Analysisizing
Learned Vol. 8, Issue 28
Language isn’t math. To some of you, that’s as obvious as saying the sky is not the ocean. Meanwhile, others might say, well actually, the sky and the ocean are both deep volumes of gaseous elements contained under different pressures.
And that’s the problem: everything is everything; everything is nothing.
Enter analysis. Not quite science, not quite religion, the art of analysis is something hardwired into us hairless apes. We notice, define, categorize, compare, conflate and configure the patterns around us until we can, hopefully, create some semblance of order from the chaos.
The thing is, what we mean by analysis drifts. Language isn’t math. And yet, in school I had both a math analysis class as well as a modern lit. analysis class. For such two varying subjects, the analysis was depressingly similar and yet equally flawed in both disciplines for very different reasons.
Let me get the two points out of the way up front, since I know half of you are still short on caffeine and the other half are way past capacity already.
Treating language like math is a sometimes-useful analogy, but over-reliance on it fundamentally disrupts how we perceive and use language. It also feeds into a lot of the false assumptions about how much AI can “understand.”
Analytical skills, ones honed and developed through education and practice, are crucial. The ability to break something down, interpret, and rebuild meaning is the single most valuable intellectual habit education can give us.
So. To start at the beginning, the word analysis comes from Latin and Greek roots meaning “to loosen up.” In English, it’s been around since the mid-16th century and, unlike most words that old, it hasn’t drifted much. It still means breaking something complex into its smaller parts to understand it better.
The irony, of course, is that modern schooling often treats analysis as the opposite. Notice it, label it, and stick it in a box from which it is never to be freed. We took a word that literally means “to loosen” and turned it into an exercise in limitations.
The thing is, we learn to analyze things before we ever learn the word. Take Little Red Riding Hood. It’s essentially a lesson plan in three parts:
Notice the details around you. Has something changed? Does Grandma look or sound different?
Identify what you see. Oh, Grandma’s teeth are sharper than usual.
Decide what to do. Maybe call the woodsman and get that big bad wolf served up in pieces? Sure. Why not.
It’s exaggerated, sure, but it’s analysis. The kid’s not placing Grandma in stasis and assuming that any changes must be natural because the label says Grandma and so therefore, it must be Grandma. Instead, she’s seeing where the pattern no longer fits and making an interpretation of the new pattern. You know, analysisizing.
But then the kid gets to first grade and out go the fairy tales and in come the rules and the boxes and the labels and the “correct” answers.
Back in the day, languages were taught grammar-first. You learned the parts of speech, you memorized formulas, and you applied them dogmatically. Anything that didn’t fit was “incorrect.” That’s how we ended up with ridiculous old rules like never split an infinitive or never end a sentence with a preposition.
For those hoary old prescriptivists, it made language logical, structured, and, in theory, predictable. But it also made it derivative, formulaic, and mechanical. And, not to get on a side-rant, it has directly led to the situation we’re in now with A.I.
A.I. is a useful tool because a lot of language is formulaic. That email to your boss follows the same pattern more-or-less every time. The machines are very good at telling us what most often comes next in this particular sequence or pattern. But, as we see time and time again, the pattern does not automatically equate to meaning.
Take Janis Joplin’s “Mercedes Benz.”1
She sings:
Oh Lord, won’t you buy me a night on the town.
I’m counting on you Lord, please don’t let me down.
Prove that you love me, and buy the next round,
Oh Lord, won’t you buy me a night on the town.
I love this song for so many reasons, but that line—buy the next round—always catches me.
Long before lyric sheets and websites, I used to wonder if it was “buy the next round” or “by the next round.” Both make sense. And given how much Joplin drew from Kris Kristofferson, who was not above sneaking a pun or three into a song, I’ve always liked to imagine it’s deliberately ambiguous.
And that’s the point I’m trying to make. When we apply the pattern recognition tools to the lyric we can see the math. We can see exactly, precisely how often the phrases “by the next round” or “buy the next round” crop up in the zeitgeist. We can tell you with agonizing precision the etymology and grammatical function of every word in either phrase. But we can’t tell you which is right.
Sure, the lyric sheet says it’s “buy,” but, and here’s a secret, everyone who had a hand in writing the song is dead. And, not just that, but Joplin herself died shortly after recording the song. The album it appears on was released posthumously. So, who wrote the lyric sheet? Who put it in the album sleeve? Where did they get their “correct” version from?
Who cares. Because what they try to teach us in English class is different from what they try to teach us in math class. In math, we analyze a problem and look for methods to find the right answer. In English, we analyze a problem and look for interpretations that suggest an answer.
So, yeah, language isn’t math. Analysis, at its best, isn’t about correctness. Analysis is about curiosity. And you know what I’m going to say next…
Stay curious,
Joel
Story time: When I was 18 I did a student exchange program to Italy. The group I was with ended up on a multi-hour bus ride to somewhere or other. After hours on the bus, I was more than a little punchy. Right as we stepped off the bus, we had to squeeze up against the side of it so some schmuck in a Benz could move past us. I started singing “Mercedes Benz.” Much to the delight of both myself and whomever pens the eventual movie version of my life story, one of the older students immediately joined in with me. We had a grand time. The rest of our group kept their distance. Ah, good times.
Love this post so much! Freedom is good!