the name “Ben” reveals.

So it’s a more specific statement, but is it still true?  No.  Because here’s a true statement that is also more specific:

My name is Benjamin Hauck.

My name isn’t Benito.  See how a more specific statement may be false while a related generic statement may be true?

This makes you wonder about science.  If science deals with the manufacture of categorical propositions (as opposed to hypothetical propositions, distinctions made by Cassius Keyser in his fabulous book The Pastures of Wonder), then its propositions (statements) bear a relative genericity (“they are relatively generic”), and the pursuit of science is to manufacture as specific a proposition as possible while also staying true.

Think of Zeno’s Paradox, which is explained popularly with a racing tortoise and hare.  In the story, the tortoise moves slowly, and the hare runs quickly, impaired in that he can only run half his distance every length.  (So, when he runs half the race, he then runs a quarter, then an eighth, then a sixtheenth, and so on.)  Theoretically, the hare never reaches the finish line and is beaten by the tortoise.

Scientists are like hares, admitting that they can never achieve the finish line (seeing what “really” is there and thus knowing “Truth”), but believing they can get incredibly close to Truth.  They make as specific a statement as possible that is true, but the statement always bears a genericity to it.  Scientists, I’m arguing, are hopelessly generic, though they may be more specific than the layperson could ever be.

I think Alfred Korzybski would argue something very similar.  He would show his model, the Structural Differential, and say that scientists can’t get beyond the object level of observation (the circle in the diagram) to see the event level (“what is going on,” as Samuel Bois called it).  Their verbalizations may get close, but “no cigar.”  Ever.

Alfred, I wish I could have given you the word “generic.”  I think it would have been a great teaching tool for you!

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