Maurice Merleau-Ponty

The manuscript partially completed during these years and published posthumously as The Prose of the World (1969/1973) pursues these themes through a phenomenological investigation of literary language and its relationship with scientific language and painting. Critiquing our commonsense ideal of a pure language that would transparently encode pre-existing thoughts, Merleau-Ponty argues that instituted language—the conventional system of language as an established set of meanings and rules—is derivative from a more primordial function of language as genuinely creative, expressive, and communicative. Here he draws two insights from Saussurian linguistics: First, signs function diacritically, through their lateral relations and differentiations, rather than through a one-to-one correspondence with a conventionally established meaning. Ultimately, signification happens through the differences between terms in a referential system that lacks any fixed or positive terms. This insight into diacritical difference will later prove important to Merleau-Ponty’s understanding of perception and ontology as well (see Alloa 2013a). Second, the ultimate context for the operation of language is effective communication with others, by which new thoughts can be expressed and meanings shared. Expression accomplishes itself through a coherent reorganization of the relationships between acquired signs that must teach itself to the reader or listener, and which may afterwards again sediment into a taken-for-granted institutional structure.

The manuscript completed during this period and published as Prose of the World (1969/1973) pursues these themes through a phenomenological examination of the relationship between literary language and scientific language and painting. Merleau-Ponty criticizes our common-sense ideal of pure language as a transparent coding of existing thought, arguing that enacted language (the conventional language system as a set of established meanings and rules) is derived from the more fundamental functions of language, which are purely creative, expressive, and communicative He argues that the language of the past is not a "purely creative, expressive, communicative language. Here he draws two insights from Saussurean linguistics. First, symbols do not function in a one-to-one correspondence with conventionally established meanings, but secondarily through their lateral relations and differentiation. Finally, meaning assignment takes place through diacritics between words in a system of reference that has no fixed words or appositives. This insight into diacritical difference would later be crucial to Merleau-Ponty's understanding of perception and ontology (see Alloa 2013a). Second, the ultimate context of language operation is effective communication with others, through which new thoughts can be expressed and meanings shared. Expression is achieved through the coherent reorganization of acquired symbolic relations, which must teach themselves to the reader or listener and may then be precipitated back into the natural institutional structure.

It is speaking language, that is to say, primary expression, that interests Merleau-Ponty and which keeps his attention through his treatment of the nature of production and the reception of expressions, a subject which also overlaps with an analysis of action, of intentionality, of perception, as well as the links between freedom and external conditions.

It is the speaking of words, or primary expression, that Merleau-Ponty is concerned with and draws attention to by dealing with the nature of the production and reception of expression, a theme that overlaps with the analysis of action, intentionality, and perception, as well as with the relationship between freedom and external conditions.

The Prose of the World

Thus expression involves nothing more than replacing a perception or an idea with a conventional sign that announces, evokes, or abridges it. Of course, language contains more than just ready-made phrases and can refer to what has never yet been seen. But how could language achieve this if what is new were not composed of old elements already experienced—that is, if new relations were not entirely definable through the vocabulary and syntactical relations of the conventional language?

Thus, representation is nothing more than the replacement of perceptions and ideas with conventional symbols that announce, evoke, and summarize them. Of course, language can contain more than preexisting words and phrases, and can refer to things that have not yet been seen. But how can language accomplish this if the new is not composed of old elements already experienced, that is, if the new relations are not fully definable by the lexical and syntactic relations of conventional language?

The word possesses no virtue of its own; there is no power hidden in it. It is a pure sign standing for a pure signification. The person speaking is coding his thought. He replaces his thought with a visible or sonorous pattern which is nothing but sounds in the air or ink spots on the paper. Thought understands itself and is self-sufficient. Thought signifies outside itself through a message which does not carry it and conveys it unequivocally only to another mind, which can read the message because it attaches the same signification to the same sign, whether by habit, by human conventions, or by divine institution. In any case, we never find among other people's words any that we have not put there ourselves. Communication is an appearance; it never brings us anything truly new.

The word has no virtues of its own, no hidden power within it. It is a pure signifier standing for pure signification. The speaker encodes his thoughts. He is replacing his thoughts with visible or sound patterns that are no more than sounds in the air or specks of ink on paper. Thought understands itself and is self-sufficient. Thought gives meaning outside of itself through messages it does not carry, and conveys it clearly only to another mind. That mind can read that message because it attaches the same meaning to the same symbol, either by habit, by human convention, or by divine institution. In any case, we cannot find in the words of others what we ourselves have not put there. Communication is only apparent and does not bring anything truly new.

How could communication possibly carry us beyond our own powers of reflection, since the signs communication employs could never tell us anything unless we already grasped the signification?

Can communication carry us beyond our own powers of reflection? Because the symbols that communication uses do not tell us anything unless we already understand their meaning.

It is frequently observed that it is impossible at any given moment to make an inventory of a vocabulary—whether of a child, of an individual, or of a language. Should one count as distinct words those that are formed mechanically from the same original word? Does one include a word that is still understood but hardly used and marginal to everyday use? like the visual field, an individual's linguistic field ends in vagueness, because speaking is not having at one's disposal a certain number of signs. Speaking is possessing language as a principle of distinction, whatever number of signs it permits us to specify. There are languages in which one cannot say "to sit in the sun," * because they use particular words to refer to the rays of sunlight and keep the word "sun" for the star itself. In other words, the linguistic value of each word is defined only through the presence or absence of the words surrounding it. Since one can say the same thing in turn of those words, it seems that language never says anything; it invents a series of gestures, which between them present differences clear enough for the conduct of language, to the degree that it repeats itself, recovers and affirms itself, and purveys to us the palpable flow and contours of a universe of meaning. Moreover, the words and very forms for an analysis of this kind soon appear to be secondary realities, the results of a more originary differentiation. The syllables and letters, the turns of phrase, and the word endings are the sediments of a primary differentiation which, this time, precedes without any doubt the relation of sign to signification, since it is what makes the very distinction between signs possible.

The phonemes, too, which are the real foundations of speech, since they are reached through the analysis of spoken language and have no official existence in grammar and dictionaries, by themselves mean nothing one can specify. But for this very reason, they represent the originary form of signifying. They bring us into the presence of that primary operation, beneath institutionalized language, that creates the simultaneous possibility of significations and discrete signs. like language itself, phonemes constitute a system, in other words, they are less a finite number of tools than a typical manner of modulation, an inexhaustible power of differentiating one linguistic gesture from another. Finally, to the extent that the differences are more precise, more systematic, phonemes appear in situations which themselves are better articulated and suggest even more that the whole process obeys an internal order, the power of revealing to the child what the adult had in mind.

It is often said that it is impossible to inventory the vocabulary of any one moment, be it of a child, an individual, or a language. Should words mechanically created from the same source language be counted as separate words? As in the field of vision, the linguistic field of the individual is also marked by ambiguity. This is because to speak is not to have a certain number of symbols at one's disposal, but to possess language as a principle of distinction. There is a language that cannot say "sit in the sun". This is because they use a specific word that refers to the sun's rays and use the word "sun" to refer to the stars themselves. In other words, the linguistic value of each word is defined only by the presence or absence of words surrounding it. The word seems to invent a series of gestures, between which it presents a difference sufficiently clear for the workings of language, and to the extent that it is repeated, it recovers and affirms itself, providing us with the palpable flow and contours of a universe of meanings. Moreover, the words and forms themselves for this kind of analysis immediately seem to be the result of a secondary reality, a more primordial differentiation. Syllables and letters, turns of phrase and word endings are deposits of primary differentiation, which at this time unquestionably precede the relationship between signifier and signified, for it is precisely what makes the distinction between signifiers possible.

Phonemes are also the true basis of speech, since they are arrived at through the analysis of spoken language and have no formal existence in grammars or dictionaries; by themselves, they do not identify anything. But that is why they represent the primordial form of signification. Like language itself, phonemes constitute a system. In other words, phonemes are not so much finite tools as they are archetypal methods of modulation, an inexhaustible force that distinguishes one linguistic gesture from another. Finally, the more precise and systematic the distinction, the more clearly the phoneme appears in the articulated situation, further suggesting that the whole process follows an internal order, a power to reveal to the child what the adult was thinking.

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