The Life of Rules in Language Instruction
Abstract
Drawing on a Wittgensteinian framework, this admittedly broad article discusses the nature of grammar and the advantages of teaching grammatically inspired writing as a practice of rule following. The article is critical of the ‘picture’ of language as a tool or a device with which the speaker expresses meaning, and instead argues that rules, practices, and meanings are co-extensive. What is more, the essay argues that there is nothing interior, intrinsic, or occult about language learning. The learning of language is a social practice that permits paths into various language regimes if certain rules are chosen to be followed. Moreover, what holds for written language is exponentially intensified in conversation where there are no formal rules but instead rigorous orders of language involving grammar rules and also social practices, cultural taboos, etc. Finally, the article discusses the domain of literature as an arena where language itself, and not the speaker or writer, is displayed and available for analysis. In literature, the consequences of language practices are magnified. Hence, it is argued, literature is invaluable and essential to language acquisition.
Key words: Grammar, Conversational English, Literary Language
Language-games
I am in broad agreement with Shih-Chuan Chang’s argument in her paper “Integrating Cultural Education into FL Class for Intercultural Communication” about the need for some conflation of cultural and language instruction, but I disagree with the ‘picture’ of language she implies when she says in her abstract, “[w]e do not communicate with language; we communicate with the people who use that language.” (Chang, 203) The ‘picture’ that language is something we use in order to communicate implies that language is a tool we can pick up and put down again. But I think, on the contrary, we never speak to each other directly; not even two native speakers can speak to each other directly. We go into language and hope to meet each other there. We communicate with language prior to anything else. How could it be otherwise?
My general orientation with regard to language instruction is drawn from Ludwig Wittgenstein who pictures language as language-games, as autonomous regimes, as “an ancient city: a maze of little streets and squares, of old and new houses, and of houses with additions from various periods; and this surrounded by a multitude of new boroughs with straight regular streets and uniform houses,” or, more famously, as “a form of life” (Philosophical Investigations § 18).
In the early sections of the Philosophical Investigations Wittgenstein asks us to imagine a language game consisting only of commands and reports created by builders at work in construction. In this game someone calls out: “Slab!” as part of a work routine. Hearing the call “Slab!” and watching the consequences, a language teacher might wonder: Does the speaker mean, “bring me the slab”, “hand me the slab”, “I need a slab”, “put the slab here”, etc.? Or does he mean, “here is a slab”, “this is a slab” “there is one slab”, etc.? Is “slab” a word or a sentence?
Wittgenstein’s point is that the speaking of language is already part of a regime, a way of life, a language game within which the call: “Slab!” is a function. Someone who wants to enter that game (someone who wants to keep his job) will have to obey its rules. It may be painful, but it is necessary. A foreigner may at first have to go through various mental calculations: Wenn er sagt: “Slab!” Ich muss ihm das ding bringen, e.g. Worse, there may be no one-to-one call-to-activity correlation. At another time within the same language-game, the call: “Slab!” (uttered with the very same intonation) may require someone to make a check mark on a piece of paper. A slight variation of intonation may produce something that can be punctuated: “?!” which may mean, “Is there a slab left or isn’t there?!” or may mean, “Why did you bring me this slab? I only want Jones to mark it on your inventory! When I want you to bring me a slab, I’ll say so!”
The deeper point is therefore this: there are innumerable kinds of classifications of utterances corresponding to what we call “words”, “sentences”, “commands”, “questions”, etc. Wittgenstein says: “And this multiplicity is not something fixed, given once and for all; but new types of language, new language-games, as we may say, come into existence, and others become obsolete and get forgotten. (We can get a rough picture of this from changes in mathematics.)” (PI §23).
All I might say by way of clarification to the foreigner is something like: “Look. When he calls: ‘Slab!’ he means ‘You bring me the slab and put it here!’ and when he calls ‘Slab!’ it means ‘that guy over there will record it in his ledger’, but when he calls ‘Slab?!’ it means ‘you’ve made a mistake. Put the slab back.’ Got it?” (In reality, this is not so much either a clarification or explanation as consolation.)
The language-games Wittgenstein describes are kinds of autonomous (or semi-autonomous) living microcosms that do not exactly evolve—if by this we can hope to anticipate their development—as mutate. But they do not mutate according to rules; the rules also mutate. If a foreigner observed someone giving the order: “Bring me a slab!” as part of a slightly different language game (at a different construction site nearby, say), he or she might think that the entire sentence is a single word and may therefore pronounce the sentence oddly. The call: “Bring me a slab”, if misconceived as a single word and badly mispronounced or pronounced with the wrong intonation, may result in incomprehension (PI §20). But if the foreigner is the new foreperson of the project, the intonation and mispronunciation may well be absorbed into a new regime.
Following Rules
At §143 of Philosophical Investigations, Wittgenstein discusses the language-game of arithmetic instruction. The goal of the game is to get the pupil to be able to apply the rules of arithmetic correctly and thus to understand how to add, subtract, multiply, and divide. A pupil is asked to continue the series ‘0,1,2,3,4,5, …’ in the same way. It seems straightforward enough to want to see that the pupil can grasp and apply the rule n+1. If the pupil does so correctly all the way up to 1000 we may feel justified is saying that the pupil has grasped the rule. At §185, however, Wittgenstein asks us to imagine that the pupil is now asked to continue the series from 1000 according to the rule ‘add 2’. Here, the pupil responds, ‘1004, 1006, 1016, …’. We say now that the pupil has not understood the rule n+2. But if that is possible then how can we ever be sure that the pupil grasped the rule n+1 and did not apply a different rule that achieved the same result? That vexing problem is this: how do we, or how can we, mean a rule? Wittgenstein is asking: What does it mean to grasp a rule? How do I know that I myself have grasped a rule? Of what does ‘grasping a rule’ consist? Is it a feeling?
In the Lectures On the Foundations of Mathematics, Wittgenstein asks us to consider the case of the student who continues the series ‘2,2,2,2, …’ with ‘3,3,3,3,4,4,4,4, …’ (LFM, VI §17). Wittgenstein writes:
‘I have a particular concept of the rule. If in this sense one follows it, then from that number one can only arrive at this one.’ That is a spontaneous decision.
But why do I say ‘I must’, if it my decision? Well, may it not be that I decide?
Doesn’t its being a spontaneous decision merely mean: that’s how I act; ask for no reason!
You say you must, but you cannot say what compels you (LFM VI §24).
The point here is that Wittgenstein is getting away from a certain picture of rule following that is causal, necessary. According to that picture, if I have grasped a rule, I must apply it in a certain way; the rule compels me. But this is only a feeling that is a consequence of a prior decision. It is not that the rule compels me, rather, I compel myself to use the rule in a certain way: “I can choose to follow it” (LFM VII §66). (If I am to play chess I decide to apply the rule that the bishop only moves diagonally and this rule guides my next move.) I continue the above series ‘1002, 1004, 1006, …’ because that series is grammatically related to the rule n+2. (It is, for example, a commonplace for Ph.D. candidates in mathematics to be asked the question: Why does one plus one equal two? The answer is: Per definition.) The rule is not a necessity that compels adherence. My following the rule is a behavior. I apply it blindly as I blindly adhere to the rule that in chess the bishop moves diagonally. This line of thinking led Wittgenstein to the contentious §201 and §202 of the Philosophical Investigations:
§201. This was our paradox: no course of action could be determined by a rule, because every course of action can be made out to accord with a rule. The answer was: if everything can be made out to accord with a rule, then it can also be made out to conflict with it. And so there would be neither accord nor conflict here.
It can be seen that there is a misunderstanding here from the mere fact that in the course of our argument we give one interpretation after another; as if each one contented us for at least a moment, until we thought of yet another standing behind it. What this shews is that there is a way of grasping a rule which is not an interpretation, but which is exhibited in what we call “obeying the rule” and “going against it” in actual cases.
Hence there is an inclination to say: every action according to a rule is an interpretation. But we ought to restrict the term ‘interpretation’ to the substitution of one expression of the rule for another.
§202. And hence also ‘obeying a rule’ is a practice. And to think one is obeying a rule is not to obey a rule. Hence it is not possible to obey a rule ‘privately’: otherwise thinking one was obeying a rule would be the same thing as obeying it.
Obviously, Wittgenstein is not attempting to subvert the concept of rule following, only a certain picture of it. The larger context has to do, not with arithmetic, but meaning. He is attempting to deliver us from the picture that ‘meanings’ are abstract entities that language attempts to say, and that the rules of language, like railway tracks, compel us to move only in a certain way. Rules and meanings are language dependent practices. They can only exist within the context of instruction, explanation, correction, justification, discussion, and the rule that rules must be followed, not understood. Rules are not thought about; they are applied—practiced.
Mistakes and Errors
I can train a chimpanzee to calculate with pebbles. I can see that she can produce a series with the pebbles that seems to indicate that she understands how to add. But if I substitute candies for the pebbles, she eats them. If I substitute marbles for pebbles she becomes confused, etc. Does she know how to add or not? Does the chimp know what it means to add? Did she understand me when I asked her to add using the pebbles? Is she in error when she eats the candies? Has she mistaken what I meant? Does she know what it means to follow my instructions?
A pupil who is asked to continue the series ‘1,2,3,4, …’ in the same way does so successfully up to 57 and then goes wrong. How do we teachers respond? Do we say that the pupil knows how to add but only up to 57? Do we say that he doesn’t really grasp the rule, that he doesn’t know how to add at all, that he did not understand what we meant by “continue the series in the same way”, etc.? But, what did we mean? Did we actually mean that he would eventually write 1111106, 1111107, etc. And also then, how do I know that, should I be given the task, I will not fail to add correctly after some certain number? This is not skepticism. It is merely to show that there is no epistemology of rules. There are only grammatical practices that make possible certain language-games.
In his paper, “Do They Know It’s Wrong? A Study of Errors and Self-Correction in Oral Interaction,” Giles Witton-Davies conducted a study of students’ grammatical inaccuracies which, following Corder, he categorizes as either errors or mistakes. An error, in Corder, is “caused by a lack of knowledge or incorrect knowledge, whereas ‘mistakes’ [are] caused by other factors, such as time pressure or tiredness, and [can] easily be corrected if the opportunity were provided for” (153). Hence, errors are a “window on to a learner’s competence” (153); whereas, “it is central to the idea of a ‘mistake’ that the learner somehow ‘knows’ that it is wrong, and would be able to correct him or herself if given the opportunity” (156). Witton-Davies’ study found that an overwhelming number of inaccuracies were not errors but mistakes (169). For example, “in the course of a long narrative students seem to slip back into the simplest form of the verb rather than using the inflected past tense form. Tense inaccuracies thus appear to be predominantly ‘mistakes’ rather than ‘errors’” (170).
He interprets his results to mean that “students did not lack the necessary knowledge for producing correct language, but were somehow unable to draw on that knowledge at the moment of speaking” (175) and that, therefore, “[t]eaching or re-teaching of the relevant language point, or providing more controlled practice in the form of drills or grammar exercises, are [sic] unlikely to be helpful” (176). He cites Krashen to say, “‘mistakes’ reflect learning without acquision” (176). Further, he feels that his study supports theories “claiming that there are two kinds of linguistic knowledge, and that the presence or absence of one does not necessarily imply presence or absence of the other” (178). These two types of linguistic knowledge are called variously, “explicit/implicit, controlled/automatic, declarative/procedural or acquisition/learning” (178). He feels, with Johnson, that “teachers need to focus rather more on cultivating the second kind of (implicit) knowledge” (178), but he does not say how.
Getting right to the point: my worry about this paper and this pedagogy is the author’s amazing confidence in thinking that pupils know the relevant rules but “somehow” do apply them. With regard to the students who slipped back into the simple form of the verb in the course of the narrative, what are we entitled to say? That the pupils know the grammar of tense but only up to 20 or so sentences? That the students don’t know the grammar at all? That they applied rules unknown to English? That they mistakenly thought—or were in error to think—that tense accuracy was not required throughout the narrative? One of the benefits of adopting a Wittgensteinian approach is to compress knowing and doing into one dimension consequent to a prior decision. There is nothing about a grammar rule that compels me to use it. I choose to use it. I prefer to use it rather than be insubordinate. I allow it to guide me. There is nothing implicit about this choice. I am choosing to use proper grammar now and, what is more, the grammar I have chosen to follow guides me in various sentence choices and thought patterns. I am, in the course of writing this symposium paper, consulting my grammar book to double check various constructions and punctuation. I am doing this even though I am tired and even though I have already written some number of grammatically correct sentences. There is nothing mysterious about this. I use it because it allows me to enter a language-game or form of life that in fact is my life. My decision to follow certain rules has given me a world that I am very pleased with. (Likewise, as I learn Mandarin, I hope not so much to master that language as to enter a world that Mandarin defines.) Nevertheless, there remain a number of inaccuracies (and, if I am not mistaken, there is at least one inaccuracy in a Witton-Davies quotation above). Shall we say that Dr. Wall knows grammar but only up to a certain point? (Was Witton-Davies mistaken not to scrupulously re-check his own grammar for inaccuracies (since, as we all know, re-checking one’s grammar—correcting one’s mistakes—is a part of the language game of publishing symposium papers)).
What worries me is that metaphysical conclusions that hinge on binary oppositions between explicit/implicit etc. unnecessarily occult what is in fact a social practice. “Knowledge” of grammar is an illusion. No grammar exists outside of and or prior to a decision to follow the formal practices of a language. Wittgenstein’s most plangent lesson is that teaching language is as social as it is technical. The teaching and re-teaching of rules is not a technical refresher but a constraint placed upon us, and our students, by language-games themselves.
Grammar, Writing, and Pedagogy
There is a very high statistical probability that every English sentence published everywhere in the world contains at least one independent clause. There is a very high statistical probability that these same sentences contain subject-verb agreement. There is a very high probability that they begin with a capital letter. And so on. Language is constraint and obligation. Language, quite simply, is fascist. We are its prisoners. In Writing Degree Zero, Roland Barthes writes that “every man is a prisoner of his language: outside his class, the first word he speaks is a sign which places him as a whole and proclaims his whole personal history. The man is put on show and delivered up by his language, betrayed by a formal reality which is beyond the reach of his lies, whether they are inspired by self-interest or generosity. The diversity of languages therefore works like Necessity, and it is because of this that it gives rise to a form of the tragic” (81). The way in which we use language, whether our own or an adopted language, is always immediately a sign to the other person of who we are. Language is our Teiresias. This is why I wish to echo and amplify Professor Hwang’s concern with “fossilization of pidginization” that occurs when grammatical inaccuracies are left uncorrected (4), and this is why I do not believe that we “communicate with other people who use” a language. Language uses us; it reveals us. The pedagogical stakes are thus very high. That is why I don’t really care what the other person “knows” about the rules of this or that language. They practice those rules, or are insubordinate, in ways that immediately communicate much of who they are. Precisely, the way in which the other person communicates with language itself is their first message to me.
The advantages of instruction in grammar are these:
1. There is no community of native English speakers on Taiwan as there are both French and English speakers in Canada, and French, German, and Italian speakers in Switzerland. Consequently, “real life English” is only to be found in the form of spectacle: on radio station ICRT, in movies, and on TV. However, every day, everywhere in the world, English is in print. There, in print, pupils can experience “real life English.” In conversation class, the “real life situations” will always have to be somewhat contrived, artificial, involve role-playing, etc. On the other hand, artificiality is the very “life” of writing (see below).
2. The rules of grammar are global and durable. The grammar of writing exists in books that are consulted by every writer of English everywhere in the world. And, grammar does not change very quickly. In requiring our students to use basic grammar, therefore, we give our students something enduring and ubiquitous: not just the grammar, but the social requirement that it be employed.
3. Both student and teacher are subordinate to the same rules. I have no trouble telling my students that I consult grammar books and dictionaries; I have no trouble admitting to students that I make mistakes; I have no trouble making mistakes in class and being corrected by alert students; and, importantly, I have no trouble showing bewilderment about an uncertain construction and then, with the student, consulting the grammar book, reading the explanation of the rule, studying the examples, making a determination about correctness, or abandoning the attempt altogether and trying a different construction. The last point is important because that is how real life writers produce, abandon, and re-write various sentences.
4. There is no need to explain or justify the rules. You can try, but the point is to follow them. Either Chomsky is right and the brain is wired in such a way that the grammar rules are bio-genetically primordial, or Saussure is right and they are unmotivated. Either way, there is something about grammar that is radically inaccessible to explanation. This is another reason that I do not like the idea that anybody “knows” rules—the rules are, at bottom, radically unknowable, just as the reason why the bishop moves diagonally in chess has nothing to do with knowledge. There can only be knowledge where there is the possibility of doubt. Is it possible to doubt that English grammar rules that a sentence will have at least one independent clause? What would such a doubt mean? Should I consult not one but several grammar books to assure myself of the rule? (That would be like buying several copies of the morning newspaper to assure myself the headline was correct.)
5. The constraints of grammar are also options. The way out of the prison of language, to borrow from Maurice Blanchot, is the absence of any way out. The grammar rules are a indices of functions, or a range of possibilities each choice of which is a new thought. That is to say, language does not represent thought but is co-extensive with it. There are no pre-existing concepts in the mind waiting to be translated into language. There are no pre-existing concepts in the native Mandarin-speaking mind that need to be translated into Mandarin and then into English. For this reason, I am dismayed at the emphasis Witton-Davies places on the inaccuracy/correctness binary opposition. The rules of grammar are not merely an opportunity to make a mistake.
6. Emphasis on the rules of grammar introduces the concept that one certainly does and must communicate with language. In my own current learning of a foreign language it will not be a question of “how do I say this or that in Mandarin,” nor of how does my landlady say this or that, but rather “how does Mandarin say this or that?” It’s like a game one plays against language and one wins when one produces a phrase, sentence, or paragraph that elicits a certain response from the teacher, reader, or listener. Language is autonomous and artificial. It can surprise writer and reader, speaker and listener. When Noam Chomsky attempted to show that certain semantic rules are primordial he wrote a sentence that, he said, was obviously meaningless. The sentence was: Green dream sleeps furiously. His French critics immediately responded: But no! That sentence is a beautiful surrealist thought! (The point is: Grammar uncontrollably generates meanings. Hence the need for scrupulous vigilance.)
7. Writing, and the grammar rules that both constrain and beautify it, can be labored over in private. There is no pressure of performance.
8. In any case, “[b]roadly speaking, grammar and vocabulary are language” (Barthes 1968: 16).
Insubordination
Speech is unforgiving. (Writing is discrete.) I cannot unsay anything I say. (I can delete, re-write, re-fashion writing before anybody reads it). I can only pile on more words—correct myself, ask you to ignore my previous remarks, offer apologies, etc.—all the while knowing that you have caught every word, every slip, every inaccuracy, and are continually evaluating me. In speech it is always too late to begin—because as soon as I appear on the scene I am already a speaker—and too soon to stop—because there is always more to say and never enough time to say it. (In writing there is never any time—writing is all about the time when somebody will read the writing. The writing time itself is thus always a meantime, a postponement of a time to come.)
Speech, to be fluent, requires a certain speed of delivery. Silence is not permitted unless it is itself part of the speech performance: a performance that is pure rection.
Speech always mise-en-scène. There is an ineliminable aspect of performance that will always undermine the prejudice that in speech language is present “in the flesh”. Professor Hwang writes, “effective L2 learning is comparable to an actor’s melding into his character” (3). Speech is a drama and has all the appeal of what seems like real life, real situations, and spontaneous language.
Conversational speech, like writing, must also be duration dependent. (If it were not, we could not understand each other from one minute to the next. Speech would be like Heraclitus’ river which, because it is always flowing, always changing, cannot in all rigor even be considered a discrete entity and therefore, philosopher Emmanuel Lévinas says, cannot be stepped into even once!) I would have no way of knowing that what is taking place is what is called communication were there nothing internal to it that endures from performance to performance.
In professor Hwang’s paper we see the words and phrases: “models”, “idioms or conventional expressions that need to be learned as a chunk”, “protocols”, “unique rhetorical conventions”, “plethora of commonly used formulaic expressions”, “linguistic norms”, “ a stock of skills for acting in different social situations”, “internalization of L2 concepts and acquisition of cultural knowledge so as to make inferences” and so on and so on. Moreover, she points out native speakers are generally unaware of their own pragmatic language (3). This would vividly support Wittgenstein’s view that rule-following is a practice, not a knowledge. In short, what seems to be living, real, and spontaneous is in fact a vast array of codes, norms, and conventions to which native speakers are obedient.
What is this but proto-grammar? But one vastly complex. There are no grammar books for conversational English. There are simply books with models and examples, many of which, I dare say, that go out of date within a few years. In conversation one finds spectacular confirmation of Wittgenstein’s notion of language as an “ancient city”. Conversational speech is a kind of permanent grammatical insubordination: a perpetual creation of local rules and an abandonment of prior rules all at a rate impossible to plan for. Insubordination followed by re-subordination. (In that sense it is hardly surprising that local quasi-English language-games, like ChinEnglish, spring up, for that is where and how our pupils practice what they learn. This is not in principle a bad thing. Insubordination is the “life” of everyday speech.)
The question is how to teach it? If there are no formal rules for conversation, then one is left only with myriad models and exemplars and lexicons of idiomatic expressions that would all have to be memorized. The spontaneous life of conversational English becomes as routine, dry, and rehearsed as any grammar. (I should note that the study conducted by Witton-Davies concerned only those corrections that violate the rules of grammatically correct English. Sociolinguistic appropriateness was not considered.)
On the other hand, we are trapped. Insofar as teaching is the teaching of something enduring and not merely tutorial correction, “the only thing we can do is to tabulate rules” (Wittgenstein: WWK 184) and require their practice. What I suggest is that written English and conversational English be treated as wholly different (but co-dependent) regimes, tracks, disciplines. And I agree with Dr. Hwang that native speakers are probably the least equipped to teach conversational English. (If I myself have difficulty teaching conversation it is not because I have trouble getting students to talk. It’s because I don’t know what I am teaching. All I do is to have students memorize expressions, idioms, filler words, etc. for the purpose of getting them to be able to make a hotel reservation over the telephone and such.) But there is nothing we native-speaker teachers can do except face up to the task and try to articulate rules that can endure as both constraints and options.
Insurrection
Grammar books are written after the editors have surveyed published writing. At the same time, published writers, their editors, and their proofreaders refer to grammar books. There is nothing scandalous about this. It is simply that language (written or spoken) cannot exist without the possibility of iteration, and iterations, formalized, are called grammar rules. That is why, Wittgenstein says, somewhere, “there are no gaps in grammar.” (That is also why Jacques Derrida invented the term “grammatology”.)
There is a place, however, where language itself—and not the speaker or writer—is on display, and that is literature. It is here that pupils can view speakers speaking English. Maurice Blanchot has pointed out that, in literature, language undergoes a strange transformation: It becomes its own image; it becomes an imaginary language, spoken by no one; it becomes anonymous. It manages this transformation because literature never says anything—it speaks about things and principally, Roland Barthes says, about what happens to men and women when they speak (Barthes 1993: 463).
Literature is the representation of various language-games from the junky-talk of William Burroughs to the interior monologues of Virginia Woolf’s tormented characters to the drunken prose of Malcolm Lowry’s Consul and to the grammatically breathtaking 298-page paragraph that constitutes W. G. Sebald’s Austerlitz. Does not the force of Professor Hwang’s enthusiasm for Connect with English stem from the fact that it is simultaneously “realistic” and also a fiction, a spectacle: an image of reality, a representation? Fiction can represent any number of idiolects, dialects, sociolects (both appropriate and inappropriate) and also represent the consequences of speech. Literature magnifies what happens when people speak.
What is more, Barthes writes, once staged, once represented—no longer at the service of instrumentality—words acquire flavor, intensity, emotional timbre, interest. Words become “festive” (Barthes 1993: 464). Literature is the art of the practice of language. I do not claim by this that literature is something like a final step in the learning process, nor that is it something added on to socioliguistically and grammatically correct English. Language itself is already literary in the sense discovered by Roman Jakobson when he studied the effects of aphasia in his widely influential essay, “Two Aspects of Language and Two Types of Aphasic Disturbances.” (He found that language operates on two axes: the substitution of one word for a similar word (metaphor, the arena of poetry) and the contiguity of relations in a chain of words (metonymy, the arena of prose)). In short, poetry and prose are inherent to language. They are the internal axes of language. As literary language is a representation of real language, as literature is about people using language and the consequences of their use, and as poetics are internal to language itself, the teaching of literature is a necessary in-sur-rection in language instruction.
Works Cited
Barthes, Roland. “Inaugural Lecture.” From A Roland Barthes Reader. Trans. Richard Howard. London: Vintage, 1993. 457-78.
---. Writing Degree Zero and Elements of Semiology. Trans. Annette Lavers and Colin Smith. Boston: Beacon Press, 1968.
Blanchot, Maurice. The Gaze of Orpheus and Other Literary Essays. Trans. Lydia Davis. Barrytown: Station Hill, 1981.
Chang, Shi-Chuan. “Integrating Cultural Education into FL Class for Intercultural Communication.” Soochow Journal of Foreign Languages and Cultures, 19 (March, 2004). 203-222.
Hwang, Caroline. “Learning Sociolinguistically Appropriate Language Through the Video Drama Connect With English (Rebecca’s Dream). Symposium paper: National Taipei University of Technology, 2004.
Jakobson, Roman. “Two Aspects of Language and Two Types of Aphasic Disturbances.” From On Language. Linda Waugh and Monique Monville-Burston, eds. Cambridge: Harvard University Press. 115-33.
McGuinness, B. F., ed. Ludwig Wittgenstein and the Vienna Circle: Conversations Recorded by Friedrich Waismann. Trans. J. Schulte and B. F. McGuinness. Oxford: Basil Blackwell, 1979. [WWK intra.]
Wittgenstein, Ludwig. Philosophical Investigations. Trans. G. E. M. Anscombe. Malden: Basil Blackwell, 1997. [PI intra.]
---. Lectures On the Foundations of Mathematics. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1976. [LFM intra.]
Witton-Davies, Giles. “Do They Know It’s Wrong? A Study of Errors and Self-Correction in Oral Interaction.” Soochow Journal of Foreign Languages and Cultures, 19 (March, 2004). 151-186.
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