The Sapir-Whorf hypothesis, in it’s simplest form, is the idea that the language you speak influences the thoughts you think. This post is about a twist on this idea, that I’m calling “Inverse Sapir-Whorf” (for want of a better term), and how we see it in computer programming languages.
Sapir-Whorf is one of those ideas that has been popularised in general culture in a rather misrepresented and exaggerated form. In the field of linguistics, not many people today take seriously the “strong” forms of Sapir-Whorf, such as “linguistic determinism” – the idea that a language controls your thoughts or limits what you can think, or that you even need certain languages to think certain thoughts.
For example, just because a language might lack grammatical tenses, it doesn’t at all follow that the speakers will be more limited in how they think about time – there are always other ways you can express time.
There is a fair amount of evidence that spoken languages can affect perception, skill and attitudes in certain areas, but it’s usually hard to demonstrate a large direct effect.
Inverse Sapir-Whorf is a bit different. I haven’t been able to track down where I first came across the idea, but it goes like this: if classic Sapir-Whorf says your language limits what you can say or think, or makes it hard to say some things, inverse Sapir-Whorf says your language limits what you can’t say, or makes it hard not to say some things, or even hard not to think about some things. Some examples might clear things up.
Examples in natural language There are many examples to choose from, but they are not always obvious to native speakers of a language. I’ll pick just a few. English: temporary or permanent present tense What’s the difference between someone saying “I’m living in London” and “I live in London”? A non-native speaker may not pick this up at all, and a native speaker may pick it up only subconsciously, but “I’m living in London” reveals that the arrangement is temporary. Now, this might not even be to do with the actual length of time you have been living there, because “temporary” is pretty relative. It might be more about how much you like London. You have to choose a tense, and because you typically do so subconsciously, the language is forcing you to reveal things – either the period of time you’ve been living somewhere, or how you feel about it. English/Turkish/French: gendered pronouns and nouns In English, in normal speech you are going to use “he” or “she” when referring to a specific person. “Singular they” does exist, but it’s very unnatural if you are talking about a specific person of known or assumed sex. You can compare this to another language which doesn’t have gendered pronouns, such as Turkish, which just has “o” for he/she/it. The lack of gendered pronouns in Turkish doesn’t stop you from thinking or talking about a person’s sex, or produce a “less gendered society”, or anywhere close, so it would be difficult to find support for normal Sapir-Whorf here. But the inverse Sapir-Whorf is obvious – English pronouns push you to talk about it whether you want to or not. If you are trying to talk about someone you know, but do so anonymously, it can be very hard to avoid making their identification easier by revealing their sex with an inadvertent “him” or “her”. Different again is French, in which nouns are gendered, which in some cases can force you to reveal information. If you translate “my friend” into French, you have to choose between “mon ami” (male friend) and “mon amie” (female friend), which are distinct, at least in written form, or “mon copain” vs “ma copine”. Possessive pronouns are also interesting – they are gendered in both English and French (his/her, son/sa), but refer to the gender of the possessor and possessee respectively, and so reveal different information. Turkish: “mış” tense With some simplifications, Turkish has two main past tenses: there is the normal one that is similar to “simple past” in English, and then there is the “mış” form (you can pronounce that “mish” if you want). This has various functions, but when describing a past event, this form is used when you have second hand or unreliable information. If someone asks you “Did Fred come to work on Monday?”, then if you saw him you would use the normal past tense “geldi” (he came), but if you only heard that he came you would instead say “gelmiş” (he came, but second hand information). The interesting thing to me as a non-native speaker was the effect of having these options, in contrast to English where you can just use simple past tense without any specific indication of reliability or where the information came from. In certain circumstances, Turkish forces you to include information about your level of certainty or whether you witnessed something – the simple past form is not neutral, because the existence of the “mış” form makes it an unnatural choice if it is not the most appropriate of the two. Interestingly, having learned to think that way, my wife and I have noticed an effect on our English. Often in Turkish the “mış” suffix would come at the end of the last word in a sentence, so now quite frequently we get to the end of an English sentence and notice that we haven’t put in any marker for “this-is-second-hand-info-I-didn’t-actually-witness-it”, and so we tack “mış” on the end. Of course, you can easily express the same thing in English, using words like “apparently” and other means, but English doesn’t force you to specify, while Turkish pretty much does.