The Rudolf Steiner Archive

7. Anthroposophy and Linguistics

[ 1 ] Ladies and gentlemen! The organizers of this university course have asked that I open each morning’s session with a few remarks to set the tone for the day’s discussions, and so it is only fitting that I begin today’s session in a somewhat aphoristic manner with a brief discussion. I am aware that this is not entirely easy, especially today. During a short course I once gave to a small group in Stuttgart on the very topics to be discussed today, it became particularly clear to me just how much time is actually needed to discuss the controversial issues that are on the agenda today. I would therefore like to begin by saying a few words about the spirit of contemplation required by anthroposophy with regard to the understanding of human language.

[ 2 ] When discussing language, and when one sets out to treat language scientifically, one must be aware that dealing with language as the object of scientific inquiry is not as straightforward as, for example, dealing with nature outside of human beings or even with the physical nature of human beings. In those cases, one has at least an object clearly delineated by perception. Certainly, one can still discuss to what extent the object is based on perception, or to what extent it is merely grasped by human cognitive faculties as the effect of an unknown cause. But these are discussions that take place purely within the realm of thought. What presents itself as an object to scientific inquiry is a self-contained entity that is simply given.

[ 3 ] This is by no means the case with language. In language, a large part of what unfolds as a person speaks already lies in the unconscious regions of the human soul. Something already wells up from these unconscious regions, and what wells up there is then connected with conscious elements that, in a sense, move like harmonics on an unconscious or subconscious current. And what is immediately present in consciousness—what is present while we speak—is actually only partially the object that is essentially relevant to language, the actual subject matter. Even while remaining within the current linguistic habits of human beings, one can already acquire a certain ability to bring language as an object into consciousness, even while speaking. I would like to humbly offer an example that might illustrate this.

[ 4 ] At Christmas, I was to give a series of lectures at the Goetheanum in Dornach on topics related to education and teaching. This series of lectures was initially prompted by the fact that a number of English teachers had requested it and wanted to attend. But when word got out that this course was to take place, people from all over Western and Central Europe—including Switzerland—began to gather, as they, too, wanted to attend this lecture series. Since this course could not be held in the Goetheanum’s large hall, which seats well over 900 people, but could only take place in a small hall, I was compelled to deliver each lecture twice in succession. Now, I believed from the outset that it was necessary, to a certain extent, to separate the English-speaking people from those of other nationalities—not for political reasons; the lecture series—and I emphasize this—was delivered entirely in German even for the English attendees; for whenever people wish to hear about anthroposophy, wherever that may be, I always speak to them in German. I think this is also a way to demonstrate one’s “Germanness” and to serve the German spirit and the German language.

[ 5 ] In one of these lectures, I was to discuss ethical and moral education. In the course of the lecture, I attempted to illustrate how a child can be guided toward those stages of inner experience that can bring about a certain ethical and moral disposition in the child. — If I were to speak again today before people who listen in the same way that some listened yesterday, what I say—drawn from direct experience—might again be called contrived, just as happened yesterday with regard to what I said about the Trinity. However, Dr. Rittelmeyer responded so clearly to this with the comparison between the head and the book—a comparison I, for understandable reasons, did not wish to make.

[ 6 ] So in this lecture on ethical and moral education, I had to show how a child must be guided so that the following are properly awakened in him: feelings of gratitude, an interest in the world, and love for the world and for one’s own actions and deeds; and I then had to show how, through love for one’s own actions and deeds, that which is felt in a person as duty is developed. Now it was necessary to describe this triad, drawn from immediate life, using these three words—since we are speaking today about language. So I moved from the first two stages—gratitude and love—to the third stage: duty. But even though I had to give the lecture twice—once from 10 to 11 a.m. for the English audience, and the second time from 11 a.m. to 12 p.m. for the other nationalities, whose general disposition was essentially Central European— I actually had to deliver this lecture—which was really just meant to be a parallel presentation—quite differently for the English than for the Germans on that day, because I tried to attune myself to the mood of the audience. While something similar was also necessary on the other days, it was particularly necessary on this day.

[ 7 ] Why was that? Yes, while I was speaking about “Pflicht” from 11 to 12 in front of people who listened with a sense of feeling that is the very foundation of the German language, I had to speak during the first hour, from 10 to 11, in front of people who understood what I had to say about the impulse of “Pflicht” in terms of what they call “duty.” Now, it is something entirely different that a person carries in their soul when they say the word “Pflicht” versus when they say the word “duty,” and I simply had to weave into the lecture from 11 a.m. to 12 p.m. that particular nuance of experience that arises when one speaks to people about “Pflicht.” For when one says “Pflicht,” one triggers with this word an impulse that arises from the life of the soul, which immediately leads the experience toward something that—if I were to express it as a verb—has to do with “nurturing,” with the outflow of feeling from the act of doing toward that to which the action relates. This lies in the impulse that is designated by the word “Pflicht.” Something quite different lives in the soul when one describes this impulse with the word “duty”; for just as the word “Pflicht” points to the emotions, so the word “duty” points to the intellect, to the spirit, to that which directs one inwardly, just as thought directs one when one proceeds to action. One might say: “Pflicht” is fulfilled out of inner love and devotion, while “duty” is fulfilled for the reason that, when one feels one’s human dignity, one must tell oneself: You must obey a law that permeates you; you must submit to a law that you grasp intellectually. This is only a rough characterization. But I want to use this to express how the inner complexes of experience are entirely different for one word compared to the other, even though the dictionary lists the English word “duty” as the equivalent of the German word “Pflicht.” This, however, carries over into the entire national spirit, into the entire national soul, and in language you find a nuance of the entire national soul. You will see that in this regard, the soul of the Central European looks quite different from that of other nationalities, and that the inner life finds a completely different expression in language among Central Europeans than among the English.

[ 8 ] Anyone who fails to grasp that what you draw from the subconscious depths of the soul into language lies an entire level deeper than what is experienced in consciousness does not, in fact, have a truly clear object for the [scientific study of] language. One must be clear about this: In the observation of nature, the objects are already there, or one can isolate them neatly through external manipulation; in doing so, however, the objects remain outside of oneself and can therefore be thoroughly examined. When observing language, it is necessary to first undergo a process of consciousness in order to arrive at what the actual object of observation really is. Thus, when it comes to language, one must not merely consider what exists in human consciousness; rather, when examining language, one must keep in mind the entire living reality that manifests itself in speech and language.

[ 9 ] This kind of preparation for the scientific study of language is, in fact, rarely undertaken. If it were done, then when engaging in, say, the history of language or comparative linguistics, one would feel a deep need to first focus on the essence of any given language—its inner, unconscious content, that subconscious substance which is only partially expressed consciously in speech.

[ 10 ] Now there is something else to consider: namely, that at the various stages of human development, this level of consciousness associated with language was, in fact, quite different. It was quite different, for example, in the times when the Sanskrit language originated; it was different in the era when the Greek language was formed; it is different here in Germany—though here the nuances become smaller and smaller and less noticeable—and it is different, for example, in England. There are indeed great differences in inner experience when an Englishman or an American uses the English language, even if I consider only the broadest distinctions here. But anyone who can delve into the study of dialects—that is, anyone who, for example, examines what the various dialects of the German language allow people to experience when they are used—will also notice from this the multitude of complex psychological impulses that flow into what is then expressed in language, in the linguistic organism. It is, for example, by no means without reason that Greek speakers, when they said “language” and when they said “reason,” essentially felt the same thing and summed both up in a single word—because the experience within the word and the experience within the thought, within the concept, in the Greek use of language still merged without distinction to a certain degree, whereas our present era exhibits differences in this regard. When speaking, the Greek certainly felt how the thought flowed within the word itself. For him, the thought was the “soul,” and the word that flowed forth was the “body”—the outer garment, so to speak, of the soul of the word flowing within the thought. Today, when we bring this process clearly into our consciousness, we feel something like this: on the one hand, we pronounce the word—the word flows forth as we speak it—and on the other hand, the thought floats, as it were, atop the stream of words; yet it is already clearly distinguishable from the stream of words.

[ 11 ] If we go back to Sanskrit, for example, it is necessary first to undergo genuine psychological processes and experience psychological phenomena so that we can truly possess within ourselves what was experienced in connection with a word at the time when the Sanskrit language had its origins. We must by no means regard Sanskrit with the same feelings toward speech and language as we have toward a modern language.

[ 12 ] Let’s take, for example, a very well-known word: “manas.” If you look it up in a dictionary, you will find a wide variety of translations for “manas”: spirit, mind, soul, and sometimes even anger, irascibility, and so on. Essentially, such translations fail to capture the inner experience of the word that once existed—an experience that people in earlier times could perceive very clearly within themselves. During that era when Sanskrit was fully alive, the human soul’s constitution was fundamentally different from what it is today—in fact, significantly different. We must be clear that in the course of human development, there has indeed been something like a profound transformation of the human soul’s constitution. I have repeatedly described here that one great transformation, which can be dated to around the middle of the 15th century. But as one moves back through human development, there are always such epochal boundaries, and only when one can truly trace the inner spiritual life of human beings throughout history does one come to understand what actually existed then and how the experience of language was part of it.

[ 13 ] In the time when something like the word “manas” was still vividly experienced inwardly, there was certainly something present that I would like to call the experience of the meaning of sounds. In an incredibly intense way, people sensed what was experienced inwardly in the sounds we today designate as m, a, n, and s. To a high degree—albeit in a dreamlike state, yet consciously within that dream—the life of the soul was still in harmony with what lived inwardly within the organism while the vowels and consonants were being pronounced. Anyone who then, armed with such scientific insight, traces how language lives within human beings will find that everything consonantal is based on the fact that human beings project their own being into external processes—into the material world—and seek to imitate the inner life of things with their own inner, yet restrained, gestures. Consonants are restrained gestures—gestures that do not become visible—but which, in their content, fully capture what can be experienced externally in the rumbling of thunder, the flashing of lightning, the rolling of the wind, and so on. An inner immersion into external things is present in the experience of the consonant. One actually seeks—if I may put it this way—to imitate through gestures what lives and weaves externally; one restrains the gesture, it transforms internally, and in this transformation it comes to light in the consonant.

[ 14 ] In contrast, within human beings—as they confront the external natural world—there exists a sum of sympathies and antipathies. These sympathies and antipathies, which constitute an inner experience, give rise to the entire system of vowels; so that, in living through language, a person lives in such a way that, through the consonantal element, he reproduces the external world—but in a transformed form—while, through the vowel element, he expresses his own inner relationship to the external world. — This is something that, when one delves into the concrete reality of the experience of language, can be fully grasped and understood even within today’s spiritual life. What is described as “imagination” is not a matter of mere fantasies, but rather the fact that, for example, this inner process of the experience of language can truly be perceived.

[ 15 ] In the earlier times, however, from which Sanskrit has its origins, there was still something alive in the human soul like a dreamlike imagination. It was not a sharply defined conceptualization, as we have it today, that was characteristic of human beings back then, but rather a life in images, in imaginations—though not the kind of imaginations we mean today in anthroposophy, which are fully conscious like our sharply defined concepts, but rather dreamlike, instinctive imaginations. Yet these dreamlike imaginations acted as a force. If we go back to the period I have alluded to, we can say: These imaginations lived as a living force within human beings; they felt them just as they felt hunger and thirst, only in a more subtle sense. One painted inwardly in a way that, of course, is not painting in the modern sense, but which unfolded in such a way that one applied the vowel sounds inwardly, just as we apply colors to a surface, and that one then immersed oneself in the consonants through this vocalization, just as when, by placing colors side by side, one brings out the boundaries and contours. It is an inner reliving of an act of imagination, which, however, represents an objective reliving of external nature. It is an experience of dreamlike imaginings. One surrenders to these imaginings and channels the imaginings active within, through the speech organs, from the organism into words.

[ 16 ] Only in this way can one envision the inner process of language experience as it was once lived in the course of human development. If one then takes such a consideration seriously—for example, by experiencing the sound we now call “m”—one realizes, upon experiencing this sound, that it once stood at the boundary between what is a consonant and what is a vowel. Just as when we paint a picture today and do not extend the colors—which now have their outer boundaries at their inner limits—further into the surface, so something was expressed in the word “manas.” And in the “a,” something was felt akin to human inner life. And if I were to describe the entire word “manas” in this way, I would have to say: In those ancient times, people lived with their dreamlike imaginings within language, just as we consciously experience language today. Today, with regard to language, we no longer live in dreamlike imaginings, but our consciousness lies above language. The ancient dreamlike imaginings flowed continuously into language. And so, whoever uttered the word “manas” felt as if they were inside a kind of shell; they felt their physical human body—especially insofar as it is fluid and watery—as if in a kind of shell, and the rest of the body as if carried by a kind of airy body. All of this was experienced in a dreamlike way when the word “manas” was uttered in ancient times. One did not feel as we do today in our soul life, but rather felt oneself to be the bearer of the soul life—and the soul aspect itself was experienced as emanating from the extra-earthly and extra-human forces of the shell.

[ 17 ] One must first awaken this feeling if one wishes to understand the original meaning of a word. And one must realize that when we perceive our “I” today, the inner spiritual experience is quite different from what was experienced, for example, with the word “ego” or what people in earlier times in connection with the Sanskrit word “aham.” Today we experience our “I” as something that is entirely concentrated in a single point—a point to which we relate all our soul forces as the center of our inner being.

[ 18 ] This sensation did not underlie the earlier manifestations of the concept of the “I.” In those earlier times, the “I” was still perceived as something that was being carried; one did not feel oneself to be inside the “I.” One also felt the “I,” as it were, floating like something independent upon the waves of soul life. But what one felt in this way was not indicated in the linguistic context; so that, in fact, what lies in the Sanskrit word “aham” is something that surrounds the “I,” something that carries the “I.” And while we inwardly experience the “I” as a impulse of will—for that is truly how it is experienced today—which radiates inwardly through our being, as it were, a center within a source of heat that radiates heat rays—to use a comparison—in all directions, the Greeks—and even the Latins—perceived the “I” as a sphere of water, and this sphere of water entirely permeated by air. It is one thing to experience the air spreading out within a sphere of water, and quite another to experience the inner radiance of a focal point of heat and the heat radiating in all directions from the sphere, which—if we use the analogy very precisely—must then be conceived as a sphere of air. — All of these are symbols. But the words of language are, in this sense, also symbols, and anyone who disputes the right to describe words as symbols will be unable to engage in such a line of thought at all.

[ 19 ] Thus, if one wishes to engage in linguistics, it is necessary first to immerse oneself in what must actually become the subject of linguistics. And there one discovers that in earlier times, language had a character entirely different from that found, for example, in the languages of modern civilization; and one further discovers that the physical, the bodily, played a much greater role in the formation of sound and in the formation of a word’s structure. People projected much more of their inner being [into language]. That is also why the word “manas” begins with an “m”—because it encloses and outlines the human being within itself.

[ 20 ] When one encounters terms in the Sanskrit language, one very soon realizes that they embody the experience of the consonantal and the vocalic, one notices how there is, in fact, an inner immersion in external processes and external material realities, and how—through the imitation of consonants and the perception of sympathies and antipathies in the vowels—the process of word formation and the process of language come about. In ancient times, this took place in a much more physical manner. There was a much fuller experience in the older experience of language. One can still experience this today. If you hear someone today speaking Sanskrit or any language of an Eastern civilization, you will hear how what they utter resounds from their entire being, including their physicality, and how the language takes on a musical character because it arises from an inner experience akin to that of music. For it was only in a later phase of human development that the musical aspect of language became separated from the logical—that is, from the soul life expressed in mere concepts.

[ 21 ] This is still evident today. If, for example, you compare the inner experience in the German and English languages, you will find that in English, the process of living in abstract concepts is more advanced. If we want to live in the German language today, we must immerse ourselves in those forms of language that emerged with New High German. The dialects still allow our soul to immerse itself in a much more intense, vital experience. The true spiritual experience of language is only possible in High German. That is why a figure such as Hegel—who was born entirely out of this spirit, in which the concept stands apart yet is experienced as wholly bound to a particular element of language—arose from these conditions; and that is why Hegel cannot, in reality, be translated into a Western language. For there, the linguistic is still experienced directly.

[ 22 ] As you journey westward, you notice everywhere in the experience that the soul unfolds when it is immersed in the use of language: Although the soul experiences this intensely, the linguistic element is constantly cast out of the immediate experience of the soul; the stream of language flows on, and continually, as it were, something is formed from the flowing water—like ice floes rolling along the waves as a solid substance—for example, in English. When we speak High German, on the other hand, we can notice how there is likewise a fluidity in the stream of language, but there are not yet blocks of ice in it that have already fallen out of the linguistic realm, which is connected to the spiritual-soul aspects of the human being.

[ 23 ] If one travels eastward, one finds this process at an even earlier stage of development. There, one does not see ice floes being cast out of the stream of language, nor are they firmly connected to it; nor is there, as in High German, a sense of the thought’s complete equivalence to the word; rather, the word is experienced in such a way that one retains it within one’s own system, while the thought, in turn, is something from which words flow, something one pursues, something that actually precedes one.

[ 24 ] These are the things one must go through if one truly wants to grasp language. And one cannot go through this process unless one adopts, at least to a certain degree, the perspective that Goethe developed for the observation of the living plant world—a perspective which, when consistently pursued through inner experience and inner practice, leads to the imaginative perception referred to in anthroposophy. In general, anyone who wishes to contemplate language must do so in such a way as to experience the inner metamorphosis of language organization—to experience it in its concreteness; for only then does one have before oneself what the language process actually is. As long as one cannot rise to such an inner contemplation of language, one merely observes language externally and cannot penetrate to the actual living object of language. Hence, all manner of theories of language have emerged. Reflection on language has, in many respects, become a reflection on the origin of language; a whole host of theories has emerged in this regard. Wilhelm Wundt enumerated them in his theory of language and critically dissected them.

[ 25 ] It is, in fact, just as we experience it today in many fields, and as we could observe yesterday. For when the proponents of any scientific school of thought today rise to full reflection and consider what the science they represent presents to them today, they begin to speak of “decline.” That is not actually what anthroposophy seeks to convey to you. After all, from the perspective of anthroposophy, very little was said yesterday about decline; however, those who are deeply involved in theology today have certainly spoken of the decline they have experienced.

[ 26 ] Similarly, when philosophizing about language, one speaks of theories that are falling out of favor, such as the “invention theory.” Wundt lists the various theories. According to the theory of invention, language arose in such a way that humans, so to speak, established the names for things; but modern people no longer find this plausible, for, they argue, how could the mute have established linguistic forms—however primitive they might have been? Second, Wundt lists the “miracle theory,” which posits that language was given to humans at a certain stage of development as a gift from the Creator. But as Dr. Geyer already explained yesterday, for any halfway decent scientist today, believing in miracles is no longer an option; it is forbidden, and thus the miracle theory is no longer tenable either. Next, the “Imitation Theory” is listed, which already contains elements that have some merit, because the consonantal element of language is based on a much more internal process than is generally imagined. Next, the “natural sound theory” is cited; it posits that, stemming from inner experience, humans sought—in relation to language—for words to correspond phonetically to what is perceived in the natural world and observed with sympathy or antipathy. These theories could also be defined differently. But it is indeed possible today, even from the standpoint of those who criticize these theories, to demonstrate how none of these theories can capture the true nature of language.

[ 27 ] Ladies and gentlemen, the fact is that anthroposophy—even if people say they didn’t need to wait for it—can nevertheless, in a certain sense, demonstrate what fruitful contributions it is capable of making, through which—even in a field such as linguistics—one can first find the clear, unadulterated objects upon which one can then base one’s analysis. Of course, one can talk about all sorts of things, including language, even if one does not yet have it as a truly clear object of study. But anthroposophy embodies precisely that deeper scientific character which aims first and foremost to clarify what kind of reality can be found in a particular field, so that the connection between what we perceive as truth—as knowledge gained from these fields—and this realm of reality can then actually be experienced inwardly. And if, as happened here yesterday, it is said—with reference to what is stated in such honest work, which is no easier than that in other sciences—that this anthroposophy sticks its nose into all sorts of things, then the reply must be: Certainly, it has become apparent that, in the course of its development, this anthroposophy has indeed had to stick its nose into everything. But if one does not stop at the superficiality of characterizing it with the remark: “Anthroposophy sticks its nose into all sorts of things” —but if one wishes to go further and actually take a close look at what emerges when anthroposophy sticks its nose into everything, and to study it seriously, then only when one moves on to this second stage of engagement with anthroposophy will it become clear how fruitful anthroposophy is, and to what extent it is justified in the face of that initial judgment, which arises only from a superficial observation!