Structure and Function: A Guide to Three Major Structural-functional Theories: From Clause to Discourse and Beyond Pt. 2 (Studies in Language Companion)

Structure and Function A Guide to Three Major Structural-Functional Theories: Part 2 Studies in Language Companion ...

Author: Christopher S. Butler

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Structure and Function A Guide to Three Major Structural-Functional Theories: Part 2

Studies in Language Companion Series (SLCS) The SLCS series has been established as a companion series to Studies in Language, International Journal, sponsored by the Foundation “Foundations of Language”.

Series Editors Werner Abraham

Michael Noonan

University of Vienna

University of Wisconsin, Milwaukee

Editorial Board Joan Bybee

Christian Lehmann

University of New Mexico

University of Erfurt

Ulrike Claudi

Robert Longacre

University of Cologne

University of Texas, Arlington

Bernard Comrie

Brian MacWhinney

Max Planck Institute For Evolutionary Anthropology, Leipzig

Carnegie-Mellon University

William Croft

University of California, Santa Barbara

University of Manchester

Edith Moravcsik

Östen Dahl

University of Wisconsin, Milwaukee

University of Stockholm

Masayoshi Shibatani

Gerrit Dimmendaal

Rice University and Kobe University

University of Leiden

Russell Tomlin

Martin Haspelmath

University of Oregon

Max Planck Institute For Evolutionary Anthropology, Leipzig

Marianne Mithun

† John Verhaar The Hague

Ekkehard König Free University of Berlin

Volume 64 Structure and Function: A Guide to Three Major Structural-Functional Theories: Part 2: From clause to discourse and beyond by Christopher S. Butler

Structure and Function: A Guide to Three Major Structural-Functional Theories Part 2: From clause to discourse and beyond

Christopher S. Butler Honorary Professor, University of Wales Swansea

John Benjamins Publishing Company Amsterdam/Philadelphia

8

TM

The paper used in this publication meets the minimum requirements of American National Standard for Information Sciences – Permanence of Paper for Printed Library Materials, ansi z39.48-1984.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Butler, C. S. Structure and function: a guide to three major structural-functional theories / Chris Butler. p. cm. (Studies in Language Companion Series, issn 0165–7763 ; v. 63–64 In English, with examples in Dutch, English, Gunian, and Spanish. Includes bibliographical references and index. Contents: v.1. Approaches to the simple clause -- v.2. From clause to discourse and beyond. P146.B88 2003 410’.1’8-dc21 2003040397 isbn 90 272 3069 2 (v.1 Eur.) / 1 58811 356 6 (v.1 US) (Hb; alk. paper) isbn 90 272 3070 6 (v.1 Eur.) / 1 58811 357 4 (v.1 US) (Pb; alk. paper) isbn 90 272 3071 4 (v.2 Eur.) / 1 58811 358 2 (v.2 US) (Hb; alk. paper) isbn 90 272 3072 2 (v.2 Eur.) / 1 58811 359 0 (v.2 US) (Pb; alk. paper) isbn 90 272 3073 0 (Set Eur.) / 1 58811 360 4 (Set US) (Hb; alk. paper) isbn 90 272 3074 9 (Set Eur.) / 1 58811 361 2 (Set US) (Pb; alk. paper)

© 2003 – John Benjamins B.V. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form, by print, photoprint, microfilm, or any other means, without written permission from the publisher. John Benjamins Publishing Co. · P.O. Box 36224 · 1020 me Amsterdam · The Netherlands John Benjamins North America · P.O. Box 27519 · Philadelphia pa 19118-0519 · usa

Table of contents

Acknowledgments Preface

ix

xi

Chapter 1 Illocution and related phenomena 1.1 Introduction 1 1.2 Illocution in Functional Grammar 1 1.2.1 Dik’s view of illocution 1 1.2.2 Alternative views of illocution in FG 8 1.3 Illocution in Role and Reference Grammar 29 1.4 Illocution in Systemic Functional Grammar 30 1.4.1 Speech function and mood in the Sydney grammar 30 1.4.2 Mood and speech function in languages other than English 43 1.4.3 Illocution and mood in the Cardiff grammar 45 1.4.4 Other systemically-oriented approaches 52 1.5 Comparison of approaches 56 1.5.1 Basic and non-basic illocutions 56 1.5.2 Illocution and layering 56 1.5.3 The treatment of indirect illocutions: The contributions of grammar and pragmatics 57 1.5.4 Typological perspectives 59

1

Chapter 2 Information structure 2.1 Introduction 61 2.2 Information structure in Functional Grammar 61 2.2.1 Dik’s account of pragmatic functions 61 2.2.2 Other accounts of pragmatic functions in FG 80 2.2.3 Voice in FG 99

61

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Table of contents

2.3 Information structure in the simplex clause in Role and Reference Grammar 101 2.3.1 Introduction: The nature of informativity 101 2.3.2 Pragmatic presupposition, topic and focus 102 2.3.3 Types of focus 103 2.3.4 The coding of focus 106 2.3.5 Focus and the scope of negation and quantification 107 2.3.6 Focus and pronominalisation 107 2.3.7 Focus structure and linking 108 2.3.8 Voice in RRG 110 2.3.9 Problems and extensions 111 2.4 Information structure in Systemic Functional Grammar 113 2.4.1 Information structure in the Sydney grammar 113 2.4.2 Information structure in the Cardiff grammar 150 2.5 Comparison of approaches 156 2.5.1 Topicality and focality 157 2.5.2 An alternative perspective: The importance of position in the clause as an indicator of informational status 171 2.5.3 Information distribution and the structure of texts 180 2.5.4 Information structure and layering 180 2.5.5 Voice 180 Chapter 3 Complex sentences 183 3.1 Introduction 183 3.2 Complex sentences in Functional Grammar 183 3.2.1 Introduction: The semantic basis of complex sentence formation 183 3.2.2 Coordination in FG 184 3.2.3 Embedding in FG: (i) Verbal restrictors 187 3.2.4 Embedding in FG: (ii) Complex terms 199 3.2.5 The semantics and syntax of complementation in the Functional Lexematic Model 213 3.3 Complex sentences in Role and Reference Grammar 214 3.3.1 Nexus, juncture and their relationships: A brief overview 214 3.3.2 Types of juncture 215 3.3.3 Nexus relations 218 3.3.4 Clause-linkage markers 229 3.3.5 The Interclausal Relations Hierarchy 231 3.3.6 Focus structure in complex sentences 235 3.3.7 Clausal postmodification in noun phrases 236

Table of contents 

3.3.8 Linking algorithms in complex sentences 241 3.3.9 Descriptions of complex sentences in particular languages 259 3.4 Complex sentences in Systemic Functional Grammar 259 3.4.1 The Sydney grammar account 259 3.4.2 Complex sentences in the Cardiff grammar 291 3.5 Comparison of approaches 293 3.5.1 Units and layering in complex sentences 293 3.5.2 The nature of the relationships between the units 296 3.5.3 The relationship between syntax and semantics in complex sentences 299 3.5.4 Some final examples 300 Chapter 4 Discourse, text and context 4.1 Introduction 303 4.2 Discourse, text and context in Functional Grammar 306 4.2.1 Introduction 306 4.2.2 A classification of approaches 308 4.2.3 Modelling discourse by analogy with grammar 308 4.2.4 Modular approaches 318 4.2.5 Reconciling the upward layering and modular approaches 321 4.2.6 Models oriented towards processing 325 4.3 Discourse, text and context in Role and Reference Grammar 331 4.4 Discourse, text and context in Systemic Functional Grammar 335 4.4.1 Introduction 335 4.4.2 Texts and cohesion: An initial orientation 335 4.4.3 Discourse and text in relation to metafunction 337 4.4.4 Discourse, text and context 373 4.4.5 Discourse, text and context in the Cardiff grammar 390 4.5 Comparison of approaches 396

303

Chapter 5 Learning and applying the grammar 5.1 Introduction 399 5.2 Language learning 399 5.2.1 Functional Grammar and language learning 399 5.2.2 Role and Reference Grammar and language learning 402 5.2.3 Systemic Functional Grammar and language learning 413 5.2.4 Comparison of approaches 427 5.3 Applications 430

399

 Table of contents

5.3.1 5.3.2 5.3.3 5.3.4 5.3.5

Computational linguistics 430 Stylistics 443 Translation and contrastive studies 448 Language pathology 448 A (semi-) final word on applicability 448

Chapter 6 Functional Grammar, Role and Reference Grammar and Systemic Functional Grammar: A final assessment and some pointers to the future 6.1 Assessment of theories in terms of their own goals 451 6.1.1 Functional Grammar 451 6.1.2 Role and Reference Grammar 465 6.1.3 Systemic Functional Grammar 467 6.2 The limitations of individual theories 475 6.3 Criteria for a more comprehensive model 477 6.3.1 Descriptive adequacy: The nature of the data 477 6.3.2 Explanatory adequacy 485 6.4 Towards an integrated model 489 6.4.1 Language and conceptualisation 490 6.4.2 Modelling the grammar 494 6.5 Envoi 499 References

501

Name index 537 Language index 545 Subject index 549

451

Acknowledgments

I am very grateful to to the many colleagues and students with whom I have had discussions about functional linguistics over the years. My particular thanks are due to Angela Downing, Louis Goossens, Lachlan Mackenzie, Jan Nuyts, Robert Van Valin and Alison Wray, all of whom read quite lengthy parts of this book in draft and offered extremely valuable suggestions for improvement. For comments on particular points I am grateful also to Dik Bakker, Annerieke Boland, Francis Cornish, Kees Hengeveld, Antonio Moreno Ortiz, Anna Siewierska and Luis París. I should also like to thank Kees Vaes and Lisl Haldenwang of John Benjamins and Michael Noonan, the series editor, for their help in the production of the book. All remaining deficiencies are, of course, entirely my own responsibility. I would also like to thank the following publishers and authors for permission to reproduce copyright material: Mouton de Gruyter: From Dik. S. C. (1997) The Theory of Functional Grammar. Part 1: The Structure of the Clause, K. Hengeveld (Ed.), example (41) (p. 266), reproduced as Figure 2.2 of Chapter 2. From Hengeveld, K. (1997) Cohesion in Functional Grammar. In J. H. Connolly, R. M. Vismans, C. S. Butler, & R. A. Gatward (Eds.), Discourse and Pragmatics in Functional Grammar, Figure 1 (p. 4), reproduced as example (2) of Chapter 4. Cambridge University Press: From Van Valin, R. D. Jr. & R. LaPolla (1997) Syntax: Structure, Meaning and Function, Figure 5.2 (p. 205), reproduced in slightly modified form in Figure 2.3 of Chapter 2; Figure 8.7 (p. 458), reproduced in examples (176) and (178) of Chapter 3; Figure 8.18 (p. 481), reproduced in an expanded form in Figure 3.1 of Chapter 3.

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Preface

In Part 1 of this work I set out to establish criteria for a truly functional approach to language, and then successively narrowed down the focus, first delineating a set of structuralfunctional approaches which give due weight to both structure and function in theory and description, then recognising, within these approaches, a smaller set of structuralfunctional grammars which attempt to formulate a set of rules by means of which the structure of any stretch of language can, at least in principle, be generated. I argued that three theories were central to this set: Functional Grammar (FG), Role and Reference Grammar (RRG) and Systemic Functional Grammar (SFG). I then went on to present overviews of each of these theories, concentrating on their aims, assumptions, methodologies and overall structure, within the context of the simplex clause. There followed a chapter in which the theories, as presented up to this point, were explicitly compared and contrasted. The last three chapters of Part 1 were devoted to particular areas of the grammar of the simplex clause: the structure and meaning of phrases, the ways in which the theories accounted for situation types as represented in language, and their accounts of tense, aspect, modality and polarity. Part 2 of the work moves from the analysis of individual clauses towards the study of discourse, and then situates the previous material in the context of wider issues by discussing approaches to language acquisition and to the application of linguistic descriptions, before rounding off with a review of the three theories discussed in Parts 1 and 2, and suggestions for the development of an integrated model. Part 2 starts with three chapters which deal with aspects of clauses of particular significance for their role in discourse. Chapter 1 is concerned with illocution, discussing the ways in which FG, RRG and SFG approach the structure and meaning of clauses in their function as speech acts, and how speech acts fit into the overall discourse. Chapter 2 is devoted to the area of information distribution in the clause or units of similar size, and discusses the concepts of topic and focus, given and new information, theme and rheme, etc., and their contribution to the analysis of discourse. Chapter 3 deals with ways in which clauses can be combined into larger units, and so covers not only coordination and subordination (e.g. Halliday on the ‘clause complex’), but also work within a more strongly typological perspective which seeks to show that this dichotomy is too simple (e.g. RRG on cosubordination, etc.).

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Structure and Function

Chapter 4 then covers further perspectives on discourse. Here, I summarise the recent proliferation of models of discourse structure in FG, relationships between focus structure and syntax in RRG, and the wealth of work in systemic linguistics on cohesion, on discourse and text in relation to metafunction, and on the relationship between discourse and the social contexts in which it is embedded, involving the concepts of register and genre. Chapter 5 looks at structural-functionalist accounts of language acquisition and at the work done in systemic linguistics on language in education. I then consider applications of structural-functional descriptions of languages to computational linguistics, stylistics, translation and contrastive studies, and language pathology. Chapter 6 presents a final evaluation of the three theories with respect to the standards of adequacy they set for themselves, and then discusses the limitations of individual theories, pointing out the dangers inherent in simply accepting a partial set of standards of adequacy. The work ends with a discussion of criteria of discoursal, sociocultural, psychological/cognitive, acquisitional, typological and possibly computational adequacy in relation to a more comprehensive model, the implications of such criteria for the shape of the model, and how the theories reviewed in the two books might contribute to such an integrated approach. As in Part 1, the discussion is illustrated throughout with authentic examples taken from corpora of English and Spanish, with occasional material also from Dutch and Gooniyandi. The Gooniyandi examples are taken from taped narratives in the material collected by McGregor and published as McGregor (1990), which is not, to my knowledge, available in computer-readable readable form. Details of the corpora used in Part 2 are given in the table below. Examples in this work taken from the British National Corpus cite their source by means of a three letter code and the sentence number within the text. The source texts are, for the most part, copyright and may not be cited or redisseminated except as a part of the corpus. Full bibliographic details of the source concerned are available from the BNC project, or on the world wide web.1 For the London-Lund corpus, the reference consists of the text category number, text number (and subtext identification where present) and tone unit numbers. For the HCM corpus, the number of the text and the page number in the written version of the corpus (Esgueva & Cantarero 1981) are given. For the Corpus de Referencia and the ECI Dutch corpus, the filename only is cited, since no other suitable reference categories are given in the texts.

. For example, to find the source for text “ABC”, consult the URL http://sara.natcorp.ox.ac.uk/ BNCbib/AB.html#ABC. For further information about the British National Corpus, consult its website at http://www.natcorp.ox.ac.uk.

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Preface 

Corpora used to provide examples Corpus

Language

Approximate size (words)

Brief description

British National Corpus (BNC)

English

100 million

London-Lund Corpus (LLC) El Habla de la Ciudad de Madrid2 (HCM)

English

½ million

Spanish

150,000

Spanish

1 million

90% written, 10% spoken. Mainly from 1975–1993. Tagged with part of speech for each word. Spoken, 1960s/1970s. Has prosodic annotations. Spoken, in conversations with interviewer, also spontaneous recorded conversations. 4 generations of speakers. Collected 1970s. Spoken, various subgenres. Early 1990s

Large number of languages represented. Used in this book for Dutch data.

98 million in all

Corpus Oral de Referencia de la Lengua Española Contemporánea (Referencia) European Corpus Initiative Multilingual Corpus on CD-ROM (ECI)

Wide variety of material, mainly written. Dutch component used was from the Leiden Corpus of Dutch, consisting of newspapers, transcribed speech, etc.

. This is a computer-readable version of the materials in Esgueva & Cantarero (1981). I am indebted to the editors for permission to convert these materials into computer-readable form.

Chapter 1

Illocution and related phenomena

.

Introduction In this chapter, I shall discuss the ways in which aspects of utterances related to their function as speech acts are handled in Functional Grammar, Role and Reference Grammar and Systemic Functional Grammar. This will involve consideration of the extent to which illocution is treated as part of the grammar; how it is proposed to handle any aspects of illocution which are not regarded as part of the grammar itself; the relationship between illocution and categories such as declarative, interrogative, imperative and exclamative; and the relationship between illocution and intonation.

.

Illocution in Functional Grammar In this section, I shall expand considerably on the very brief picture of illocution in FG given in §3.2.2.7 of Part 1. I begin with Dik’s view of illocution, and then move on to critiques of his position and alternative proposals.

..

Dik’s view of illocution Dik proposes an illocutionary variable, E, at Level 4 in the hierarchy of clause structure, to account for cases such as that in example (1) below, where that refers anaphorically to the speech act the previous speaker has just produced. (1) A. if we do it alternate days you’re going to finish up not really having done anything special B. (laughs) no but [a] (laughs) that’s not fair (LLC 4 1 640–644) Dik (1997a: 301, 1997b: 231) differentiates three types of illocution: that which is intended by the speaker (IllS ), that which is encoded in the clausal expression (IllE ), and that which is interpreted by the addressee (IllA ). Where fully successful communication is achieved, IllA is identical to IllS , but in cases where IllE does not encode IllS very explicitly, there are, as Dik points out, many instances where the interpreted illocution differs from that




intended by the speaker: for instance, a statement intended simply as an observation might be misinterpreted by the addressee as a warning. Dik makes it clear that it is the illocution as coded in the expression which is of central interest in FG: . . . from the point of view of grammar we are primarily interested in IllE : the illocution to the extent that it is coded in linguistic expressions. IllE will on the one hand have some kind of reflection in the formal (including the prosodic) structure of the linguistic expression (if not, it could not be said to be coded in that expression); on the other hand, it is an integrated part of the semantic structure of the expression. For these two reasons, IllE is a property of linguistic expressions that a grammar will have to account for. (Dik 1997b: 232)

Dik (1997a: 300–301) comments that many attempts to set up speech act typologies have paid insufficient attention to grammatical coding, and have approached illocution mainly from the viewpoint of the speaker, rather than as an aspect of a communicative relationship between speaker and addressee. He also takes issue with the tendency to regard the final interpretation of the utterance as the basis for the assignment of its primary illocutionary force. Dik (1997b: 232–236) rejects, for a number of reasons, the type of analysis which postulates, for all clauses with illocutionary force, an underlying structure containing a performative verb. Explicit performative clauses are very rare in authentic interaction; furthermore, when they are used, they are clearly marked versions of the corresponding ‘implicit performatives’ (i.e. clauses which use grammatical devices to indicate illocution), often employed as emphatic repetitions: it therefore seems unwise to postulate performatives as the basic structure. In any case, the performative analysis has run into many problems, which are extensively discussed in the literature. Moreover, FG does not permit the kind of deletion operation which would be needed in order to get from the underlying performative structure to the structure of the actual utterance. In view of the concentration on IllE , it is natural that Dik should approach the description of illocution by asking what speech act values are universally encoded in the grammars of languages. He recognises several basic sentence types:1 In all languages we find special sentence types classifiable as Declaratives, Interrogatives, and Imperatives, and in most languages we find a special sentence type for Exclamatives. (Dik 1997a: 301)

Each of the four basic illocutions, as coded in sentence type, can be interpreted in terms of the ways in which the speaker wishes to change the pragmatic information of the addressee (Dik 1997a: 301–302, 1997b: 239). The glosses given for each sentence type are as follows: . This claim is perhaps somewhat exaggerated: for instance, McGregor (1990: 369, 382–383) claims that Gooniyandi has no morphological, syntactic or even prosodic means for indicating that an utterance is to be taken as a question or directive. Clearly, an extensive typological survey of this area would be of interest: Dik (1997b: 238) offers data from just seven languages to make his point. His assumptions are nevertheless reasonable as a working hypothesis.

Chapter 1


Declarative: S wishes A to add the content of the linguistic expression to his pragmatic information. Interrogative: S wishes A to provide him with the verbal information as requested in the linguistic expression. Imperative: S wishes A to perform the controlled SoA as specified in the linguistic expression. Exclamative: S wishes A to know that the content of the linguistic expression impresses S as surprising, unexpected, or otherwise worthy of notice. (Dik 1997b: 239, his (12) and (13))

Each of these basic illocutions is incorporated into the grammar as an operator at Level 4. The operators Decl, Int and Excl take the proposition in their scope, while Imp takes the predication directly, in view of the fact that an Imperative clause is not used to get someone to entertain some proposition, but rather to get them to effect the SoA referred to by the predication (see also Hengeveld 1989: 154). Note that in the case of the Imperative, the fact that the SoA is to be carried out after the time of utterance is indicated by means of an operator, Post(erior), at the predicational level. Examples from English are given with skeletal analyses below. (2) . . . his leg broke in two places. (BNC GVL 3671) (3) Decl E: X: Past e: break [V] (his leg)Proc (two places)Loc (4) Is the doctor treating the condition rather than the symptoms? (BNC CE1 1617) (5) Int E: X: Pres e: Prog treat [V] (the doctor)Ag (the condition rather than the symptoms)Go (6) Pass me the can. (BNC KCW 1405) (7) Imp E: Post e: pass [V] (you)Ag (the can)Go (me)Rec (8) What a surprise he’s going to get. (BNC FRS 2577) (9) Excl E: X: Pres Prosp e: get [V] (he)Proc (a surprise)Go Not only independent clauses, but also embedded ones, can have an illocutionary operator, to handle the differences between embedded statements, questions and commands. As we saw briefly in §3.2.2.7 of Part 1, illocutionary value can also be specified or modified lexically, through π4 satellites. Dik et al. (1990: 54), cite Greenbaum’s (1969) observation that illocutionary satellites such as seriously can occur in front of questions and many (e.g. honestly) also in front of imperative or optative clauses, whereas propositional (π3 ) satellites such as hopefully or probably cannot. Dik et al. (1990: 38–39) also point out that the functions of many illocutionary satellites are the same as those of satellites at lower levels, the difference being that the illocutionary ones modify the speech act rather than the SoA. Thus illocutionary satellites can express the manner of the speech act (see examples (10) and (11)), a Beneficiary of it (e.g. (12), interpreted as ‘I am saying this to you for your own sake’ rather than ‘try for your own sake’), or aspects of the communicative






setting, such as reason (13), condition (14) or position in a temporal sequence of speech acts (15). (10) Frankly, I don’t know why I am here. (BNC CCK 814) (11) Briefly, the principle states that physics appears the same to any observer in free fall whatever the magnitude of the gravitational field. (BNC H8K 67) (12) Just try not to do anything silly – please, for your own sake. (BNC JXU 877) (13) Anyway, since you ask, the rings were black and there were ten of them, all on her right hand. (BNC AR2 566) (14) So in case any of you are worried about, you know, inappropriate headings, ignore them, ... (BNC K6V 500) (15) For the last time, Harriet Shakespeare is not here! (BNC AC4 2170) Dik also assumes that the basic illocution of an expression can be converted to other values. In TFG1 (Dik 1997a: 302) he proposes three different types of conversion: pragmatic, lexical and grammatical. By pragmatic conversion is meant the construction, by the addressee, of an interpretation which is not coded in the expression, but must be inferred from aspects of co-text and/or context. For instance, the expression in (2) above could be used, in conversation, as a warning to the addressee to be careful when operating in circumstances similar to those which caused the person’s leg to break; or it could even be used as a threat that the speaker will break the addressee’s legs just as (s)he did with the other person. As expected from Dik’s concentration on coded illocution, such interpretations are regarded as beyond the concerns of the grammar: This type of conversion will not be handled in the linguistic description, but in a wider, pragmatic theory of verbal interaction. (Dik 1997a: 302)

Lexical conversion is concerned with the use of a performative verb to make the illocution more explicit, as in (16), with the analysis in (17): (16) I tell you I did not go. (BNC H7V 1049) (17) Decl Ei : Xi : Pres ei : tell [V] (I)Ag (you)Rec (Decl Ej : Xj : Past Neg ej : go [V] (I)Ag )Go In TFG2, Dik no longer makes use of the concept of lexical conversion: his interpretation (Dik 1997b: 252–254) of examples of the type shown in (16) is that since the content of the embedded clause, with its illocutionary operator, is enough in itself to add the required pragmatic information to the addressee’s store, the additional pragmatic information that the speaker is telling the addressee the assertion acts as a reinforcement of that assertion. Grammatical conversion refers to the situation in which a language has conventionalised devices for converting a basic illocution into a derived one. Such conversions are thus within the scope of the grammar itself. Dik (1997b: 249–250) concedes, however, that it is sometimes difficult to draw a borderline between grammatical and pragmatic conversion. For English, Dik (1997b: 243) gives examples of the grammatical conversion of Decl to Int and Imp to Req(uest) by means of a tag; Decl to Req and Int to Req by means of

Chapter 1


please; Int to Rhet(orical question), Int to Excl and Imp to Excl by means of intonation. Some examples are given in (18)–(23) below. (18) You aren’t bored, are you, Liz? (BNC FSG 10) [Decl > Int] (19) Can you just put that orangejuice somewhere for me please. (BNC KCT 1002) [Int > Req] (20) Please ring soon. (BNC A6J 1719) [Imp > Req] (21) Stop worrying will you? (BNC ACB 1348) [Imp > Req] (22) Who would want immortality? (BNC BN3 2069) [Int > Rhet] (23) You want our money? (BNC CSA 263) [Decl > Int] In addition to the above types of grammatical illocutionary converter, Dik mentions modal particles, such as unstressed nou in Dutch or mal in German, which can unambiguously convert Interrogatives into Rhetorical Questions. He also treats mechanisms for the mitigation or reinforcement of illocutions in terms of grammatical illocutionary conversion: for instance, the reinforcing que of Spanish (see Haverkate 1979; Hengeveld 1989), which is non-specific for sentence type (see (24), (25), (26A)), is treated by Dik as a modifier of the basic illocutionary operator. He comments (Dik 1997a: 304) that “π4 operators may have a rich internal structure”, but gives no further detail on what this rich structure might consist of. (24) ¡Que no me extraña! (Referencia CCON034A.ASC) that neg me surprise-pres.3sg ‘It doesn’t surprise me!’ (25) . . . que no me pregunte! (Referencia CCON018B.ASC) that neg me ask-imp.2sg.polite2 ‘. . . don’t ask me!’ (26) A. Que si lo quieres con mantequilla. that if it want-pres.2sg with butter ‘Do you want it with butter?’ B. Me parece que sí. (Referencia BCON043B.ASC) to-me seem-pres.3sg that yes ‘I think so.’ Dik (1997b: 257–289) presents a more detailed analysis of interrogative illocutionary force, on which the following summary is closely based. He notes that although questions are marked in some way for their interrogative nature, the answers which questions request are not marked by specific grammatical devices. Dik suggests that this is because questions . Formally, the negative imperative in Spanish is expressed by means of the subjunctive (in this case pregunte), so that it would also be possible to analyse this example as being declarative, the subjunctive following from the use of que in this type of construction. Nevertheless, since the clause would be clearly imperative without the que, it seems legitimate to interpret que as a reinforcer here.

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are initiating in discourse, whereas answers are reactive, acting as the second member of an adjacency pair, so that they fit into a communicative slot whose characteristics are already established. Dik (p. 260) distinguishes yes/no, disjunctive and Q-word types of question, the first two corresponding to a closed predication with non-specified or specified alternatives, respectively, and an answer set limited to ‘Yes’ and ‘No’ and modalised versions of these, the third corresponding to an open predication and a potentially unlimited answer set. The bulk of Dik’s discussion (pp. 263–289) is devoted to Q-word questions, on the grounds that these show the most interesting typological properties. Such questions imply a presupposition on the part of the speaker that there is some correct answer which will supply the information requested. If the addressee fails to provide this information, any other response is seen as a non-answer. An important property of Q-constituents (i.e. constituents containing a Q-word) is that they are assigned the pragmatic function Focus. The devices for marking Focus in Q-constituents turn out to be similar, or identical, to those for indicating Focus in non-question environments: emphatic accent, Focus markers, placement in a special position for pragmatically salient constituents, or placement within a cleft construction.3 In the representation of Q-word questions, Dik (pp. 265–266) uses the Int operator to indicate that the expression as a whole counts as interrogative, and the operator Q to show that part of the expression which is being questioned. The basic structure of the English example in (27) is thus as in (28). (27) When did you plan all this? (BNC G04 275) (28) Int E: X: Past e: plan [V] (you)Ag (all this)Go (Q xi )Temp Q-constituents in the clause can contain three kinds of information, relating to the fact that a questioned constituent is involved, the type of entity being questioned, and the functional status of the constituent in the predication (p. 268). These pieces of information may be expressed synthetically, as in (27), or analytically as in (29). (29) . . . at what time did all this take place? (BNC EF7 249) Dik (p. 269) proposes a fuller representation for Q-constituents than the simplified one given in (28), in which the type of entity questioned is specified. In the case of an analytic expression, the predicate representing the entity type is itself included in the representation; if the expression is synthetic, the entity type appears as a kind of selection restriction. Using this fuller form of representation, the structures of (27) and (29) are as in (30) and (31). (30) Int E: X: Past e: plan [V] (you)Ag (all this)Go (Qxi : )Temp (31) Int E: X: Past e: take place [V] (all this)Proc (Qxi : time)Temp . Focus and other pragmatic functions will be discussed in Chapter 2.

Chapter 1


In cases such as the above, the fuller representations appear to be somewhat redundant. In the case of nominal Q-constituents, however, they will allow the expression rules to generate the correct forms: who(m) if the Q-constituent is (Qxi : person) or (Qxi : ), what if it is (Qxi : thing) or (Qxi : ). Dik (pp. 270–276) discusses the types of constituents which can be questioned, and the conditions under which accessibility to particular constituent types obtains. In principle, any term can be questioned by means of a Q-constituent. Most languages also permit the questioning of constituents within terms. For instance, Dik (p. 271) assumes that in a clause such as (32) in English, the Q operator applies to an underlying demonstrative constituent, as shown in (33), while in example (34), it is the possessive that is questioned, as shown in (35). (32) Which newspaper do you take regularly . . . ? (BNC BM5 375) (33) Int E: X: Pres e: take [V] (you)Ag (Qdem 1 xi : newspaper [N])Go (34) Whose nose did you rub in the dirt . . . ? (BNC CE5 460) (35) Int E: X: Past e: rub [V] (you)Ag (d1xi : nose [N]: {(Qxj )Poss }) (dxk : dirt)Loc Cross-linguistically, predicates are much harder to question, and Dik takes this to be because the predicate is the specified element in the predicate frame, while a wider range of terms could fill the argument slots in that frame. As far as the placement of Q-constituents is concerned, Dik (276ff.) contrasts two possibilities: pattern position (that is the position which would be occupied by the corresponding non-questioned constituent) and the special position(s) available for constituents with Focus function in the language at issue. In many languages, including English, this special position is the initial position in the clause. Even in languages with other positions for Focus (e.g. Aghem, Turkish, Hungarian, Basque) this position is used for Qconstituents unless these remain in pattern position. In some languages, including English, both Focus position and pattern position are possible, as illustrated in (36) and (37). (36) What did you see? (BNC BMN 1352) (37) You saw what? (BNC B0B 1412) The position of the Q-word in (37) is the same as that in the corresponding declarative. In English and some other languages, the version with the Q-constituent in pattern position is pragmatically marked: in the case of English, it can be used only for echo questions. In some other languages, the two positions for the Q-constituent are in free variation. Dik (pp. 282–283) enumerates the advantages and disadvantages of the two strategies. The Q-Pattern strategy has the advantages of minimising differences in structure between declarative and interrogative and making the relational structure of interrogatives transparent; the disadvantages are that the Q-constituent does not attract great prominence, and that if it comes late in the clause, it may be some time before it becomes clear that the clause is interrogative. The advantages and disadvantages of the Q-Focus strategy are more

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or less mirror images of these. In terms of typological distribution, languages using QFocus are in the majority (ca. 70%), only 30% using pattern position for Q-constituents. Within Q-Focus languages, Q-initial types are strongly correlated with VSO/SVO orders, while the majority of SOV languages are of the Q-Pattern type. The overall generalisation is that Q-constituents overwhelmingly come before the verb – or, in terms of the nomenclature used in FG (see §3.2.3 of Part 1), Q-constituents normally occur in the Prefield. Dik suggests that this may be because the predicate, as the central element in the predication, is the linear limit for determination of the main features of the expression, and because pragmatically specialised positions are found the Prefield region, even in Postfield languages. Dik (p. 284) remarks that it is strange that languages do not, in general, adopt a strategy which would combine the advantages of the two types: an interrogative particle in initial position, with the questioned constituent in pattern position, but marked in some way. Some languages (including English) allow questions with more than one Q-word, as in (38). (38) Why did what go wrong? (BNC KD0 3703) Dik (p. 287) hypothesises that the respective placements of the Q-constituents depend on the ease or difficulty of placing the same kind of constituent in particular positions in a non-interrogative clause. For instance, it is easier to put Objects in initial position in Dutch than in English, and correspondingly, a Q-word question with the Object in first position is more marked in English than in Dutch. Some languages allow more than one Q-word in the ‘first’ slot in the clause, and these again tend to be those in which more than one item can be fronted in a non-interrogative clause.

.. Alternative views of illocution in FG A number of alternatives to Dik’s account of illocution have been proposed. The main issues, which are interrelated, are whether the underlying representation should contain an illocutionary variable or an illocutionary frame, what the status of the E variable is, the relationship between illocution and layering, and the treatment of ‘indirect’ illocutions, which in turn raises questions regarding the relationship between grammar and pragmatics in the area of illocution. I shall deal with each of these in turn, and then look briefly at work on exclamations and at some speech acts which are not treated as illocutions in FG. Finally, I discuss proposals for a more cognitively-oriented view of illocution.

... Operator or frame? As we saw briefly in §3.3 of Part 1, Hengeveld’s model of illocution differs from Dik’s in that it handles illocutionary force in terms of an illocutionary frame rather than an operator. This frame is of the general form shown in (39), where ILL represents an abstract illocutionary predicate, together with arguments S (speaker), A (addressee) and X1 (proposition).

Chapter 1


(39) ILL (S) (A) (X1 ) Hengeveld (1990: 6) claims that this proposal not only emphasises the relational nature of speech acts, but that the postulation of an abstract illocutionary predicate also explains why, for example, the illocution can be modified by adverbs such as frankly. Dik (1997b: 236) rejects this proposal on the grounds that it is a version of the performative hypothesis, against which he has argued, though Hengeveld’s proposal does avoid any undesirable deletion phenomena. Furthermore, Dik points out that since variables for the speaker and addressee are present for all utterances, by default, they do not need to be stated as part of the structure for each utterance. Some scholars (e.g. Rijkhoff) have taken up and expanded Hengeveld’s proposal, while others have rejected it. The reasons are to do with matters which will be taken up in later subsections. It should also be noted that Hengeveld regards illocutionary mitigation and reinforcement markers as the expression of operators at the illocutionary layer. Thus examples (24)–(26), given above, would have an underlying structure with a π4 operator with the value ‘reinforcement’, rather than being the result of grammatical illocutionary conversion as in Dik’s account.

... The status of the E variable Bolkestein (1992a: 390) has pointed out that the status of the E variable in the accounts of Hengeveld and Dik is equivocal: it is said to represent a speech act expressed by a clause (e.g. Dik 1989a: 248), but is also referred to as if it stands for the clause itself. Bolkestein observes that regarding E as standing for a speech act is confusing with regard to the claim that the complements of linguistic action verbs are of the E type for direct speech, but of the X (propositional) type for indirect reported speech. What the complement actually represents is the utterance, or product of the speech act, and this is what Bolkestein suggests E represents. She provides further evidence from the fact that independent utterances can be expanded using satellites such as briefly which give information about the properties of the message, but not by satellites such as suddenly which qualify the speech event itself. Furthermore, complements of speech verbs can be specified as true or false (what he said was true), but it is odd to specify them as corresponding to reality or not (?what he said was real), again suggesting that they represent messages rather than events. A similar point regarding direct speech complements is made by Vet (1998a: 8). Speech acts are not themselves said: what is said is an utterance, the product of a speech act. ... Illocution and layering Bolkestein (1992a) has discussed a number of problems with regard to the relationship between illocution and the layering hypothesis in FG. Firstly, she observes that in Dik’s account the illocutionary operator has scope over illocutionary satellites, whereas in fact a satellite such as frankly, used as an illocutionary modifier, takes the whole of the rest of the clause in its scope. Secondly, Bolkestein (1992a: 392–398) shows that there are problems with the claim that illocution should be represented only at the topmost layer of the hierarchy. She

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demonstrates that in classical Latin verbs taking indirect speech complements can be classified according to the illocution(s) they allow in their complement clauses. Furthermore, in indirectly reported rhetorical questions in Latin, the conversion of question to rhetorical question leaves an imprint on the complement clause in the form of its mood. The upshot of these facts is that illocution will have to be represented in the structure of the complement clauses themselves, as well as in the main clause. This is obviously a problem for the view, current at the time of Bolkestein’s article, that indirect speech complements are at the propositional level. We saw in §3.3 of Part 1, however, that Dik (1997b: 102) later proposed a different analysis, in which both direct and indirect speech complements are full clauses, the difference between them being captured by placing direct speech complements directly into the complement slot, while indirect speech is embedded within a clausal term which acts as complement to the verb of saying. Dik (1997b: 250–251) summarises Bolkestein’s claims, and agrees that even converted illocutions must be available in indirect speech complements: his new proposal, of course, makes this possible. Rijkhoff (1995) proposes to add to the model proposed by Hengeveld for the illocutionary area, by making a distinction between the speech event (concerned with the purpose of the utterance in the discourse, and with the participants relevant to the interaction) and the speech act (concerned with the illocutionary frame and the mapping of individual participants on to specific roles of Speaker, Addressee and Bystander), and allocating the act and the event to different layers in the structure. The motivation for this proposal will be discussed in the next subsection.

... The treatment of ‘indirect’ illocutions Much of the work modifying the proposals of Hengeveld and Dik on illocution has been in the area of how FG should handle cases where the illocution intended by the speaker and/or interpreted by the addressee does not correspond straightforwardly to that encoded in the value of one of the illocutionary operators (Dik), or the illocutionary predicate (Hengeveld), i.e. DECL, INT, IMP or EXCL. This work raises a number of important questions concerned with the notion of illocutionary conversion and the respective roles of grammar and pragmatics in illocution, as well as more general issues such as the status of operators and satellites in FG. .... Vet on illocutionary modifiers. We start with a series of papers by Vet (1990, 1997, 1998a, 1998b) concerned with both illocution and modality, in which he proposes a number of modifications to previous treatments of illocution. Vet (1990) discusses some cases where the combination of present tense and a first person Subject creates meanings which are not available in other tenses and/or persons. One such case is exemplified in (40)–(43). (40) I hear you’re planning to retire so you can concentrate on writing . . . (BNC A0F 42) (41) I heard you’re planning to retire so you can concentrate on writing. (42) He hears you’re planning to retire so you can concentrate on writing. (43) He heard you’re planning to retire so you can concentrate on writing.

Chapter 1


In (40), the speaker indicates that s/he acquired the knowledge through hearing about it, and it is very similar in meaning to (41), while (42) cannot be used in a similar way and is quite different in meaning from (43). Furthermore, (40) and (41) have different behaviour with respect to negation: I heard in (41) can be negated, while I hear in (40) cannot. Vet (1990: 129) takes these facts to indicate that I hear in (40) is outside the scope of both tense and negation. He analyses phenomena such as these in terms of a model of the underlying structure of the clause in which the propositional variable X is bound by a complex illocutionary operator δILL , in which each of the two parts, δ and ILL, can take a range of values. ILL takes values such as DECL and INT, and if δ is not further specified, δDECL produces a straight declarative and δINT a straight interrogative, for example. I hear in (40) is taken as a hearsay marker specifying the δ position in δDECL . Vet also uses the δ component of his proposed operator to account for French peutêtre (‘perhaps’) and for certain uses of the future tense in French, where this tense does not indicate future time, but rather the suspension of a judgement about the truth value of the proposition, or mitigation of the speech act in the direction of politeness. In view of these analyses, it would seem that Vet’s δILL takes over not only the illocutionary (mitigating and reinforcing) operators of Hengeveld’s scheme, but also what would be considered by Hengeveld and by Dik as operators (in the case of the future indicating a suspension of judgement on truth value), and even satellites (e.g. peut-être), at the propositional layer. In Vet (1997), the non-temporal uses of the future tense in French are analysed in somewhat similar terms, but now within a more finely differentiated model of the underlying clause structure, in which propositional and clause layers, as well as the extended predication layer, have separate variables, each provided with a specifier, or modifier, as set out in Vet (1992). The propositional variable X takes a δ3 modal modifier representing degree of commitment to truth value, while the speech act variable E takes a δ4 modifier representing variations in the force with which the illocution is presented. The use of the future tense to indicate suspension of commitment to the truth value of the proposition can therefore now be located at the propositional level as a δ3 modifier, while the mitigation use of the future tense is a δ4 modifier of the illocutionary force DECL. As noted briefly in Chapter 9 of Part 1, Vet (1997: 22–27) also argues that the expressions je crois (‘I believe/think’), je sais (‘I know’) and the epistemic use of the verb devoir (‘must’) show asymmetries between first person present tense use and use in other tenses and persons, as previously discussed for I hear, as well as differences in behaviour in interrogative and conditional clauses. Je crois and devoir represent δ3 modifiers, while je sais is analysed as a δ4 illocutionary modifier, since unlike the others, it cannot be constructed with oui/non (Je crois/*sais que oui/non) so is not an assessment of truth value. Vet (1998b) extends the analysis to the expressions peut-être and peut-être que (‘perhaps’), il se peut que and il est possible que (‘it is possible that’). Vet shows that only the last of these can occur within the scope of a negative and an interrogative operator. Vet takes this to indicate that possible is the predicate of the main clause, but that the other expressions lie outside the predication. Peut-être is treated as a modal satellite at the propositional layer (cf. the very different 1990 analysis outlined earlier). Vet points out that il se peut que and il est possible que take the subjunctive, while peut-être que takes the indica-

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tive. He interprets this as reflecting a difference between being part of, or modifying, the propositional content, in the case of the first two expressions, and modifying the illocution, in the case of peut-être que, regarded as a mitigator indicating that the utterance is being presented tentatively as a contribution to the ongoing discourse. It should be noted that, as indicated very briefly in Chapter 9 of Part 1, the proposals summarised above raise the important issue of the status of operators in FG, in that Vet’s account of illocution and modality proposes operators which arguably have a lexical rather than a grammatical realisation. Yet, as Vet (1997: 25) points out, we cannot readily analyse the relevant expressions as satellites, since many of them (e.g. je crois, je sais, I hear) have predicate-argument form, rather than being adverbial in nature.

.... Risselada on alternatives to illocutionary conversion. We turn now to the work of Risselada (1990), in which she reviews and criticises Dik’s concept of illocutionary conversion as a way of handling lack of congruence between the illocution as coded in the illocutionary operator and the illocutionary value intended by the speaker and/or interpreted by the addressee. Risselada’s aim is to provide at least a partial answer to the question “to what extent illocutionary force can be considered as actually encoded in linguistic expressions and at which point a pragmatic analysis should take over the job” (Risselada 1990: 1). She points out that in the accounts of illocution given by Dik and Hengeveld, elements located within the proposition cannot contribute to illocutionary force. She sees this as problematic in the case of elements which are integrated into the predication, but nevertheless affect the illocution, examples being explicitly performative matrix predicates or let’s in English ‘first person imperatives’. Risselada (1990: 4) notes that in both Dik’s and Hengeveld’s proposals, illocution is primarily connected with sentence type. She points out that it is not totally clear whether Dik intends a general or a more specific value for his four primary illocutions: his discussion of examples suggests that the imperative sentence type is associated specifically with orders, while his definitions of the four basic illocutions are more general. Risselada advocates associating only a very general illocutionary value with sentence type, in view of, for example, the wide range of illocutions which can be expressed by imperative sentences.4 She also suggests that we should not automatically regard the sentence type as the most important factor in determining the illocutionary force, since other lexical, semantic and intonational properties may in some cases carry heavier weight. Risselada (1990: 7–8) observes that the distinction made by Hengeveld and Dik between illocutionary conversion and illocutionary modification (by mitigation or reinforcement), although potentially useful, is by no means clear-cut, since elements such as the Dutch particle even (literally ‘for a moment’), English please, or a question tag (e.g. isn’t it) can be seen as modifying the force of the illocution, as well as converting one illocution into another. She also points out (1990: 9) that the concept of illocutionary conversion . And, we might add, the even wider range of illocutions expressed by declaratives.

Chapter 1


is not consistent with the declared aim of FG to account for the ways in which speakers express what they want to say, since it is unlikely that a speaker wanting to convey a particular illocutionary intention will first select a different, basic illocution which then has to be modified. We can, however, dispense with the concept of illocutionary conversion if, as Risselada suggests, we treat sentence type as only one of the ways in which illocution can be expressed grammatically. Risselada (1990: 9–19) illustrates this thesis with an analysis of explicit performatives and metadirectives, can you requests, and proposals with let’s in English. (44) I promise you I’ll never see him again. (BNC GV7 1173) (45) Tell me what you did. (BNC CM7 1301) (46) Can you lend me a fiver? (BNC KB1 3985) (47) Let’s go and see. (BNC FPF 2202) In the case of an explicit performative such as (44), the illocutionary interpretation is the result of an interaction between the declarative sentence type, first person agent and present tense. In a metadirective such as (45), the illocutionary interpretation required from the addressee (in this case that of a question) is a function of the imperative sentence type, the lexical meaning of tell and a second person agent. In the case of can you requests such as (46), regarded by Dik as interpreted through pragmatic illocutionary conversion unless they contain an unambiguous marker of requestive status such as please, Risselada’s view is that they unambiguously express a request and so are direct expressions of illocutionary intention. Since requests inherently offer the addressee the option of refusal to comply, and since the imperative sentence type cannot signal this, an interrogative sentence type is used (an alternative is to tag an imperative with will you). The optionality meaning of the interrogative combines with that of the predicate and the second person agent to give the intended force. Risselada points out that can you requests are differentiated from straight questions using can you, in that the former must refer to specific actions or behaviour. Furthermore, the request type, unlike the question type, is not asking about the ability of the addressee to perform the action, but rather about whether it is possible for the addressee to comply, as indicated by the fact that in English possibly, and in Dutch misschien (‘perhaps’) can be added as a mitigation marker. This explains why can you, but not are you able to, is an appropriate conventionalisation for requests. Risselada also notes that if we change the modal from can to could, this mitigates the request illocution, not the interrogative illocution which would be regarded as basic in the Hengeveld and Dik proposals. She finds further confirmation of her position in data from Classical Latin, where similar requests are expressed not by posse (‘can, be able to’), but by potin (est) (‘it is possible’), which, like directive verbal predicates, is followed by a clause with ut and the subjunctive, rather than by the infinitive as with posse. Proposals such as (47) are like suggestions in that they attempt to get the addressee to do something, but they have the added meaning of including the speaker in the commitment. Risselada (1990: 17) observes that in many languages they are expressed using first person plural forms. In English and Dutch, we have a grammaticalised lexical expression

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(let’s, laten we), which can also be used ‘adhortatively’ in other persons. This particular use of these verbs is marked grammatically by Subject-verb inversion,5 and also in English by the contraction of let us to let’s. An alternative expression for proposals in English is how about plus gerund. Risselada (1990: 19) concludes that an approach in which sentence type is seen as providing only a very general illocutionary meaning, which may be combined with meanings from other grammatical and lexical devices, allows us to minimise the extent to which we need to postulate illocutionary indeterminacy and indirectness. Although the final arbiter of illocutionary assessment is the pragmatic theory of verbal interaction, this component will have less work to do, and will have a greater chance of success, if the information provided by the grammar itself is as detailed as possible. Risselada notes that her proposals raise a number of problems for the representation of illocutionary phenomena in the grammar, in view of the greater indeterminacy of the distinction between illocution and proposition in her model, the variation in the role of the sentence type depending on the presence of other illocutionary indicators, and the need for certain conventionalised expressions such as can you, let’s and how about to be listed in the lexicon. In Risselada (1993) the ideas summarised above are developed in the context of a study of directives in Latin. This work makes considerable use of the concept of prototype, and so can be regarded as leading in the direction of the strongly cognitive approaches of Ruiz de Mendoza and Pérez Hernández which will be discussed in §1.2.2.7. Risselada (1993: 33–36) proposes a typology of illocutions according to three types of criteria, each of which is scalar rather than all-or-none: the aims, intentions and other psychological aspects of the speaker; factors related to the addressee, such as his or her reaction; and characteristics of the speech act per se, including whether it is concerned with facts, emotions or actions. In line with her earlier work, Risselada rejects the strong version of the literal force hypothesis according to which an utterance has a basic illocutionary force corresponding to its sentence type, but may also have a further force derived from the basic one through inferential procedures. Instead, she adopts a weaker version of this hypothesis, in which a rather general illocutionary value is proposed for each of the three basic sentence types: declaratives simply present a proposition; interrogatives present a proposition as (partially) open; imperatives present the content of a proposition for realisation (Risselada 1993: 71). Each of the three sentence types is thus compatible with a range of illocutionary forces, and the actual illocutionary value of an utterance will be a result of the combination of the contribution from sentence type with those from other indicators such as specific lexical items, intonation, and so on. This view is able to dispense with the dichotomy of direct and indirect illocutions, replacing it with the idea that a varying number of linguistic devices may be used to guide the interpretation of illocutionary meaning, and that the larger the number of devices used, the greater the degree of explicitness, or codification, of the speech act concerned. . As Risselada observes, the Dutch pronoun we is the normal Subject form, and Quirk et al. (1985: 829) argue that us in the English construction is a Subject, though in the objective case.

Chapter 1


The work of Togeby (1994) reaches very similar conclusions to those of Risselada, in that he advocates the taking into account of all the various indicators of illocutionary force, including performative verbs, tense, person of Subject, modals, as well as sentence type.

.... Moutaouakil on implicated illocutionary force. A number of modifications to Dik’s model are suggested in the work of Moutaouakil. Since his earliest work, which predates the publication of TFG1 (e.g. Moutaouakil 1986), Moutaouakil has emphasised the importance of accounting not only for the literal illocutionary force of an utterance, but also for any secondary illocutionary forces which are implicated contextually, including those which are not coded in any way in the clause itself. Implicated illocutions can become progressively more salient in relation to the literal illocution, by means of the process of grammaticalisation. Moutaouakil (1991: 4) proposes that this occurs in two major stages, which he relates to the principle of markedness shift discussed by Dik (1989a: 239ff.). First the implicated illocution becomes conventionalised, acquiring at least as important a status as the literal illocution, and having a generalised meaning in all contexts. At a later stage the original implicated illocution may totally displace the original literal force, itself becoming literalised. As an example of a conventionalised illocution, Moutaouakil gives the use of can you to signal a request in English; as an example of a literalised illocution, he cites negative interrogatives with the force of a positive assertion, giving an example from Arabic and glossing it in English as Haven’t I warned you?.6 Moutaouakil (1991: 6–8) presents a number of reasons for his claim that implicated illocutionary force, as well as literal force, should be accounted for within a linguistic theory such as FG, which has pretensions to pragmatic and psychological adequacy. Clearly, as an important aspect of the pragmatics of the utterance, the total illocutionary potential should be described somewhere in the theory. Furthermore, Moutaouakil gives examples which demonstrate that literal and implicated illocutionary forces can co-determine the form of linguistic expressions: the negative particle min in Standard Modern Arabic occurs only in interrogatives which have the implied force of a denial; certain adverbial expressions, such as an Arabic phrase glossed as ‘please’, modify the implicated, not the literal force; although some of the illocutionary force indicating particles of Standard Modern Arabic are determined by the literal force, there is one particle which can occur only in interrogatives conveying a reproach; again in Arabic, a negative interrogative, interpreted implicationally as a positive assertion, can be coordinated with a clause which has the literal force of an assertion; and finally, Moutaouakil claims that the intonational contour of an utterance with a literal and an implied force is co-determined by these two types of force. . Both examples seem somewhat dubious. It is certainly not true that can you? interrogatives are interpreted as requests in all contexts: it is perfectly possible to imagine a context in which Can you open the window? is purely a question (e.g. a doctor asking about a patient’s arm injury). Similarly, in English at least, it is not the case that negative interrogatives are interpreted as positive assertions in all contexts: Oh, haven’t I warned you? I certainly should have done can be taken as a straight question. It could be, however, that Moutaouakil’s claim relates specifically to the Arabic construction.

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Moutaouakil (1991: 11–18) discusses the relative merits of three possible approaches to the problem of representing both literal and implied illocutionary forces in FG. Firstly, one could attempt to account for all illocutionary phenomena outside the grammar itself, in a wider pragmatic theory of verbal interaction. In Moutaouakil’s view, an appropriate location would be the Functional Logic component of Dik’s Model of the Natural Language User, mentioned briefly in §3.6 of Part 1, in which inferential phenomena are to be modelled. One of the sub-components of Functional Logic is illocutionary logic, dealing with the logical properties of illocutionary operators (Dik 1989b: 23). Moutaouakil outlines the kinds of reasoning which could account for, for example, the calculation of an implicated illocutionary force of reproach from an utterance with interrogative literal force in Arabic, the implicature process proposed being basically that familiar from the work of Grice and others. However, as Moutaouakil points out, such a scheme would imply that all implied illocutions are to be accounted for in terms of inferential calculation, and therefore cannot account for those cases where the implied illocution has become conventionalised. On the other hand, adopting the position that all illocutionary phenomena are to be accounted for within the grammar itself runs into the problem of handling highly indirect illocutions in which not only the illocutionary force but also the propositional content is changed. It is difficult to see, for example, how the grammar could handle the interpretation of a declarative clause stating that it is cold in a particular room, as a request to close the window. The most attractive position, then, would appear to be that the responsibility for accounting for illocutionary force is shared between the grammatical and the Functional Logic components of the overall model of the Natural Language User. The grammar would deal with all literal illocutionary forces and with those implicated forces which have a reflex in form, while the Functional Logic component would handle those cases where an implied force can be calculated, but where the expression itself contains no indication of this interpretation. As Moutaouakil (1991: 17–18) notes, this mixed option is in accordance with the modular nature of Dik’s model of the Natural Language User; it provides this model with a way of calculating implied force on the basis of inferential rules, but postulates the involvement of the logical component only when such inference is necessary, so contributing to the psychological plausibility of the model; and finally, the dual solution avoids the over-burdening of the grammar which resulted in the past from attempts to deal with these phenomena within, for example, generative semantics. Attractive as it undoubtedly is, the dual mechanism itself faces certain problems, foremost amongst which is the need for expression rules to have access to information within the logical module in order to generate the correct output. Moutaouakil (1991: 18) sees this as “a rather ad hoc and probably costly procedure”. Moutaouakil’s proposals, then, move tentatively in the direction of a division of labour, in the illocutionary area, between a grammatical and a pragmatic component. This concept has been strongly advocated, though in a somewhat different form, in recent work in FG, to which I now turn.

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.... Illocution and discourse pragmatics: Recent modular approaches to illocution. Vet (1998a), as we saw earlier, agrees with Bolkestein’s (1992a) view that the E variable should refer to the utterance, the product of a speech act, not the act itself. The utterance is “a message or part of a message that is transmitted in a communicative situation” (Vet 1998a: 12). The underlying structure of the utterance is concerned only with the linguistic properties of the message: Vet (1998a: 13) regards attempts to build speech act theory into the underlying structure as methodologically unsound, and proposes to deal with the speech act itself in a separate, pragmatic module. He relates his proposals to the distinction made by Dik between illocution as coded in the expression (ILLE ), and the illocutionary intention of the speaker (ILLS ) and interpretation of the addressee (ILLA ). For Vet, as indeed for Dik, only the first belongs in the grammatical module, the others being handled in the pragmatic module. As Vet observes, the question is how the two modules should be related. Vet’s model contains an interface consisting of “the speaker’s unconscious or conscious ‘decisions’ as to the linguistic form” (Vet 1998a: 16): so far, however, the details of this interface component have been left unspecified.7 It is the relationship between the pragmatic and grammatical modules in Vet’s model that deals with what Dik calls illocutionary conversion. For example, consider (48): (48) A. it’s gone very cold hasn’t it B. [mm] it’s freezing (LLC 1 3 42–45) It would be quite possible for A to intend his or her utterance as an indirect request for B to put on a fire in the room. In such a case, the pragmatic module would specify that the speech act for A’s contribution is one of the Speaker requesting the Addressee to put on the fire. The interface rules would then determine that the form of the utterance would be a declarative with the utterance content ‘it’s gone very cold’, plus a question tag, plus the appropriate intonation patterns. The sentence type of the utterance is chosen to be compatible with the speaker’s communicative intentions (see also Risselada 1993: 71–73). The relationship between the requestive speech act and the declarative form is thus one of mapping, rather than one of conversion: Vet (1998a: 15) points out that it is implausible that in the production of language in real time, speakers start off with a declarative illocution and only then convert it to a request. Although Vet does not discuss forms which have become more conventionalised for the performance of particular speech acts, such as can you? as a standard request form in English, his argument would apply even more strongly to such cases. As we saw earlier, a similar argument has been put forward by Risselada (1990). Liedtke (1998) reviews the work of Hengeveld, Risselada, Moutaouakil and Togeby, and concludes that the distinction between linguistic indicators and the illocution itself is crucial, since sentence type does not determine strongly the illocutionary reading, but only constrains the addressee’s interpretation. His model proposes a grammatical module to deal with the various possible grammatical and lexical indicators and a pragmatic mod. Vet also claims that his two-module model can give an insightful account of discourse relations. This aspect of linguistic patterning will be discussed in Chapter 4.

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ule dealing with the sentence as the realisation of a specific speech act. Liedtke (1998: 118) proposes a set of six illocutionary types, based on Searle’s (1975) classification, but splitting Searle’s Directives into Petitives (orders, requests, commands) and Quaesitives (questions). He points out that there are correlations of varying strength between the illocutionary categories and sentence type: declaratives can be used for a wide variety of illocutionary purposes (Declarations, Commissives, types of Directive) in addition to the realisation of Assertives; imperatives correlate more strongly with Directives, though they can be used rhetorically for other purposes; interrogatives are prototypically correlated with Quaesitives, but can be used for other illocutions such as requests. Even where the correlation is strong, it is not deterministic: illocutionary force is interpreted by the addressee on the assumption that speakers use the form which best expresses their communicative intentions. Within the pragmatic module, speaker intention, social context, discourse context and conventions for performing illocutionary acts all play a role. Liedtke (1998: 121–125) discusses Austin’s (1962) distinction between locutionary and illocutionary acts, and within the locutionary, between phonetic, phatic and rhetic acts. He suggests that the division between grammatical and pragmatic modules coincides with that between the rhetic act (i.e. using words and constructions with a particular sense and reference) and the illocutionary act. He proposes to replace the illocutionary operator of Dik’s account by a rhetic operator, determining mood within the grammatical module. Van den Berg (1998) makes the important point that the bottom-up approach of FG in modelling structure runs the risk of paying insufficient attention to the processes of language production: “FG is system-oriented and not user-oriented” (van den Berg 1998: 77). His own model takes as its starting point the work of Berger & Luckmann (1971) on the social construction of reality, and that of Searle (1995) which is also concerned with social and institutional facts. The brief summary of this work which follows is based on van den Berg (1998: 78–85). Berger & Luckmann’s theory is based on the concepts of habitualisation and typification: actions which are frequently repeated take on particular forms and become part of routines in our knowledge. Reciprocal recognition of these routines leads to reciprocal typification. When habitualised actions, carried out by certain types of specific actors, are reciprocally typified, institutions arise, allowing us to anticipate typical activities occurring within them. The actors in typifications correspond to roles played in institutions (e.g. the role of mother in the home, teacher in the school, judge in the courtroom): people share goals and standards of performance, and performance of the roles enacts the actions of the institution. Language is necessary for the development and transmission of institutions across generations. Roles become linguistically objectified as types of actor, routines as types of action. Van den Berg (1998: 80) gives the example of a shop transaction, where both customer and salesperson know what sequence of actions, and what types of linguistic behaviour, to expect. Van den Berg regards Searle’s work as complementing that of Berger and Luckmann, in its emphasis on the relationship between social reality and the assignment of functions, such that, for example, a stone can act as (‘count as’, in Searle’s formulation) a paperweight, or pieces of specially printed paper can be agreed, in the social system, to count as money in a particular country.

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The linguistic structures composed of action types and their corresponding actor types are used in discourse, of which conversation is the prototype. Van den Berg (1998: 82) focuses on two functions of discourse: the recreation of social relationships (what Berger & Luckmann refer to as ‘universe maintenance’) and the ability of interactants to create relevance. Van den Berg relates Berger & Luckmann’s action types to the predicate frames of FG, in which argument positions can be filled by names for natural or social objects. In cases where selection restrictions are violated, clues for interpretation will often be found in the institutional context. It is therefore necessary to create links between social institution, the background to the interaction, and the lexicon. The activation of a particular institution, such as when entering a shop, creates anticipation of routinised event sequences, and of other relevant social facts and objects: It is the social context that accommodates a predicate frame and not a predicate frame that requires a coding that is independent of the social context. (van den Berg 1998: 84)

Van den Berg’s own model of a pragmatic functional grammar postulates three modules, each provided with one or more ‘managers’ which regulate what happens within the module, as well as the interaction between modules. The pragmatic module is provided with a social context manager which has the task of constructing reality and a move manager which plans the relevant moves in discourse. The message module has a message manager which constructs the message. The grammar module has a predicate frame manager which is involved in the assignment of the predicate and terms. Van den Berg (1998: 85) recognises that this model is an expansion of that proposed by Vet (1998a), the message module being a more highly articulated version of Vet’s interface component. The pragmatic module (van den Berg 1998: 91–95) is the central controller, sending both information and instructions to the other two modules. First, the social context manager constructs a social reality which includes a specification of the institution and roles, the type of discourse and the status of move sequences. All this information is passed to the move manager, which is the ‘central processing unit’ of the pragmatic module. Its role is to construct moves (in principle, both verbal and non-verbal), and to translate the speaker’s intent into appropriate semantic content, including the choice of a suitable illocutionary act. A call for this content is made to the grammatical module, which sends the appropriate illocutionary operator (DECL, INT, IMP), as well as the relevant action type (as embodied in a predicate frame), to the message manager for placement in a ‘message frame’. The predicate frame manager also has access to information regarding the social context, through its connection with the message module, and so can make any adjustments which may be required by the most recent contextual information available. The message manager, as well as gathering content from the grammatical module, receives input from the social context manager (on institution, role, and the type, time and location of the discourse) and from the move manager (on the kind of move being planned and types of discourse acts within the move). The message manager then coordinates the construction of a move which is in line with all these pieces of information. This

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process involves the setting up of a deictic centre and the distribution of responsibilities through the selection of names, pronouns, kinship terms or specifications of role type. It also involves the placement of focus, generally on the new information being transmitted. The movement of elements from the grammatical component into the message frame is handled by ‘specification rules’ in the message manager, which formulate constituents according to the requirements of the message. Finally, the expression rule component reads the message frame and converts the specification into the final form of the utterance. As we saw in §3.7.1 of Part 1, Hengeveld (forthcoming a, forthcoming b) has recently put forward a Functional Discourse Grammar model which attempts to integrate the underlying structure of the clause with that of the discourse. In the latest version of this model, any stretch of language can be analysed in terms of three linguistic levels: the interpersonal level, at the top of the hierarchy of levels, is intended to model language as a communicative process, while the representational level models language in its content-carrying function, and the structural level is concerned with the realisation of the semantics in form. Furthermore, the linguistic component is supplemented not only by an acoustic component dealing with the ultimate representation of meanings in sounds, but also by a conceptual component concerned with the development of the speaker’s intentions and their combination with appropriate conceptualisations, and by a contextual component. Within such a model, it would appear that there is ample opportunity to deal with indirect speech acts in terms of non-canonical mappings between the linguistic levels, motivated by information in the non-linguistic components of the model. Finally, as we shall see in §2.2.2.2.1, the work of Bolkestein (1998) on the treatment of topicality and focality within FG also leads in the direction of a modular approach, as does that of Kroon (1995, 1997) on Latin connective particles (see §4.2.4), so strengthening the arguments from the area of illocution.

... Exclamations In recent work, Moutaouakil (1999) has proposed that what is regarded by Dik as exclamative illocutionary force should be reanalysed as a kind of modality. He points out that while declarative, interrogative and imperative constructions have formal features which allow us to recognise them across languages, exclamations can take a wide range of different forms in different languages, and indeed often within a single language. In English, for example, exclamations can borrow declarative, interrogative and imperative syntax, as shown in (49)–(51) below. (49) That’s fantastic! (BNC JYE 75) (50) Isn’t that lovely! (BNC AEB 908) (51) Look at that view! (BNC AT3 2518) Moutaouakil (1999: 3–6) goes on to argue that exclamation is not itself an illocution. It does not appear in the speech act typologies developed by Searle and others. Unlike Searle’s expressive category of speech acts, exclamations do not necessarily involve a propositional content which is itself related to the speaker or addressee. The fact that

Chapter 1


exclamations express a relationship between the speaker and the content of the utterance, rather than an interactional relationship between speaker and addressee, is also untypical for speech acts as a whole. Moutaouakil notes that although, in Dik’s account, declarative, interrogative and imperative constructions can undergo illocutionary conversion, there is no mention of any such conversion from exclamatives to another type. Furthermore, although adverbs related to exclamative meaning do exist (Moutaouakil mentions surprisingly, wonderfully and amazingly), they modify the propositional content, not the illocution, as witness the strangeness of *I tell you amazingly that ... It is also claimed that exclamations have different degrees, while a speech act is either performed or not. Finally, exclamatives have an illocutionary force, normally that of assertion, independently of their exclamative status, as demonstrated by the facts that they can be conjoined with declaratives, can occur in because clauses (unlike interrogatives and imperatives), take tags typically added to declaratives, and are appropriately reacted to by the same type of expressions as declaratives. Moutaouakil (1999: 7–8) argues that exclamative meaning fits well into Dik’s category of subjective epistemological modality, since it involves the speaker’s attitude towards the proposition. He also offers (pp. 8–12) a typology of exclamative modality. He first distinguishes between appreciative and depreciative types, which are formally distinct in Standard Modern Arabic and also in French, where it is claimed that only depreciative exclamations can have a fronted adjective (Sotte/*géniale que tu es! (lit. ‘Stupid/*(full of) genius that you are!’), Moutaouakil’s example (36)). Moutaouakil (1999: 9) motivates the distinction between appreciative and depreciative exclamatory modality in English in terms of a purported difference in intonation contour. Reliable measurement of such contours in connected discourse will be needed if this claim is to be upheld. He also proposes degrees of exclamative modality which can be expressed lexically (e.g. through adjectives and adverbs in English) or grammatically (e.g. though predicate forms in Standard Modern Arabic encoding weaker and stronger types of exclamation). It is further claimed that some languages, including French and Arabic, have means for the reinforcement of meaning expressed by a particular exclamative construction, usually by iconic addition of material as the strength of the exclamative meaning increases. Moutaouakil (1999: 12–15) suggests that exclamative modality is not confined to the proposition, but extends also to the term and to whole stretches of discourse. In (52) we have an example, from Spanish, of what Moutaouakil would regard as exclamative modality within the term. (52) Qué falda más mona llevas. (HCM 21, 402) What skirt most pretty wear-pres.2sg.familiar ‘What a pretty skirt you’re wearing’ Just as propositional exclamative modality is represented in the underlying structure of the clause by a propositional operator or satellite, so constructions such as that in (52) can be represented by the addition of a layer of modality term operators to the layers of localising, quantifying and qualifying term operators proposed by Rijkhoff and taken over in Dik’s model of the term (see §7.2.1.3 of Part 1). Exclamation at the level of discourse

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episodes is postulated in order to account for sequences of exclamations in panegyrical discourse. Finally, Moutaouakil suggests that subjective modality distinctions in general, including exclamative modality, should be part of a pragmatic module such as that suggested by Vet (1998a) for speech acts (see §1.2.2.4.4) and by Bolkestein (1998) for pragmatic functions (see Chapter 2). Under such a proposal, the derivation of (53) would involve underlying structures within the pragmatic module (shown in (54), where DEPR EXCL is the operator for depreciative exclamation) and the grammatical module ((55), where U represents the utterance). (53) How silly I am! (BNC ANL 961) (54) ASS Ei : [DEPR EXCL Xi : [ei : fi (xi )Top ]Foc ] (55) DECL Ui : [Xi : [Pres ei : silly [A] (I)ØSubj ]] Clearly, the interaction between the two modules needs to be spelt out explicitly if this line is to be followed.

... Some speech acts not treated as illocutions in FG Greetings (e.g. Hello in English), leave-takings (e.g. Goodbye), summonses (e.g. Hey there), the direct expression of emotional states through interjections (e.g. Ouch!, Hurray!) and ‘minimal responses’ signalling agreement or disagreement, are not integrated into the picture of illocution in FG, but are treated, together with vocative forms of address, as extraclausal constituents concerned with ‘interaction management’ (Dik 1997b: 384–386). It is, however, by no means clear why they should be treated in this way rather than as separate clauses with a much reduced structure, but with their own illocutionary force. This alternative would be much more attractive under the proposals, reviewed earlier, for taking fuller account of the role played by lexical phenomena in illocution. ... A cognitive perspective on illocution in FG The recent work of Ruiz de Mendoza (1999) offers a critique of Dik’s proposals and recasts illocution within a framework which, while still integrated within FG, builds in a strongly cognitive perspective. This work builds on earlier studies by Ruiz de Mendoza (1994a, 1994b) which proposes the integration of ideas from the theory of speech acts and Relevance Theory into FG. As the 1999 paper subsumes, modifies and elaborates the earlier accounts, I shall take it as the point of departure for the following summary. The primary thesis of Ruiz de Mendoza’s (1999) account of illocution is that a theory of verbal interaction needs to be situated within the more general dimension of how human beings act in accordance with their cognitive systems: in other words, pragmatic adequacy is subsumed under the overarching requirement of cognitive adequacy. In this respect, the Relevance Theory of pragmatics propounded by Sperber & Wilson (1986/1995) is of interest, since it models communication in terms of the speaker’s attempts to affect the cognitive environment of the addressee. Ruiz de Mendoza imports two concepts from Relevance Theory into his own model of illocution in FG: the difference between

Chapter 1


explicatures (generated from the logical form encoded in an utterance) and implicatures (generated by processes of inference based on condition/consequence relationships); and the concept of mutual manifestness, where a phenomenon is manifest to a person if that person can form a mental representation of the phenomenon. A second way in which Ruiz de Mendoza wishes to make the FG account of illocution more sensitive to cognitive concerns is by introducing the concept, taken from Lakoff ’s (1987, 1989) version of cognitive linguistics, of Idealised Cognitive Models (ICMs), conventional mental representations of the world which act as templates for the interpretation of reality. A particularly important ICM for Ruiz de Mendoza is the cost-benefit model studied by Leech (1983) in connection with the notion of politeness. At the centre of this model is the politeness convention, according to which if it is manifest to A that some aspect of a state of affairs is not beneficial to B, and A has the ability to alter that state of affairs so that it becomes beneficial for B, then s/he should do so. This basic principle is modified, in Leech’s account, by other factors relating to social distance and power. On the basis of these principles, we can explain how certain interrogatives come to be interpreted as requests: for instance, if the addressee thinks that the speaker needs a state of affairs to be altered so that it becomes beneficial for him or her, and if the speaker asks about the nature of the state of affairs, this will ordinarily be understood as a request to the addressee to bring about the required alteration (Ruiz de Mendoza 1999: 112). Ruiz de Mendoza (1999: 118) proposes that the criterion of psychological adequacy in FG be reformulated in terms of what Lakoff (1990) calls the cognitive commitment, which entails, among other things, that our descriptions and theories of language be in accordance with empirical studies of categorisation, and with what they tell us about, for instance, prototype effects. Against this background of a more cognitively-oriented approach, Ruiz de Mendoza (1999: 126–133) presents a critique of Dik’s concept of grammatical illocutionary conversion. He argues that the phenomena analysed by Dik in terms of grammatical conversion actually have a specifying effect, similar to that of Hengeveld’s mitigation and reinforcement operators. In the examples given by Hengeveld, the illocutionary force is not changed, but in the case of imperatives to which a mitigator is added, the force does indeed change, and we must then decide whether to propose two sets of illocutionary operators, one modifying, the other converting, or just a single set of modifying operators, with the ‘conversion’ being a secondary, and perhaps only apparent, effect. Dik appears to opt tentatively for the first solution, while Ruiz de Mendoza argues for the second. Ruiz de Mendoza first argues (1999: 128–131) against the interpretation of please in English as an illocutionary converter, as postulated by Dik. He points out that utterances which, when please is present, are interpreted as requests, can also be so interpreted even when please is absent, although with varying degrees of ease: for example, a straight imperative or a Can you ...? interrogative are very easily interpreted as requests even without please, while a straight declarative is less obvious as a request, and may require a specific context which, on the basis of inference (i.e. pragmatic conversion) allows the construction of the request interpretation. On the other hand, declaratives whose content does not lend itself to a request interpretation do not easily take please (as in example (56) below).

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Furthermore, please does not always mitigate, since it can be added to utterances whose form and intonation are consistent with a firm order, and then actually serves to accentuate the brusqueness of the order (57) or the speaker’s irritation (58). These considerations lead Ruiz de Mendoza to propose that the function of please is not to convert one illocution to another, but to modify an illocutionary interpretation which can already be obtained either through a grammatical construction (see further below) or through inference. (56) Water boils at 100 ◦ C at one atmosphere pressure (*, please). (BNC HSD 2578) (57) Stand back, please – back you get, sir – madam – let me get by. (BNC CK0 1641) (58) . . . oh look stop sniffing please. (BNC KBG 3737) Since please effects semantic specification within a certain range of application, Ruiz de Mendoza regards it as the expression of an underlying illocutionary operator.8 There are other expressions which have much the same semantic effect, among them the tag will you, which can also alternate between mitigation and reinforcement. The question posed by Ruiz de Mendoza (1999: 132) is whether please and will you are alternative realisations of the same operator, a question which is further complicated by the existence of other tags such as can you, can’t you, would you, won’t you, not to mention the use of these forms as part of the body of an interrogative. The answer proposed by Ruiz de Mendoza is to regard each of these various forms as the expression of an illocutionary operator within a system which he calls MDIR, which operates not on the basic IMP illocution, but on the interpreted illocution DIR (for ‘directive’). The behaviour of these operators is conditioned not only semantically, by other elements of the underlying structure, but also syntactically, within the expression rule component. Differentiation between speech act types and specification of the MDIR operator values relate to the cognitive models embodied in the cost-benefit scale (founded on the principle that we should act in order to maximise the benefit, and minimise the cost, to others) and the related scales of optionality, indirection, power and social distance. In accordance with Leech’s original proposal, the greater the power of addressee over speaker, and the greater the social distance between them, the more the speaker needs to offer options, and this in turn correlates with the production of indirect rather than direct speech acts. Ruiz de Mendoza (1999: 136) postulates that the cost-benefit scale is the central one, since the others work through it. Various combinations of the variables [± benefit to speaker], [± benefit to addressee], [± costly to speaker] and [± costly to addressee] allow us to distinguish among various classes of speech act, such as orders, offers, suggestions and advice. The effects can be modified by intonation, so that, for example, a strong tone can override other indicators and block an interpretation as a request, offer, suggestion or piece of advice, whereas a mild tone can modify the force towards these four categories (Ruiz de Mendoza 1999: 137). . We may ask, then, if please is also regarded as a grammatical rather than a lexical element. This is another illustration of the problem of differentiating between operators and satellites, which has arisen in earlier discussion.

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The subsidiary scales of optionality and indirection are what give rise to the MDIR operators: seven values are recognised, corresponding to the expressions please, will you, can you, won’t you, can’t you, would you, could you. Ruiz de Mendoza (1999: 140–141) also postulates an operator IMPref, realised by do, which acts at the opposite end of the scale from MDIR, its function being to restrict the options available to the addressee. This operator applies only to imperatives, which may, however, have various illocutionary interpretations, as orders, offers, requests, etc. Ruiz de Mendoza (1999: 141–144) also criticises Dik’s interpretation of tags on declaratives as expressions of grammatical conversion to interrogatives. According to Ruiz de Mendoza, in an example such as (59) below, as well as in the corresponding negative interrogative, the speaker is indicating a high degree of certainty with respect to the truth of the proposition, and his or her surprise that this may be mistaken. (59) But then, that is what you want them to do, isn’t it? (BNC JY7 704) Ruiz de Mendoza postulates an operator COL19 for such cases, the function of which is to ask for confirmation from the hearer of an assumption held by the speaker. A second operator COL2 is postulated for cases where the tag has the same polarity as the main body of the utterance, and has the function of asking the hearer to confirm a conclusion which the speaker has reached, but for which s/he takes no responsibility. The superimposition of question intonation on a declarative, regarded by Dik as a kind of conversion, is again treated by Ruiz de Mendoza in terms of a specialised construction which modifies the directive force of the illocution. Ruiz de Mendoza (1999: 146–157) analyses a number of expressions, related to illocution, which he takes to be at various points on a scale of functional specialisation. For instance, why not plus bare infinitive is highly specialised for the function of indicating a suggestion, while why don’t you is less specialised, being conventionalised, at the same level, for the expression of both suggestions and questions about reasons. Similarly, modal tags such as can you are specialised, while the full interrogative equivalents are less so, again being susceptible to different interpretations according to the context. Ruiz de Mendoza (1999: 152–157) criticises Risselada’s account of can you interrogatives which, as we saw in §1.2.2.4.2, postulates that this expression is taken as an indicator of a request if it is combined with a propositional content representing a specific action, while it is more likely to be interpreted as a question if the action is of a general kind. Ruiz de Mendoza demonstrates that it is possible to make the action more and more specific without necessarily leading to a request interpretation. His own account of can you interrogatives is predicated on the cognitive model embodied in the politeness convention: interpretation as a request or a question depends primarily on whether the action is possible for the hearer, and if so, how costly it would be. Asking the hearer if s/he can do something which is easy to do will generally be interpreted as a request; on the other hand, asking someone to do something . COL here stands for coletilla, the Spanish term for a tag.

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which is impossible or even very difficult breaks the politeness convention, so that such an utterance would be more likely to be interpreted as a question. At the heart of Ruiz de Mendoza’s analysis of illocutionary indicators is the concept of the construction, interpreted in the sense in which it has come to be used in cognitive approaches to linguistics, as the pairing of a form with a meaning, which may be complex. For example, Ruiz de Mendoza gives the following definition of the construction for requests with will you:10 An Int utterance of the type will you constitutes a request to the extent to which, by means of the explicatures generated on the basis of the expression, it is manifest to the hearer that: (i) It is manifest to the speaker that the state of affairs designated by the predication is beneficial for the speaker (or for a third person whom the speaker wishes to receive the benefit) and costly for the hearer. (ii) It is manifest to the speaker that the hearer has the ability to bring about the state of affairs designated by the predication. (iii) The speaker wants the state of affairs designated by the predication to come about. (iv) The speaker gives him/her the freedom to refuse to bring about the state of affairs designated by the predication. (Ruiz de Mendoza 1999: 158)

The conditions which form part of constructions are not absolute, but capable of gradation, and they are based on the assumption of mutual manifestness, that is, they are instantiated to the extent to which the hearer thinks s/he is able to make a mental representation of the state of affairs as manifest to the speaker. They also, as will be obvious, relate to the politeness convention. Ruiz de Mendoza (1999: 163–165) notes that illocutionary satellites, as classified by Dik et al. (1990), can have not only an external effect, but also an effect on the internal semantic structure of the utterance. For example, the presence of an illocutionary satellite encoding a Beneficiary (e.g. for your own sake) gives an explicature which triggers the interpretation of the utterance as a piece of advice. Similarly, frankly, as an illocutionary rather than a predicate satellite, signals not only the manner in which the speech act is being performed, but also a high degree of commitment from the speaker, so making the utterance into a firm statement. Finally, Ruiz de Mendoza (1999: 167–170) observes that an explicit performative, making clear the speaker’s illocutionary intention, has the effect of giving a more emphatic interpretation than other conventionalised forms (e.g. I suggest is more emphatic than why not). Ruiz de Mendoza’s proposals regarding the integration of prototype effects and ICMs into the FG account of illocution are taken further in the work of Pérez Hernández (1997, 1998/1999, 2001; Pérez Hernández & Ruiz de Mendoza 2001). Pérez Hernández (1998/1999) argues that neither Dik’s account of illocutions, in which conventional speech acts are a matter for a theory of verbal interaction rather than for the grammar, nor . Translated from the original Spanish by the present author.

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Risselada’s account, in which conventional illocutions are built into the grammar itself, is adequate from a cognitive viewpoint. She shows that in the analysis of the speech act of promising, a clear-cut division between grammatical and pragmatic illocutions is not feasible: rather, there is a continuum of more and less canonical promises, as predicted by prototype theory. She points out, for instance, that in declaratives with simple future tense (e.g. I’ll buy a computer), the inclusion of a reference to the addressee ((for) you) motivates the preferred interpretation of the utterance as a promise, while with a reference to a third person beneficiary ((for) her), or none at all, the utterance is less straightforwardly interpretable in this way: in other words, the cognitive processing effort required is smaller when the addressee is mentioned. Pérez Hernández suggests that the categories of coded and inferred illocutions proposed in Dik’s account need to be supplemented by a third category, the conventions, highlighted in the work of Ruiz de Mendoza summarised earlier, which account for their preferred interpretations, and involve formal, semantic and pragmatic distinctions. Fulfilment of the conditions specified in these rules of convention is, of course, itself a matter of more or less, so emphasising once more the importance of prototype effects in this area. Pérez Hernández goes on to formulate an ICM which specifies the ways in which promises can be characterised, and the ways in which they can vary, according to the scales of cost/benefit, optionality, indirectness, social power, social distance and directivity.11 The book-length treatment in Pérez Hernández (2001) builds on her previous work and on that of Ruiz de Mendoza, presenting a study of ten directive and commissive speech acts based on authentic materials including the British National Corpus, film scripts and magazines. After reviewing the literature on the roles of lexicogrammatical codification and inference in the interpretation of ‘indirect’ speech acts, she presents her own cognitive model in which both codification and inference are seen as categories at opposite ends of a continuum. She points out (2001: 75) that the proposals of Risselada (1993)12 effectively constitute a constructional account, since they pair linguistic features with speech act types. Pérez Hernández’s own proposal, like that of Ruiz de Mendoza, consists in the elaboration of constructions comprising illocutionary Idealised Cognitive Models (ICMs) and procedures which realise the meanings contained in these ICMs. She proposes a set of ten scalar parameters for the classification of directive and commissive speech acts (2001: 80–84): the type of agent (speaker, addressee, third party); the time of the action (past, present, future); the degree of the agent’s capability to carry out the action referred to in the speech act; the degrees to which the speaker and the addressee wish the action to occur; the degree of cost or benefit to speaker, addressee and/or a third party; the degree of optionality which the agent has in deciding whether to carry out the action; the degree of mitigation of the speech act; the degree of power relations between speaker and addressee; the degree of social distance between participants; and the degree of formality of the con. Directivity refers to the extent to which the participants in the interaction desire the achievement of their goal (see Verschueren 1985). . See §1.2.2.4.2.






text. Pérez Hernández’s realisation procedures (2001: 84–86, 87–92) are based on the categories and relations of Dik’s FG, and include not only sentence type (declarative, interrogative, imperative) but also a wide range of other grammatical and lexical properties of the clause, and even of suprasegmental configurations in discourse. Pérez Hernández devotes separate chapters to detailed accounts, within this framework, of acts of ordering, requesting, advising, warning, begging, suggesting, threatening, inviting, offering and promising. In Pérez Hernández & Ruiz de Mendoza (2001), previous work is elaborated in the context of a sketch for a pragmatically-oriented cognitive Functional Grammar. This model, like those discussed in §1.2.2.4, is modular and intended to take into account the need for FG to develop in directions which will enable it to give an account of discoursal and pragmatic phenomena. As might be expected, however, this new model focuses much more than the others on the cognitive aspects of communication. Pérez Hernández & Ruiz de Mendoza (2001: 189–195) offer a brief critical review of previous modular accounts. They point, for example, to the lack of specification, in Vet’s (1998a) model, of how speaker intentions, situational and social information are integrated within the pragmatic module, and also to Vet’s preservation of the clear-cut division between the areas of pragmatics (inference) and grammar (codification) which, as discussed above, needs to be replaced by an account based on prototypes. Van den Berg’s (1998) model, while recognised as being the most highly developed so far, is criticised for its bias towards language production to the detriment of language understanding, and for its inability, in its present state of development, to explain how the pragmatic module acts upon the grammar to produce a series of subtly differentiated variations on the theme of, for example, the speech act of requesting. Pérez Hernández & Ruiz de Mendoza’s own model (2001: 195–201) is intended to remedy some of these deficiencies by building in not only the cognitive concepts of prototype and ICM, but also principles of social interaction and the effects of the current situational context. This model has four modules: pragmatic, semantic, grammar and expression rules. The pragmatic module includes the universal principles of relevance and the strategies which constitute the underlying basis of communication. These principles and strategies, it is claimed, allow speakers to decide what their next conversational move will be, and how to formulate it, for instance in terms of degree of indirectness, in line with the current context. The general strategies adopted in communication are divided into information strategies, which act in language production, and text-context strategies, relevant to comprehension (see Ruiz de Mendoza & Otal 1997). Information strategies are of two opposed kinds: the explicit information strategy maximises explicitness of assumptions, so tending to lead to unambiguous messages, while the implicit strategy prioritises implicitness of assumptions. The balance of these two strategies is influenced by a complex of factors including the nature of the code and the system of conventions in the culture within which the communication is embedded, as well as the universal quest for relevance. Similarly, strategies for language reception divide into a text strategy, in which there is maximum reliance on features of the text itself, and a context strategy, where there is more reliance

Chapter 1


on contextual features than on those which can be gleaned from the textual record. The semantic module contains information about “social relationships and correct interactional behavior for a given cultural community” (Pérez Hernández & Ruiz de Mendoza 2001: 200), expressed as ICMs stored in long-term memory. The authors maintain that the inclusion of this information in a semantic rather than a pragmatic module is motivated by the fact that such information is an aspect of our knowledge of the world. The grammar module corresponds more or less with an FG grammar of the Dik type, while the message module is taken from van den Berg’s model. The expression rules module constructs the final form of the message in accordance with information passed from other modules, and uses realisation procedures which are the expressions and resources of a particular language which instantiate the message frame. Within this general model, Pérez Hernández & Ruiz de Mendoza (2001: 201–211) develop an account of illocution in language production and reception. In production, speech acts are taken to be motivated by the intentions or goals of the speaker, characterised not only by their degree of directivity (the degree to which the speaker wishes a particular state of affairs to obtain) but also by cost-benefit factors involving the effects on the addressee. These intentions and their motivations are systematised in the ICMs for particular speech acts. The non-communicative goal represented by the speaker’s intention is converted into an actual communicative goal by means of procedures which guide the production of particular subtypes of speech act, in accordance with the social conventions specified in the ICM: for instance, if the intention is to get someone to perform an action, a decision will need to be made as to whether the appropriate speech act is one of ordering, requesting, begging, or whatever. At a second stage, the communicative goal of, say, requesting, is further specified for the appropriate degree of explicitness by the selection of an appropriate information strategy, again constrained by principles of social interaction and general knowledge, as activated by the kind of intention and the current contextual properties: for example, if there is a high degree of directivity, the speaker may wish to select an explicit information strategy, but other factors such as social distance and power may require the use of a more implicit strategy instead. In language reception, the processing of an utterance begins with recognition of the realisation procedures involved. The extent of implicitness in the message will determine whether a text or a context strategy is most appropriate. Conventionalised pairings of form and illocutionary meaning will facilitate retrieval of the intended speech act, while the absence of such conventionalised forms will require greater cognitive effort in interpretation. Where all attempts to determine a relevant speech act interpretation fail, the addressee may resort to negotiation strategies involving attempts to get the original speaker to clarify the status of his or her utterance.

.

Illocution in Role and Reference Grammar There has so far been no detailed work on the illocutionary area within RRG. In Chapter 4 of Part 1 we saw that illocutionary force is a clausal operator, with scope over other






clausal operators (for evidentials, tense and status). It is the only operator, except for negation, which RRG claims to be universal: because language is a means of communication, it must have means of conveying the three basic communicative functions of making statements, asking questions and issuing commands (Van Valin & LaPolla 1997: 41–42). To avoid confusion, it is important to note the nomenclature employed in RRG: the labels ‘declarative’, ‘interrogative’, ‘imperative’ and ‘optative’ are used to refer to different illocutionary forces, and not to the grammatical constructions by which they are realised. Indeed, it is recognised that there is a range of types of realisation of illocutionary force in the world’s languages: there may be special sentence types, with particular constituent orders, as in English or Spanish, but this is not seen as a universal; other languages, such as Lakhota and Finnish, use force-indicating particles; prosody may also be involved, often in combination with other devices, as in English or Spanish. Van Valin & LaPolla (1997: 58) point out that there is a parallel between illocutionary force in the clause and locality operators in the noun phrase, in that both are concerned with the discourse-pragmatic properties of the respective units. RRG does not use ‘mood’ as a theoretical term to describe oppositions such as indicative vs. subjunctive: it is pointed out that such ‘moods’ result from the interaction of illocutionary and status factors (Van Valin & LaPolla 1997: 42).

.

Illocution in Systemic Functional Grammar As in other chapters, I shall first summarise the account of illocutionary and related phenomena presented by Halliday and others within the Sydney grammar, and then look briefly at the treatment proposed by the Cardiff grammar.

..

Speech function and mood in the Sydney grammar ... Halliday’s account It will be noticed that the heading for this subsection does not make use of the term ‘illocution’: as the reader may by now have come to expect, Halliday prefers to avoid the use of this term, presumably because of its association with the more philosophicallyoriented theories to which his own proposals provide a more sociologically-based alternative. Instead, Halliday (1994a: 68–71) relates speech function to the ‘speech roles’ which are set up in dialogue, forming the basis for the interactive nature of the speech event. He proposes a split into two fundamental types of speech role: giving and demanding. Cross-cutting this distinction is one concerned with the nature of what is given or demanded, either goods-and-services or information. These interacting systems give rise to four speech functions: [giving, goods-and-services] characterises offers, [giving, information] statements, [demanding, goods-and-services] commands, and [demanding, information] questions.

Chapter 1


Each of these four speech functions is initiating in discourse, and is paired with an expected (or at least desired) response, and also with what Halliday labels a ‘discretionary alternative’: for offers, the expected response is acceptance, with the discretionary alternative of rejection; for commands we have undertaking vs. refusal; for statements acknowledgment vs. contradiction; and for questions answer vs. disclaimer.13 As mentioned in §8.3.1.2.2 of Part 1, Halliday (1994a: 70–71) refers to the semantic function of a clause based on the exchange of information as a ‘proposition’, while that of a clause based on the exchange of goods-and-services is referred to as a ‘proposal’. The semantic categories of statement, question and command are typically expressed in the grammar of English through the resources of mood, which were illustrated briefly in §5.3 of Part 1, where we saw that there is a basic choice between [indicative] and [imperative], and if [indicative], between [declarative] and [interrogative], the latter splitting up into [yes/no] and [wh-] types. Mood choices are available to every independent clause which is ‘major’, i.e. has a verb (Halliday 1994a: 43). Clauses concerned with the exchange of information are typically indicative, statements being, in the unmarked situation, declarative, and questions interrogative (Halliday 1994a: 74). Polar questions are normally realised as yes-no interrogatives, and content questions as wh-interrogatives. I shall deal with imperatives and exclamatives later. The realisation of the mood features is through the configuration of the Mood element, as introduced in §5.3 of Part 1. This element consists of the Subject and the Finite element of the clause, with the possible addition of modal Adjuncts. The remainder of the clause is labelled Residue, and can contain a Predicator, Complement(s) and Adjunct(s). Since the presence and configuration of Subject and Finite elements define mood choices, and since the latter are interpersonal, the layer of grammatical functions consisting of Mood and Residue, and their component functions, is also regarded as belonging to the interpersonal component. The Subject of a declarative clause is recognised by being picked up by a pronoun in a question tag. The Finite element is the verbal operator which carries tense or modality, as explained in Chapter 9 of Part 1. Sometimes it is fused with the main verb: this is the case in the present and past tenses where the clause is active, positive and without any contrast within the verbal group (otherwise we get a form of do as the Finite14 ). The Subject and its corresponding tag pronoun are indicated in bold type, and the Finite element in non-italic type, in the second version of the following pairs of examples. (60) Norman was about to make a very obvious remark . . . (BNC HR2 25) (61) Norman was about to make a very obvious remark, wasn’t he? (62) Beatrice and Benedick can speak verse, . . . (BNC CRV 192) (63) Beatrice and Benedick can speak verse, can’t they? (64) Claire collects shoes. (BNC HAE 4668). . The area of discourse structure within SFG will be taken up in Chapter 4. . This does not apply where we have a form of be (and, in some varieties of English, have) as main verb.






(65) Claire collects shoes, doesn’t she? (Finite fused with main verb) It is the presence of a Mood element which realises the feature [indicative], while the order of the Subject and Finite elements distinguishes [declarative] clauses (Subject ^ Finite) from interrogative ones (Finite ^ Subject, except where a wh-element is the Subject, in which case the order is Subject ^ Finite). Some examples are given below. can speak (66) You Subject Finite Predicator

in total confidence Adjunct

Mood (67)

Could Finite

Residue

it Subject

have driven Predicator

Mood (68)

What Complement

Who Subject

up the turn-off? Adjunct

(BNC ARK 2272)

Residue did Finite

Residue (69)

to the Editor. Adjunct (BNC CS4 1261)

you Subject

buy Predicator

Mood would Finite

want Predicator

Mood

him? (BNC KB7 11013) Complement

Residue immortality? (BNC BN3 2069) Complement Residue

Halliday postulates that both Subject and Finite can be allocated a consistent meaning within the clause. On the Finite, he writes as follows: The Finite element, as its name implies, has the function of making the proposition finite. That is to say, it circumscribes it; it brings the proposition down to earth, so that it is something that can be argued about. A good way to make something arguable is to give it a point of reference in the here and now; and this is what the Finite does. It relates the proposition to its context in the speech event. (Halliday 1994a: 75)

This anchoring to the here and now can be either in terms of tense, seen in terms of temporal relation of the event to the moment of speaking, or modality, through which the speaker presents the proposition as probable, necessary, etc. The Finite also expresses polarity, since in order to be able to argue about a proposition, it must be specified as positive or negative. On Subject, Halliday has this to say: The Subject supplies the rest of what it takes to form a proposition: namely, something by reference to which the proposition can be affirmed or denied. (Halliday 1994a: 76)

Consider examples (70)–(73) below:

Chapter 1


(70) The European Regional Development Fund gives money to depressed areas ... (BNC ABJ 2012) (71) To depressed areas the European Regional Development Fund gives money. (72) Money the European Regional Development Fund gives to depressed areas. (73) Money depressed areas are given by the European Regional Development Fund. In (70), the European Regional Development Fund is both Subject and Theme. As Theme, it represents the “starting point of the message” (1994a: 77).15 As Subject, it is the entity in which “is vested the success or failure of the proposition”, and which is “responsible for the functioning of the clause as an interactive event” (1994a: 76) and the “‘resting point’ of the argument”, which is “made to sustain the validity of the statement” (1994a: 77). In (71), the Theme, or ‘starting point’ is to depressed areas, but the European Regional Development Fund retains its role as Subject, with the same ‘responsibilities’. Similarly, in (72), money is Theme, the European Regional Development Fund Subject. In the passive example (73),16 however, with money as Theme, the Subject has been changed to depressed areas, so that it is now this entity which is claimed to be responsible for sustaining validity, the resting point of the argument, and so on. We saw in §9.4.1.3 of Part 1 that Halliday recognises a category of Adjunct which is related to mood, modality, temporality and polarity. Such modal Adjuncts (which, as we have seen, Halliday divides into ‘mood Adjuncts’ and ‘comment Adjuncts’) are part of the Mood element of the clause, not the Residue, as shown in (74). (74) Maguire Subject

will Finite

surely Modal Adjunct

be Predicator

Mood

champion jockey Complement Residue

in due course ... (BNC K97 6934) Adjunct

The Residue (Halliday 1994a: 78–81) consists of one Predicator, between zero and two Complements and potentially up to about seven circumstantial Adjuncts. All clauses except those without a main verb (‘minor’ clauses) contain a Predicator, which, as can be seen from examples (66)–(69), consists of the verbal group minus the Finite element. Indeed, there exist non-finite clauses with a Predicator but no Finite, as with smoking in (75): (75) Inside I would sit on the dirt floor smoking cigarettes stolen from the drawing room. (BNC FPF 2623) . Halliday’s concept of Theme will be discussed in detail in Chapter 2. . Clearly, (73) is highly marked, and needs to be read with intonation patterns which make it contrastive (e.g. with other kinds of help given by other organisations).






As we have seen in Part 1, the Predicator specifies secondary tense, aspects and phases (see Chapter 9), also the Process predicated of the Subject (Chapter 8). We shall see in Chapter 2 that it also specifies active or passive voice. The Complement, as we saw in Chapter 5 of Part 1, is a clause element which could have been the Subject, but is not, whereas an Adjunct is an element which does not have the potential to be Subject. Note that vocatives and expletives are regarded as outside the mood structure, though they are relevant to the structure of the clause as a unit for the exchange of information or goods-and-services (Halliday 1994a: 85). In wh-interrogatives, the wh-item is typically thematic and is conflated with the Subject (see (69)), or with a Complement (see (68)) or Adjunct (in questions with when, where, why, how), though not with the Predicator: if we want to question the Predicator we need to use What did X do? or What happened? In unmarked positive imperative clauses there is no Mood element, since there is no overt Subject and the verb is Predicator only, without any Finite element. The negative equivalent has don’t as the Finite element, and there are also forms which are marked for person or polarity, and so have a Subject, a Finite or both, as shown in (76)–(81), where only the relevant parts are analysed. (76) Please give generously. (BNC K98 172) Predicator [positive, unmarked for person and polarity] (77) Don’t delay me, darling. (BNC H7H 650) Finite Predicator [negative, unmarked for person and polarity: stressed don’t] (78) You go and have your lunch now, and your rest. (BNC AN8 1002) Subject Predicator [positive, marked for person: stressed you] (79) Don’t you speak to me of contradictions! (BNC HTT 197) Finite Subject Predicator [negative, marked for person: stressed don’t and you] (80) Do go ahead. (BNC C8D 220) Finite Predicator [positive, marked for polarity: stressed do] (81) Do not go for lonely walks while I am away. Finite Neg Modal Adjunct Predicator (BNC HGD 3132) [negative, unmarked for person, marked for polarity: stressed do and not] Any of these can be followed by a tag (won’t you? for positive imperatives, will you? for negative ones), and Halliday (1994a: 87) takes this to indicate that imperative clauses are themselves finite. The above are all examples of ‘jussive’ imperatives, realising commands and prohibitions. Halliday also points out that there is a parallel paradigm for first person, ‘you and me’ imperatives, of the type let’s look, don’t let’s look, etc. Halliday also mentions ‘optative’ imperatives of the Lord save us! type.

Chapter 1


Halliday (1994a: 86) also offers a very brief discussion of the mood structure of exclamative clauses, although he does not make it clear how exclamative mood fits into the general pattern, in terms of the underlying relationship postulated between grammatical mood and speech function. The normal order of Mood constituents is Subject ^ Finite, and what conflates with Complement (as in (82)), while how conflates with an Adjunct (as in (83)). (82) What a dynasty of beautiful, beautiful ships he started. (BNC B1N 100) Complement Subject Finite/Predicator (83) How easily we were misled. (BNC ANU 1011) Adjunct Subject Finite Predicator Various elements can be, and in spoken language often are, absent from the modal structure itself, but recoverable from the previous discourse or from the context of interaction. For instance, in (84) the whole of the Residue is ellipted, while in (85) it is represented by the dummy do. (84) A. please give my love to Dan. B. yes I will. (LLC 7 1a 601–602) (85) A. you could always ring us up you know ((6–7 sylls)) B. I could do couldn’t I (LLC 2 5b 1189–1191) Halliday (1994a: 92–95) also discusses ellipsis of the Subject, pointing out that in a declarative clause the missing Subject will be interpreted as referring to the speaker, and in an interrogative to the addressee. Examples are also given (1994a: 96–98) where the Subject of a clause is itself a clause, either finite (with that) or non-finite (infinitival or participial). Clauses with anticipatory it and the embedded Subject clause at the end (i.e. those usually labelled as involving extraposition) are treated as having a discontinuous Subject, consisting of anticipatory it and the Subject clause itself. Halliday deals briefly with the structure of minor (verbless) clauses, expressing the speech functions of exclamations, calls, greetings and alarms (1994a: 95–96). It should also be noted that yes and no are taken to express the speech function of statement when acting as responses and phonologically salient, as in (86) (underlining indicates intonational prominence), while they are regarded as part of the Theme when non-salient and serving to indicate the beginning of a new move, as in (87) (Halliday 1994a: 92). (86) A. it’s for five pounds right B. yes (LLC 1 1 716–718) (87) A. well I mentioned it to you if you remember ((1 to 2 sylls)) B. yes I know. I know you did (LLC 1 1 256–260) Let us now return to the issue of the relationship between speech function and mood. Halliday (1994a: 95) recognises that although there is an unmarked correspondence between statement and declarative, question and interrogative, there are alternative pairings, and furthermore that the situation is even more complicated for offers and com-






mands, which have a variety of possible realisations. Halliday (1994a: 363–367) deals with ‘non-congruent’ expression of speech function in terms of interpersonal grammatical metaphor,17 though he recognises that in many cases “it is by no means easy to decide what are metaphorical and what are congruent forms” (1994a: 365). Some types of example which Halliday regards as clearly metaphorical are illustrated in (88)–(90). (88) I wouldn’t be so sure about that if I were you! (BNC B1X 1359) (89) I’ve a good mind to push your face in. (BNC FRR 2570) (90) Still, he’d better go into hospital. (BNC ABS 1936) (88) is congruently don’t be so sure about that, acting as a warning; (89) is congruently maybe I’ll push your face in, typically acting as a threat; (90) is related to he should go into hospital, functioning as advice. Note, however, that the various types of speech act are themselves regarded by Halliday (1994a: 363) as constituting a complex system of semantically differentiated ‘rhetorical modes’. For instance, threats, like offers, are analysed as having the features [give, goods-and-services], but they are differentiated from offers as being [oriented to addressee] (as contrasted with [oriented to speaker] or [neutral]) and as [undesirable] (as contrasted with [desirable]), while promises have the same feature specification except that they are [desirable]. Interpretation of, say, a declarative as a threat is influenced by additional factors such as lexical connotations and syntagmatically associated grammatical selections, as well as by paralinguistic and behavioural features. A further crucial factor in the interpretation of speech function is intonation, and it is to this that I now turn. Halliday (1994a: 305–306) summarises the effects which intonation choices can have on the meanings encoded in mood choices. A much more detailed account can be found in Halliday (1967a) and a brief critical overview in Butler (1985a: 140–144). In Halliday’s account, choices of intonational pattern as such are located at the rank of tone group in the phonological rank scale. In the unmarked case, tone groups are claimed to be coextensive with clauses, though it is perfectly possible for them to correspond to more or less than a single clause. It is said that the tone group “constitutes (‘realizes’) one unit of information” (Halliday 1994a: 59). Although this formulation is somewhat unclear, in that being (‘constituting’) a unit of information is not the same as realising such a unit, Halliday’s later discussion of the information unit (1994a: 296) suggests that it is the latter which is actually meant. This, of course, leaves open the question of where such a unit might fit into the overall model of the grammar, since it clearly does not form part of the grammatical rank scale. Choices of tone in the tone group realise, among other things, meanings concerned with ‘key’ which are related to the mood choices I have already described. In Halliday’s account (1994a: 302–304), the basic distinction in tone is between falling pitch, which in English is taken to mean ‘polarity known’, and rising pitch, signalling ‘polarity unknown’. . The concept of grammatical metaphor was introduced in §5.6 of Part 1 and explored further in §7.2.3.6, where I discussed the treatment of nominalisation in terms of ideational grammatical metaphor.

Chapter 1


The fundamental opposition is thus between a simple falling tone (numbered as Tone 1) and a simple rising tone (Tone 2). The falling/rising opposition may, however, be neutralised, giving what in terms of the system of values is a level tone, though in phonetic terms this turns out to rise to varying extents in most cases. It is usually known as ‘low rising tone’ (Tone 3), and signals ‘not (yet) decided whether known or unknown’. Combinations of falling and rising tone, in either order, also occur: falling-rising tone (Tone 4) is interpreted by Halliday as meaning ‘seems certain, but turns out to be uncertain’, while rising-falling tone (Tone 5) means ‘seems uncertain, but turns out to be certain’. Halliday also recognises two compound tones, Tones 13 (one-three) and (53) (five-three), which consist of a falling or rising-falling tone followed by a low rise.18 Further secondary tones deal with variations in the extent of pitch changes and variations in the pretonic part of the tone group, within the context of a particular primary tone. Table 1.1, derived from the summary in Halliday (1994a: 305–306), indicates the effect of particular tone choices in combination with mood selections in major clauses – that is, the modifications to speech function which Halliday terms ‘key’. Tone with minor clauses varies with the speech function: greetings usually have falling or falling plus rising tone, exclamations rising-falling tone, whereas calls can take any tone, with resulting differences in meaning. It is important to note that Halliday’s view, at least in 1967, was that “all contrast in meaning can be stated either in grammar or in lexis” (1967a: 10), so that intonationally realised contrasts, since they are clearly not lexical, must be included in the grammar itself. Even in his later work, Halliday writes of “the meaning of the tones and the role of tone systems in the grammar” (1994a: 302). Thus, though the contrasts between the tones themselves are at the phonological stratum, those of key are conceived of as grammatical.

... Systems and expansions Matthiessen (1995a) sets out the systemic options involved in the areas of mood and speech function, and also amplifies certain parts of Halliday’s account. His treatment is, as always, quite detailed and profusely illustrated, and so I can only summarise here the main points at which he adds to the picture presented by Halliday. Matthiessen’s basic network for mood type (1995a: 392) distinguishes between [indicative] and [imperative], and within [indicative] between [declarative] and [interrogative]. He also adds a system [tagged] vs. [untagged], dependent on the choice of either [declarative] or [imperative]. Simultaneous with the choice of mood type is a system dealing with clausal ellipsis, either [full] or [partial]. In further discussion, Matthiessen distinguishes between [exclamative] and [non-exclamative], treating these as sub-types of declarative on the grounds that the order of Subject and Finite is the same as that of declaratives (see (82) and (83) above). Matthiessen (pp. 422–425) also formalises Halliday’s (1994a: 87) claim that the system of person differs in imperative clauses from that in in. The reason for the postulation of compound tone groups rather than just a succession of two independent ones is that in such cases the second tone group does not have any independent options available to it within the ‘pretonic’ element, that is the part of the tone group before the syllable on which the main pitch movement occurs. I shall not pursue this matter further here.



negative imperative

peremptory prohibition

command (unmarked)

positive imperative

marked positive imperative (+ do)

content question (unmarked)

whinterrogative

peremptory polar question polar question (unmarked)

yes-no interrogative

tentative content question (but echo question if tonic on wh-element)

statement + contradiction or protest

statement (unmarked)

declarative

2 (rising)

1 (falling)

Tone → Mood (+ polarity) ↓

Table 1.1. Key choices according to Halliday

prohibition

invitation (unmarked)

statement + modality (possible/ unimportant)

‘at least’

statement + reservation

statement + assertion

unmarked (with fall on do)

statement with contingent information (e.g. clause-final Adjunct)

3 4 5 13 (level/low rising) (falling-rising) (rising-falling) (falling + level/low rising) statement + assertion with contingent information (e.g. clause-final Adjunct)

53 (rising-falling + level/low rising)

 Structure and Function

Chapter 1


dicative clauses: in indicatives there is a choice, for Subject, between an interactant in the discourse (leading to first and second person pronouns) and a non-interactant (leading to third person pronouns or full nominal groups); in imperatives, however, the possibilities for Subject are restricted to interactants. For imperatives, we have a further choice between [jussive] (commands), [oblative] (offers of the let me type) and [suggestive] (let’s type). Again following a suggestion of Halliday (1994a: 87), Matthiessen treats let + me/’s as the Subject of the clause. Matthiessen (pp. 426–432) also offers an analysis of mood tag options, recognising tags with the same polarity as the main clause ([constant]) and opposite polarity ([reversed]), and discussing their functions.19 Minor clauses get their own network (p. 434), in which a distinction is made between an [enactment] type (the ones already discussed by Halliday) and a [continuity] type, exemplified by Oh, did they? in response to a statement. [Enactment] minor clauses are divided into [reactive] and [dialogic], and the former of these into [exclamation] and [alarm], the latter into [call] and [greeting]. Matthiessen’s (pp. 436–444) account of speech function systems is also closely related to Halliday’s distinctions. Choices in speech function are assigned to the move, as this is claimed to be the basic dialogic unit from a semantic viewpoint. The initial system is between [role-assigning] and [non-role assigning], the latter corresponding to minor clauses and being divided into [self-oriented] (exclamation type) and [other-oriented] (subdivided into the calling and greeting types). [Role-assigning] moves select for orientation ([giving] or [demanding]) and for commodity ([information] or [goods-and-services]). There is also a system, simultaneous with these last two, which distinguishes between [initiating] moves, realised by a full clause, and [responding] moves, realised by a minor or elliptical clause. Matthiessen (pp. 439–440) also gives examples of the ways in which combinations of mood type, person, modal options and choices involving verbal group complexes and clause complexes, can realise the category of command defined by the combination [demanding, goods-and-services] in the speech function network, through the operation of grammatical metaphor. He also provides examples (p. 441) of how the basic mood types of declarative, interrogative and imperative can be used to realise, again by grammatical metaphor, speech functions other than those with which they are linked in congruent situations. Matthiessen (1995a: 450–462) offers a number of networks systematising the effects of intonational choice on speech function. He points out that there are two ways in which we can approach the relationship between mood and key: either as two sets of largely separate but interacting systems within the grammar, the coordination of which is left to the speech function systems of the semantic level; or as integrated within the grammar itself, such that key systems are dependent on mood systems, as proposed in Halliday (1967a). Matthiessen (p. 454) notes that if we adopt the former procedure, we can allocate key choices to the information unit rather than to the clause, which is a potential advantage, . For a rather different view of tags, in which the tag is seen as a kind of operator modalising the main clause, see McGregor (1995).






since we have seen that the two units may not be coextensive. This, however, raises once more the problem I referred to above, namely that the information unit, if it is realised by a tone group, must itself be part of the grammar, yet does not appear to occupy any clearly defined position within the overall model of the grammar. Matthiessen (p. 603) suggests two possibilities: to posit a second grammatical rank scale in which the information unit, specific to spoken language, is the only unit, being as it were borrowed from the phonology; or to say that the information unit lies completely outside the set of ranked units. He does not argue for one or the other solution. Both seem somewhat unsatisfactory, in that a one-member rank scale is almost a contradiction in terms, while leaving the information unit as a separate entity does not help us to locate it within the overall model. Although Matthiessen (pp. 453–455) does indicate how one might try to deal with mood and key as simultaneous sets of systems, he devotes more attention to the attempt to integrate the two (pp. 456–462), presenting sub-networks (with partial overlaps where appropriate) for mood and key in declaratives and interrogatives. This, of course, runs up against the problem that some of the choices within this single network properly pertain to the clause, others to the information unit: the networks are in fact presented as applying to the independent clause. I shall not deal here in any detail with these networks: in effect, they convert into network form the distinctions made for declaratives and interrogatives in Table 1.1, plus some finer distinctions taken from Halliday’s more detailed early accounts of intonation. We have seen that mood choices of the kinds discussed above are available only to independent (or ‘free’) clauses. Bound clauses “do not directly contribute to the development of exchange (and discourse, in general)” (Matthiessen 1995a: 467) and so do not have available to them choices which are concerned with the allocation of speech roles. Nevertheless, Matthiessen does make provision for a choice of ‘indirect mood type’ in projected clauses (i.e. in reported speech), between [indirect proposition] and [indirect proposal]. Mention should also be made of Martin’s (1992a: Chapter 2) model of speech function and mood which, although it takes as its basis the account given in Halliday (1985a), enriched somewhat by the material in Martin (1981) and later explored systemically in Matthiessen (1995a), nevertheless offers some differences of perspective. We saw in §5.6 of Part 1 that Martin argues for stratification into a level of lexicogrammar and a higher level of discourse semantics. With respect to speech function and mood, the former belongs to the level of discourse semantics and the latter to the lexicogrammar. His network for speech function (1992a: 44) includes categories of move which are realised by both major and minor clauses. The network consists of two simultaneous sets of choices: moves are either [initiating] or [responding to], and also either [attending] or [negotiating]. Attending moves are either [calling] or [greeting], while negotiating moves can be [reacting] or [exchanging]. The last of these features is the point of entry for the simultaneous systems [giving]/[demanding] and [goods-and-services]/[information] familiar from Halliday’s proposals. The relationship between these speech function categories and those of mood is a realisational one. Nevertheless, Martin (1992a: 40) claims that both the grammar and the

Chapter 1


discourse semantics make contributions to the meaning. He cites Levinson’s (1983: 290) comment on the example given as (91) below, that the first move acts as both a question and an offer: (91) (=Levinson’s 5) A. Would you like another drink? B. – Yes, I would, thank-you, but make it a small one. Martin’s analysis of this example is that [g]rammatically the first move is a demand for information (interrogative) while semantically it offers goods (Offer); both mood and speech function contribute a layer of meaning to the clause. (Martin 1992a: 40)

It seems inappropriate, however, to conflate ‘demand for information’ (surely a speech function) and ‘interrogative’ (a grammatical mood category). The fact that the first move is both a question and an offer certainly needs explaining, but the explanation offered by Martin is far from convincing. I shall not go further into Martin’s account here since, as noted in §5.6 of Part 1, it is integrated into a model of discourse which will be discussed in more detail in Chapter 4. Finally, it should be noted that Hasan and her colleagues (see Hasan 1992, 1996; Hasan & Cloran 1990; Cloran 1994) have taken Halliday’s twofold distinction of [give]/[demand] and [information]/[goods-and-services] to greater degrees of delicacy. As an example of the approach, Hasan (1996: 120–124) outlines the systems available to messages with the features [demand, information], distinguishing first between an [apprize] type and a [confirm] type. The [confirm] type is split into [verify] and [inquire]. Messages with the feature [verify] can be further differentiated into [probe] and [reassure]. Messages with the feature [inquire] are either [check] or [ask]. Those with the feature [apprize] are either [vague] or [precise], and if the latter, then [explain] or [specify]. Messages with either the feature [inquire] or [explain] are either [assumptive], meaning that the speaker has views on what the state of affairs should be but leaves these as an ‘unuttered assumption’ (as in Hasan’s (1996: 121) example (1) didn’t you see me?) or [non-assumptive] (e.g. Hasan’s (3ii) you ate it didn’t you?) in which case if there is an assumption at all it is made explicit. Realisation statements for the feature combinations can be found in Cloran (1994).

... Problems and defences Huddleston (1988), in his review of the first edition of IFG, calls into question Halliday’s claim that we can recognise a single meaning for the Subject function, even if we limit ourselves to English. What he is objecting to is the generalisation of the idea that the Subject is “responsible for the functioning of the clause as an interactive event” (Halliday 1985a: 76, repeated in 1994a: 76), from proposals, where one can see that the (explicit or implicit) Subject might be characterised as responsible for carrying out an offer or command, to propositions. Huddleston’s view is that this generalisation “stretches the concept of re-






sponsibility far beyond its normal sense” (1988: 163).20 He points out that in an offer or command (even when passive) the Subject is associated with a feature of agentivity, and it is this which allows the interpretation of ‘responsibility’. On the other hand, the Subject of a proposition is not necessarily associated with agentivity. Huddleston agrees with Halliday that the category Subject, like many others, has its origin in the semantics, but does not agree that we can associate one invariable meaning with that category:21 indeed, as he observes, this would be inconsistent with the many-to-many relationship of form to meaning which is found throughout the grammar, and which is remarked on later in IFG (Halliday 1985a: 106, repeated in 1994a: 112). Matthiessen & Martin (1991: 50), in their response to Huddleston’s review, list a number of questions which, they claim, must be answered in an account of the Subject: why Subject + Finite is used to realise mood selections, why this combination is picked up in tag questions, why ellipsis operates in terms of Mood and Residue, why modulations and interpersonal Adjuncts “orient towards the Subject in particular”, and why Subject is related to the selection of polarity in the way it is. They claim that Halliday’s account can provide answers to these questions, and comment: Huddleston does not seem to recognize the significance of Halliday’s dialogicinterpersonal angle on Subject as a complement to the recent monologic-textual angle. (Matthiessen & Martin 1991: 50)

Huddleston (1991: 107–108) observes that this response is unhelpful, not showing how Halliday’s account answers the questions they pose, or clarifying the notion of modal responsibility. A little more helpful, perhaps, is Hasan & Fries’ explanation of this concept, again in terms of dialogic exchange: So long as the experiential meaning of the (declarative) clause initiating a dialogic exchange remains constant, any subsequent dialogic move e.g., acknowledging, contradicting, accepting, rejecting, or enquiring into the why, how, when of the case, if realised by a major clause, will involve invoking the same entity as Subject. (Hasan & Fries 1995b: xviii)

A corpus example similar to the illustration given by Hasan & Fries is shown below: (92) A. Andrew the eldest still keeps his Butchwana [sic] passport B. oh does he (BNC KB0 457) Hasan & Fries point out that replies using the same Subject, such as the one in (92B) and also (93a and b), are natural, whereas ones with a change of Subject, such as (93c– e), are not. . Hudson (1986: 799), too, in his review of IFG cites Subject as one of the key categories which he could make sense of, and apply to text description, only by trying to work out his own rules from the examples provided by Halliday. . Likewise, Huddleston (1988: 165) finds it hard to discern any constant meaning for the category Complement. I shall not pursue this further here.

Chapter 1


(93) a. b. c. d. e.

no he doesn’t why does he? oh is it (kept by him) no it isn’t (kept by him) why is it (kept by him)?

According to these authors, then, ‘modally responsible’ means ‘interactionally central’. The moral they wish to draw attention to is that . . . the semantic value accorded to Subject is made tangible not by considering single isolated clauses on their own but by examining snatches of dialogic exchange. (Hasan & Fries 1995b: xix)22

We shall see in §1.4.3 that objections very similar to Huddleston’s have been voiced within SFG by Fawcett, and it will be seen that Fawcett’s concept of Subject Theme is claimed to be capable of accounting for the above type of phenomenon.

.. Mood and speech function in languages other than English Matthiessen (1995a: 462–466) makes some brief, but useful, comments on typology in relation to mood. He claims that “all languages seem to differentiate mood categories like declarative, yes/no interrogative and imperative” (p. 462), and that wh-interrogatives are also usual, but cites Sadock & Zwicky (1985: 184) as saying that some languages might lack this mood type. According to these authors (1985: 170–171) the imperative is particularly variable in value across languages, and Matthiessen sees this as unsurprising, in view of the fact that imperatives characteristically involve the securing of goods-and-services from the addressee, so making them especially prone to the effects of politeness and formality. Some languages have congruent systems for encoding these aspects of the relationship between speaker and addressee, and in many (and, Matthiessen conjectures, perhaps all) languages use is made of interpersonal grammatical metaphor in the expression of these relationships. Matthiessen (p. 463) also claims that there is variation in how languages group their mood categories into less delicate ones: for example, for some, such as English, there is grammatical evidence for grouping yes-no and wh-interrogatives together, while for others wh-interrogatives may be a separate type or be grouped with declaratives. Imperatives, the Subject of which can normally remain implicit, are often differentiated from other mood types in terms of their smaller range, or even total lack, of variability with regard to tense, aspect, modality, number and person. Languages are also said to vary in the more delicate distinctions they may make within the major mood categories. Mood and negation may interact in various ways: for example, some languages (including English), but not all, use negative yes-no interrogatives to indicate a bias towards a positive . We shall come across similar argumentation in our discussion of Theme in Chapter 2.






response; negative imperatives in some languages are formally unrelated to their positive counterparts. In line with the claims made by Halliday (1979a) and reviewed in §6.4 of Part 1, Matthiessen asserts that mood, as an interpersonal resource, tends to be realised prosodically, not only through intonation, but also through grammatical devices such as mood particles which can occur at different places in the clause. He recognises that some languages have mood particles which occur initially (e.g. Arabic, Hindi, Indonesian) or finally (e.g. Mandarin, Korean, Japanese and Thai), but interprets these as ‘juncture prosody’. As pointed out in §6.4 of Part 1, it is difficult to see how one could make a principled distinction between this type of phenomenon and others which are taken by Halliday to indicate a realisational association between ‘culminative’ elements (those at the boundaries of units) and the textual, rather than the interpersonal, metafunction. Matthiessen (p. 465) presents a table showing the various types of realisation of mood across a selection of languages. Caffarel (1995) reports on a study of mood and related topics in French. She makes the point (1995: 1–2) that although one might expect, because of the nature of human dialogue, that the primary systemic choices in the area of speech function will be similar across languages, and that Halliday’s hypothesis of primarily prosodic realisation for interpersonal choices will also be valid cross-linguistically, it is likely that differences will be found between languages in more delicate choices, and in the ways in which these choices are realised. Her analysis of French dialogue leads her to propose a functional element which she calls Negotiator, and which consists of the more delicate elements Subject, Finite and Predicator. It is thus similar to the Mood element of English in containing the Subject + Finite combination, but different in including the Predicator. One piece of evidence to support Caffarel’s view is that unlike in English, a response to an initiating move in French cannot consist of just Subject + Finite, but must include the Predicator (1995: 19, 41). In other words, structures of the kind shown in the second to fourth utterances in (94) could not occur in French: (94) A. B. A. B.

Well, talking of poetry, I’ve sent in our entry for the Kelly Kitchen competition. You’ve not! Well of course I have. You wouldn’t. (BNC A1C 2216)

Caffarel therefore argues that in French the Predicator is involved together with the Subject and Finite in the arguability of the proposition. Further evidence for including the Predicator in the Negotiator element is that it is claimed to be able to carry modal meaning (through the use of verbs such as pouvoir (to be able)). Caffarel presents an analysis of the structures involving the Negotiator element, pointing out the greater importance of intonation in the realisation of speech function, as compared with English. She also presents networks for meanings in declarative, exclamative, interrogative and imperative clauses in French, together with the appropriate realisation rules. Hori (1995, 1996) discusses mood in Japanese, showing that in normal conversation the Subject is typically not expressed. The elements which are responsible for carrying

Chapter 1


forward the interaction, and so could be considered to constitute the Mood element, are auxiliaries of tense, modality and honorification, together with a range of sentence-final particles. Hori demonstrates a close relationship between the lack of an overt Subject and the use of honorifics which explicitly encode the relationship the speaker wishes to convey towards the addressee, third parties being talked about, and various features of the context of situation. The Subject can be expressed, by means of a NP marked with the postposition ga, but this occurs only when the speaker perceives that its referent may not be entirely clear from the context. Hori’s account of the Subject in Japanese thus goes beyond the characterisation of the language as ‘pro-drop’, to include the dimension of social deixis.

.. Illocution and mood in the Cardiff grammar The treatment of illocutionary force implemented in the current Cardiff computational grammar is based on the detailed account given in Fawcett (1980), of which a summary will be given here. Fawcett (1980: 100–101) observes that the labels normally used in mood networks in systemic grammars (such as declarative, interrogative, imperative) are essentially formal ones, although in all systemic work in this area the features are imbued with meaning and not purely formal. He therefore suggests that just as the syntactic opposition between transitive and intransitive clauses was insufficient to capture the richness of patterning now described in terms of transitivity in SFG, so the mood network also needs to be semanticised. One step in this direction is to label the network ‘illocutionary force’, though what he means by this is not exactly what most speech act theorists would mean.23 A central principle in Fawcett’s work has always been that any semantic feature postulated must have some reflex in the form of the language produced (syntax, lexical items, intonation), and this dictates that his approach to illocution is more linguistically-based than that of the speech act philosophers. This in turn means that the grammar must interact with other components of Fawcett’s model of the communicating mind, in order to account fully for the communicative functions of utterances. In particular, we shall see that the meaning of highly indirect speech acts is not totally captured within the illocutionary force network, but depends on intended deductions which arise from choices within supralinguistic networks for the speaker’s socio-psychological purpose in formulating the utterance. A further step in the semanticisation of the network is to give the features labels which clearly reflect their semantic status. We therefore find features such as [information giver], [information seeker] and [directive] at this level (Fawcett 1980: 104). This is particularly important for Fawcett’s approach, since his overall conception of the communicative function of utterances depends on contributions from several different levels of description. At the level of meaning, we have choices such as that between [information giver], [infor. Indeed, in later work (Fawcett 1990, 1999; Fawcett, Tucker & Lin 1993) he returns to the more traditional SFG label ‘mood’.






mation seeker]24 and [directive]; at the lower level of form, we have the syntactic patterns which express these meanings; and at a higher level of discourse structure, there are classes of discourse act which are expressed by the meanings.25 Clearly, it is important, for maximum clarity, to choose labels which reflect the nature of the phenomena being modelled at each level. Fawcett (1980: 103) presents a network for illocutionary force in English, the entry condition for which is the feature [straightforward] from a ‘congruence’ network in which this feature is opposed to others dealing with the expression of a situation as a nominalisation of some kind, rather than in the unmarked form of a clause. There are two initial systems operating simultaneously: [information] vs. [directive], and [politeness formula] versus the unmarked lack of such a formula. It should be noted that the placing of this second system right at the beginning of the network reflects the claim that please can be combined with any illocutionary force, its function being to signal that the utterance will constitute a discourse act with a control function.26 The [information]/[directive] split corresponds to Halliday’s [information]/[goods-and-services], with the important exception that Fawcett’s network goes on to recognise [giver] and [seeker] subtypes (cf. Halliday’s [giving] vs. [demanding]) only for the [information] type, on the grounds that offers (giving goods-and-services, in Halliday’s terms) are not typically realised by linguistic acts, though they may be accompanied by an act consisting of an information giver (Fawcett 1980: 105). An information giver can be of two kinds: [simple] and [plus check], the latter being realised through the addition of a tag and associated tone. Simple information givers can have various degrees of commitment, signalled by tone, but not specified at the degree of delicacy provided by the network. An information seeker can be of three types: [polarity], corresponding to yes-no questions; [new content], corresponding to wh-questions; and [choice of given information], corresponding to alternative questions. Fawcett (1980: 104) points out that there is no implication, in the label ‘information seeker’, that the speaker does not already know the answer to the question, since there are all kinds of reasons for asking questions. In addition to [giver] and [seeker] types of [information] force (corresponding to statements and questions respectively), Fawcett recognises a [check] type, which may concern [polarity] (realised as a clause with declarative word order and rising intonation) or [content] (an echo question realised as a wh-interrogative with the wh-word at the end, and rising intonation). Directives are split into four types: [simple], [request], [self-inclusive] and [general suggestion]. The feature [simple] is the entry condition for two simultaneous systems. The first distinguishes between the [unmarked] directive realised as a simple imperative, a . We shall see below that these are compound labels, made up from two features in the network. . Fawcett’s model of discourse will be discussed in Chapter 4. . This claim would seem to be over-general: for some of the examples given as (95)–(104) below, it is hard to see how a politeness formula such as please could be added.

Chapter 1


[pressing] directive with do corresponding to Halliday’s ‘marked for polarity’ type, and a directive with [personalised actor] (either you or a third party) corresponding to Halliday’s ‘marked for person’ type. Note that simple, unmarked directives are not always orders: as Fawcett (1980: 108) observes, there are many social situations in which it is appropriate to use an unmarked directive, even where an order would be out of place because of lack of the necessary authority. The second system allows for directives, of all three types, which are [tempered by invocation] and those which are not, the tempering taking the form of a tag. If the directive is tempered, this may occur through invocation [of willingness] (realised as will/would plus you) or [of ability] (realised as can/could plus you). The neutral and oblique forms are distinguished by means of a simultaneous system, [direct]/[indirect]. A [direct] tempered directive can be either [anticipating willingness] (realised by the positive form of the modal) or [anticipating unwillingness] (realised by the negative form of the modal). Note that tags are not interpreted as asking about willingness or ability, but rather as invoking one of these properties of the addressee, in the service of softening the directive. A [request] can be either of the [invocation] type or of the [elaborated] type. An invocation type request has a form of will/can you, the options available to [tempered by invocation] simple directives being open to it, though in this case the invocation is not through a tag, but rather through a modalised full interrogative. An elaborated request is one in which some more complex formula such as would you mind X-ing is used. A [self-inclusive] directive is one in which the speaker includes himself or herself, and is realised by let’s. Such directives can be [unmarked] or [pressing] (the latter realised by do as with pressing simple directives), and also [tempered by willingness evocation] (the tag being shall we) or untempered. A [general suggestion] is one made using the formula what about X-ing. It is also claimed that every directive can take any of four intonation patterns, with the meanings [strong] (falling tone), [mild] (low rising tone), [pleading] (falling plus low rising tone) or [concession] (falling-rising tone). Examples of various combinations of features from Fawcett’s network are given below. Features realised by tone selection are not included. (95) Jenny had won. (BNC B34 1226) [information, giver, simple, no politeness formula] (96) . . . it was pretty fantastic, wasn’t it? (BNC FSH 1069) [information, giver, plus check, no politeness formula] (97) And you didn’t visit him there? (BNC GV6 124) [information, check, polarity check, no politeness formula] (98) Is the doctor crazy like you? (BNC CM7 2062) [information, seeker, polarity, no politeness formula] (99) What did he see? (BNC CBS 2578) [information, seeker, new content, no politeness formula]






(100) You shut up! (BNC GW5 602) [directive, simple, personalised actor, not tempered by invocation, no politeness formula] (101) . . . Pick those up, will you . . . (BNC ABX 1376) [directive, simple, unmarked, tempered by invocation, of willingness, direct, anticipating willingness, no politeness formula] (102) Look me up again when you are next in town, won’t you? (BNC AC2 861) [directive, simple, unmarked, tempered by invocation, of willingness, direct, anticipating unwillingness, no politeness formula] (103) Do come over, would you? (BNC FPF 526) [directive, simple, pressing, tempered by invocation, of willingness, indirect, anticipating willingness, no politeness formula] (104) Will you help me? (BNC G1D 916) [directive, request, invocation, of willingness, direct, anticipating willingness] (105) Could you tell me how, please? (BNC G1S 2266) [directive, request, invocation, of ability, indirect, politeness formula] (106) Would you mind getting it from the car? (BNC FPB 2521) [directive, request, elaborated, no politeness formula] (107) Let’s drink to that . . . (BNC AC2 1900) [directive, self-inclusive, unmarked, unmarked for tempering] (108) What about giving me a film test? (BNC AP0 303) [directive, general suggestion, no politeness formula] Fawcett recognises that his network still does not generate all possible realisations of illocutionary force, even in the linguistically-oriented sense in which the term is used in his model. He deliberately does not provide specifically for negative speech acts such as denials or prohibitions, the reason for this being that he believes that the meanings of such speech acts can be accounted for in terms of the simple interaction of illocutionary force and polarity choices (Fawcett 1980: 109–110). For instance, the use of a negative question is interpreted as querying a negative assumption (‘Is it the case that not-X?’) and so suggesting that the corresponding positive assumption (‘It is the case that X’) actually applies. It will be clear that Fawcett’s network provides directly for modalised interrogatives to be requests, rather than involving a deduction from a ‘literal’ information-seeking meaning to a requestive one. Four reasons are given for rejecting the deduction approach (Fawcett 1980: 111–112). Firstly, the semantic difference between requests and true modalised information seekers comes out when the ‘past’ forms of the modals are used: for instance, could is used with past meaning only in true information seekers, the use in requests being a device for adding politeness through hypotheticalness, not past time. Secondly, Fawcett claims that there are intonation differences, the information seeker having Tone 2 (high rising), while requests typically have Tone 3 (low to mid rising). Thirdly, the referent situation in the directive use has no truth value, whereas in an information seeker it does. Finally, if the addressee answers No to the request there is a feeling that

Chapter 1


the speaker’s expectations have not been fulfilled, whereas this is not the case with an information seeker. Fawcett’s model of illocution differs from Halliday’s in the treatment of dependent clauses, which, it is claimed, can choose for illocutionary force just as independent clauses can (1980: 113), rather than having an ‘indirect mood type’ of the kind postulated by Matthiessen. Thus we have the following possibilities: (109) Buthelezi announced that he intended to submit this constitution to a popular referendum within the region . . . (BNC HLT 280) [dependent information-giver] (110) Do you remember at what time you were contacted approximately? (BNC JJW 230) [dependent information seeker] (111) The landlord was furious and told me to wash it off. (BNC HU0 994) [dependent directive] Fawcett recognises that there is a problem here, in that allowing dependent clauses to share the same illocutionary force network as independent clauses would be tantamount to the claim that the same range of options is open to both types of clause, whereas some of the combinations are not in fact possible. Fawcett does not go into detail on which are unacceptable, but, it does not, for instance, seem possible to distinguish [pressing] or [personalised actor] types of simple directive in embedded clauses: there is no possibility of changing (111) above to *to do wash it off or *to me wash it off. Fawcett (1980: 113–114) does not see this as an insuperable obstacle to his approach, however, since he is able to invoke choices made at a higher level, within the ‘knowledge of the universe’ component of his model, in order to rule out the offending combinations. While recognising that some linguists may feel this is a get-out rather than a convincing solution, Fawcett considers that it may nevertheless be the right solution. Fawcett (1980: 115–124) also provides realisation rules for illocutionary force options. We saw in §5.7 of Part 1 that at this stage in the development of the model, a ‘starting structure’ for the clause was proposed, though it later became clear that the variability in ordering of clause constituents made such a structure less appropriate than for, say, the nominal group. Nevertheless, the realisation rules still have to ensure the proper location of elements at particular places in the clause structure. Some of the rules are straightforward: for instance, [information] is realised by the insertion of a Subject;27 [new content] by the location of the wh-element at place 4 in the clause; [strong] by Tone 1 (falling) on the tonic syllable. Other rules require input from other areas of the grammar in order to generate the correct output, and Fawcett deals with this by means of conditional features in the realisation rules. For instance, the feature [seeker] is realised by the insertion of an Operator at place 5 in the clause structure provided that the selection of the feature does not come after the choice of re-enter (embed), the instruction which makes the appa. As pointed out in §5.7 of Part 1, the Cardiff grammar differs from the Sydney grammar in not regarding the Subject as itself an element of the interpersonal component, but rather as a syntactic element, relevant to the experiential and thematic strands, as well as the interpersonal.






ratus recycle to generate an embedded clause. If re-enter (embed) has been selected, the Operator must be located at the place labelled O (i.e. the default Operator place). Fawcett (1980: 120) decides to generate the modalised interrogatives (Will/would/can/ could you X) through separate insertion of the modal as Operator and you as Subject, so recognising the origin of these requests in information seekers, whereas the corresponding tags on simple directives are handled as unitary items (will you, can you, etc.) put into an Adjunct slot in the clause. He notes, however, that it would also be possible to generate the modal plus pronoun as a single item in both cases, the two solutions each having their advantages and disadvantages. We have seen that Fawcett’s network for illocutionary force includes some kinds of speech act which many linguists would regard as indirect: notably the modalised interrogative requests. It is notable, however, that other types of clause with linguistic clues to possible directive function are not included. For instance, declaratives with obligation modals and second person Subjects, such as (112) below, are treated as information givers, not as directives. This is because the parallels with modalised statements in other persons would be lost if such a course were followed. (112) You must go to the desert. (BNC FEM 352) Consistently with this position, and with his commitment to the need for semantic choice to be reflected in form, Fawcett (1980: 126) also excludes from the illocutionary force network any choices leading specifically to highly indirect directives such as discussed in relation to example (48) earlier, and repeated for convenience as (113). (113) A. it’s gone very cold hasn’t it B. [mm] it’s freezing (LLC 1 3 42–45) In the case where a speaker does indeed intend something like (112) or A’s contribution to (113) as directive, this is captured in a pre-linguistic network for variation in ‘straightness’ of socio-psychological purpose (Fawcett 1980: 77), offering a choice between [straight], [oblique] and [lying], with [oblique] dividing into [play] and [ritual], and [play] into a number of more delicate categories, one of which is [intended deduction]. These and other options in socio-psychological purpose are “relevant in principle to any semiotic code and at ranks of discourse larger than the act” (1980: 132). At the other end of the cline of explicitness of illocutionary intention, clauses with explicit performative verbs are handled as examples of information givers which happen to refer to the speech act itself. Fawcett (1980: 127) points out that there are explicit performatives (e.g. deduce, emphasise) that do not encode illocutionary force at all. Fawcett’s position entails that explicit performatives should have a truth value like any other information giver, and he suggests that they are, in fact, true in all normal conditions. The account of illocution summarised above has been subject to fairly minor changes during the later development of the Cardiff grammar. In Fawcett (1990), the systems are labelled as ‘mood’, and the meanings realised by intonation are specified in more detail. For instance, information givers in spoken English can be [assertive], [deferring] or [with reservation], and [assertive] ones can be [very strong], [strong], [neutral] or [mild]. Each

Chapter 1


of these choices is realised by a particular tone selection within a variant of Halliday’s classification proposed by Tench (1987). Three years later, Fawcett, Tucker & Lin comment: The current mood system is still quite simple, and it is about to be very considerably enriched. It will be even fuller than that in Fawcett (1980: 103), and the polarity system will be integrated with it. (Fawcett, Tucker & Lin 1993: 144)

In Fawcett (1999: 248), a highly simplified network for (semantic) mood is presented which, although differing in details of the labelling and occasionally in the precise grouping of options, is essentially the same as that in the 1980 account. Fawcett comments (1999: 247) that this network is clearly at the same linguistic level as the higher of Halliday’s networks (i.e. that for speech function). Fawcett (1997: 80–82, 1999) also discusses Halliday’s account of what it means for some element to be the Subject of a clause, which, as we have seen, together with the Finite element, defines the mood of a clause. Like Huddleston, he sees as problematic Halliday’s attempts to identify a constant interpersonal meaning for the Subject in its own right. He reviews Halliday’s statements on this, and concludes that there are three concepts, each offered as a more insightful characterisation than the last. The claim that the Subject is “that of which something is being predicated (i.e. on which rests the truth of the argument)” (Halliday 1994a: 30) and that it is “something by reference to which the proposition can be affirmed or denied” (1994a: 76) are, as Fawcett observes, proposition-centred and so not easily applicable to proposals. Furthermore, as applied to information seekers, they are concerned only with one type of information seeking, that in which we try to find out the truth of the proposition (as opposed to, for example, wh-questions (Fawcett’s ‘new content seekers’) or alternative questions (‘choice of alternative content seekers’). A further problem is that Halliday’s characterisation suggests that the Subject is somehow privileged in its contribution to the affirmation or denial of a proposition, whereas, as Fawcett reminds us, polarity is concerned with the experiential meaning of the clause as a whole, so that the participant role chosen as Subject has no greater or less connection with polarity than any other participant. The third meaning offered by Halliday is no less problematic, but for different reasons. We have seen that he regards the Subject as “responsible for the functioning of the clause as an interactive event” (1994a: 76). As Fawcett (1999: 260) observes, only the speaker/writer can accurately be said to be responsible for the interactive functioning of the clause, but this is clearly not Halliday’s meaning, and in informational clauses (‘propositions’ rather than ‘proposals’) Fawcett, like Huddleston, finds it impossible to make sense of the idea. Even if it were responsibility for carrying out the event which is being referred to, this would be appropriate only in clauses with an Agent as Subject – and this is obviously not what Halliday intends us to understand anyway. A further problem noted by Fawcett (1999: 261–264) is that of clauses in which the Subject is not conflated with a participant role, but is ‘empty’ in terms of its experiential meaning (though not in terms of other types of meaning). Examples are meteorological clauses, existentials with there, and cleft and extraposed constructions with dummy it. It






is hard to see how the Subjects of such clauses conform to Halliday’s definitions.28 The Cardiff grammar simply treats these as clauses in which the Subject has no referent. The solution to the problem within the Cardiff framework is concerned with the proposal that all but clauses with an experientially empty Subject have Subject Theme, and this type of Theme is characterised as ‘what the clause is about’. To pursue this in the present context would take us beyond the discussion of Subject as such.29 Note, however, that if it is their thematic nature which characterises elements described by Fawcett as Subject Theme, then this might well explain why Subjects tend to be picked up in the second half of a simple adjacency pair, as noted by Hasan & Fries (see §1.4.1.3): what is being invoked is the concept of topic continuity in the dialogue, rather than specifically Subject continuity.

.. Other systemically-oriented approaches In §9.4.3 of Part 1, I reviewed briefly the work of Davies on modality and its relationship with the traditional mood categories of indicative and subjunctive. This work is, however, only part of a more comprehensive set of proposals for relating form and meaning in the area of speech function (Davies 1979, 1985, 1988, 1989, 1991). Davies (1979) distinguishes between the ‘literal mood meaning’ (LMM) of a construction and the ‘significance’ of the construction as used in particular types of context. The LMM is context-independent, and . . . attaches to a construction type irrespective of particular circumstances (including those of the speaker’s actual intentions) on any given occasion of its use. It is a semantic specification which a construction type has, per se. (Davies 1979: 38–39)

Davies (1985: 229–234) sets out the main characteristics of a model in which what she now calls the literal syntactic meaning (equivalent to the former LMM) of a construction can be related to the non-literal meaning(s) (significance) of the construction in particular contexts. A basic premise of this approach is that syntactic organisation is itself meaningful in English. Each construction type (CT) is associated with a single semantic specification (SeS), which consists of a set of context-independent semantic features which are valid for that CT in all uses, and gives the literal (syntactic) meaning of the CT. The semantic component from which such semantic specifications are derived consists of a separate, independently motivated level, which need not map in a one-to-one manner on to the syntax, and is based on a limited number of semantic primes. The traditional speech functions of statement, question and command, as well as others such as request, are categories of non-literal meaning (significance) which are within the domain of pragmatics. I shall not go into the formalisms of Davies’ model here; it will suffice to say that she postulates a general type of rule which combines the syntactic specification and the SeS . I shall return to Halliday’s account of the structure of cleft constructions in Chapter 2. . We shall see in Chapter 2 that the connection with Theme with ‘aboutness’ is a controversial and problematic one. The Cardiff grammar concept of Theme, including Subject Theme, will be discussed in that chapter.

Chapter 1


of a construction (and also, for spoken language, a semantic specification of intonational features) with a specification of the context, to give the ‘first order significance’ of the construction in that context. The first order significance can then combine with further contextual specifications to give higher orders of significance: For example, a jussive imperative such as Go away may function in the same given context both as a command, at the first ‘order of significance’, and as a warning at some higher order of significance. (Davies 1985: 231)

Categories of significance are, then, “categories of meaningfulness in discourse” (1985: 234), derivable only by reference to the co-text and context in which the construction is being used. Davies comments that there are different kinds of syntactic meaning, just as there are different aspects of syntactic organisation, and that in this respect the model is in line with Halliday’s thinking. Her discussion also suggests, however, that the independent level of syntactic meaning she proposes is not itself integrated into the semantic organisation of the language, but “represents only an area of inter-connection between the ‘free-standing’ dimensions of syntactic organization and semantic organization” (1985: 232), a comment which is perhaps in need of some clarification. Davies also proposes that it is possible to recognise different types of non-literal meaning, or significance, related to different areas of literal syntactic meaning. She suggests that it may be possible to relate these distinctions to the Hallidayan metafunctional components. The semantic features which Davies (1985: 234) initially proposes for the SeS of the (jussive) imperative are very reminiscent of the conditions on speech acts proposed by Searle and taken up in many other accounts of illocution (the assumption that it is the Addressee who will perform the action, that s/he will not do so in the normal course of events, that the action is not already being carried out, that the Addressee is capable of carrying it out, that the Speaker has the right to decide whether the Addressee should carry out the action, and also the right to tell the Addressee of this decision). Davies goes on to discuss some problems with particular features in this list. In a later paper (Davies 1988) this model is applied to the analysis of questions in English. Davies points out that there are two basic approaches to the pragmatic multifunctionality of mood forms in discourse: either we may postulate multiple meanings for the construction in different contexts, or we may suggest a single meaning which can be combined with the effects of different contexts, in order to generate the particular pragmatic effects which can be attested. After discussing the relative merits of these two approaches, and concluding that the single meaning approach has much to recommend it, she presents a modified and extended version of the ‘significance-generating device’ outlined above, and applies it to the analysis of various types of question in English. The analysis, like that of modality discussed in §9.4.3 of Part 1, makes use of propositional attitudes in order to define the semantic specifications of syntactic sentence types. These propositional attitudes, and their use in order to define the SeS for each of four sentence types, are shown in Table 1.2, derived from the statements made in Davies (1988: 36–37).






Table 1.2. Propositional attitudes involved in semantic specifications for four sentence types, according to Davies (1988) Prop. Attitude → Sentence type ↓

Holds that yes

Holds that no

Does not hold that yes

Does not hold that no

Has an open mind

Reserves definite view30

Neutral

Positive declarative

S

–

–

–

A

–

–

Negative declarative

–

S

–

A

–

–

–

Positive polar interrogative

–

–

–

–

S

–

A

Negative polar interrogative

–

–

–

S

–

A

–

Note that it is being proposed that the meaning of a particular form includes not only the Speaker’s propositional attitude, but also that which the Speaker projects as his or her assessment of the attitude of the Addressee: for instance, a positive declarative signals not only that the Speaker holds the content to be true, but also that s/he considers the Addressee to have an open mind on the issue. An important characteristic of the model is that these same propositional attitude features are used to define the contextual specifications (CoS) with which the semantic specifications (SeS) for particular mood constructions combine, the difference between the two being that the SeS involves the roles of Speaker and Addressee, while the CoS involves roles corresponding to particular individuals. Two examples will be given here to illustrate how this works. Firstly, take Davies’ (1988: 40) examples Am I hungry! and Do you look great! in which the SeS of the positive polar interrogative (‘S has an open mind, A is neutral’) combines with a contextual specification in which the individual occupying the Speaker role ‘holds that yes’. On the other hand, in Are we downhearted?, uttered as “[r]allying cry to enthusiastic audience” (1988: 41), the individual occupying the Speaker role ‘holds that no’, the first order significance being that of a rhetorical question conducive to the answer ‘no’. Davies (1988: 35) points out that in theory at least, there may be no context in which the pragmatic effect of uttering a sentence of a particular type coincides with the SeS of that sentence type, and that in this way the proposal differs from others in which ‘literal force’ is regarded as a kind of core meaning. In Davies (1989) the model is extended to negative questions and isolated tags. There is an increased emphasis here on the ways in which the various types of sentence, in their contexts, fit into minimal (two-turn) exchanges in discourse, the first turn consisting of a full declarative, the second of a tag. Indeed, Davies (1989: 110–111) explicitly comments on the relationship of her work to that of Halliday, not only in terms of the distinction be. By ‘reserving a definite view’ is meant that one or other definite view from a mutually exclusive set (in this case, yes or no) is held, but it is not specified which.

Chapter 1


tween the interactional meanings explored in her model and the content-oriented meanings of the ideational component, but also in relation to Halliday’s conviction that a good discourse analysis must be firmly based in the grammar (Halliday 1985a: xvii, repeated in Halliday 1994a: xvi; see also §2.5.5 of Part 1 of the present work). Davies discusses, in terms of ‘discourse significance’ (the combination of mood meaning with context), various types of agreement and disagreement which can occur in the minimal exchanges she examines. Consider example (114) below, taken from Davies’ discussion: (114) Peter: John’s here. Harry: Is he. (Davies’ (8) and (9), 1989: 119) Here, there is full acceptance: Harry shows that he accepts Peter’s presentation of his own attitude (‘holds that yes’) to the proposition ‘John’s here’ (‘take-up assent’), and also that he confirms that he holds the attitude (‘has an open mind’) which Peter has attributed to him (‘take-up consent’). Now contrast (115): (115) Bob: John isn’t here. Dick: Is he. (Davies’ (10) and (11), 1989: 122) Here, there is no take-up assent, since Dick’s utterance assigns to Bob the attitude ‘Bob holds that John is here’, which is the contrary of the attitude Bob has assigned to himself (‘holds that John is not here’). Davies demonstrates that hitches can also occur with take-up consent. Importantly, her formalised model allows her to make predictions about assent and consent in these various scenarios which are borne out by intuitive interpretations of the data. The relationship between the semantics and pragmatics of sentence types and the structure and functioning of minimal exchanges in discourse is explored further in Davies (1991), in which she again relates her work specifically to that of Halliday. The main thrust of her argument here is that the textual component of meaning should be concerned not only with meanings related to theme, information structure and cohesion, but also with those concerned with discourse connectedness across turns, which, although determined largely by interpersonal choices, nevertheless form part of the resources for organising the discourse. These putatively textual meanings are concerned with the types of assent and consent illustrated above. Davies again takes a range of minimal exchange types and uses her model to predict, for each, what its interpretation will be. The results not only confirm the general validity of the model, but also suggest that a systematic link may be made between a minimal discourse unit and grammatical form, and that it may be possible to provide a formal definition of the concept of an ill-formed exchange in discourse. Davies recognises that her model, built up on the basis of constructed examples, needs to be tested on authentic textual material. A view very similar to that of Davies is expressed by Hudson (1975), who proposes definitions for ‘semantic force’ properties associated with syntactic mood constructions, and based on Searlian sincerity conditions. This work formed the basis for an account of semantic force options in connection with the specification of semantic structures for modalised directives in English (Butler 1982, 1988), summarised briefly in §9.4.3 of Part 1.






.

Comparison of approaches Finally, I shall draw together the discussion in earlier sections of the chapter, by highlighting points of similarity and contrast across the three theories. In practice, since practitioners of RRG have not yet produced detailed proposals for illocution, the comparison will mainly be between FG and the two versions of SFG. All in all, illocution emerges as an area which brings out significant similarities and differences between the theories, and one which offers considerable scope for a more integrated functional approach, combining insights from different perspectives.

..

Basic and non-basic illocutions There is general agreement that statements, questions and directives are basic classes of speech act, being indispensable for normal communication. These correspond to the Decl, Int and Imp operators or illocutionary predicates of FG, three values of the illocutionary force operator in RRG, three of the four speech function types generated by Halliday’s cross-cutting distinctions between [information]/[goods-and-services] and [giving]/[demanding], and the opposition between [information giver], [information seeker] and [directive] in the Cardiff grammar. Other types of illocution may be added to the basic list: exclamation in FG, optative in RRG, offer in Halliday’s SFG. It is interesting to note that Halliday brings into the area of speech function not only ‘minimal responses’ such as yes and no, which in certain circumstances realise statements, but also exclamations such as Ouch! or Damn!, greetings such as Hello and calls/summonses such as Hey you, recognising these as minor speech functions. Dik, on the other hand, does not treat these elements in terms of illocution at all, since illocution is a property of the clause itself, and the elements concerned are claimed to be expressed in extraclausal constituents. We shall see in Chapter 2 that there are differences of a similar kind in the area of information structure.

..

Illocution and layering We have seen that in Dik’s and Hengeveld’s models, illocution is handled at the clausal layer of the underlying structure, though doubts about locatability with respect to layering have been raised by Bolkestein (1992a). In Hengeveld’s scheme, illocution thus belongs to the interpersonal rather than to the representational level. Likewise, in Halliday’s SFG and in the Cardiff grammar, speech function and mood are clearly interpersonal. RRG, as we have seen, does not make a specific distinction between representational/experiential and interpersonal levels. Against the backdrop of this common ground, however, there are important differences, especially between FG and RRG on the one hand, and SFG on the other. In FG the illocutionary force operator has scope over operators at the propositional layer of structure, concerned with subjective and evidential modalities, and these, in turn, have scope

Chapter 1


over operators at still lower layers, within the representational level; similarly, in RRG the illocutionary force operator has scope over other clausal operators (evidentials, tense, status) as well as over core and nuclear operators. The layering proposals of SFG, on the other hand, themselves make no prediction of this kind. Choices in the interpersonal function are regarded as (relatively) independent of those in the ideational and textual functions, so, in principle, predicting an absence of scope effects between functional layers. Since SFG does not recognise any sub-layers, related by scoping, within each metafunction, any effects of one choice on another within the interpersonal function cannot be dealt with in this way. They can, however, be accounted for through the concept of delicacy within system networks. For instance, Matthiessen’s (1995a: 383) overall network for interpersonal choices in the clause shows that the modality systems are dependent on the choice of [indicative] from the mood network: that is, they can apply to declaratives and interrogatives, but not to imperative clauses.

..

The treatment of indirect illocutions: The contributions of grammar and pragmatics The area of illocution is obviously one in which the relationship between grammar and pragmatics comes to the fore: it is concerned with the speech acts which speakers perform, and which addressee’s interpret, using the formal resources of the language; or, put another way, it crucially involves the relationship between what sentences can be said to mean and what speakers mean in uttering these sentences. The treatment of illocution is thus very likely to reflect strongly the position taken by a given theory in relation to the relationship between semantics and pragmatics. Within FG, Dik’s position is one in which only those meanings which have clear effects on form are to be accounted for within the grammar, any additional meaning being a matter for a separate theory of verbal interaction which interacts with the grammar itself. It is not, therefore, surprising to find that Dik is concerned, within the grammar, only with illocution as coded in the expression, and that the illocutionary operators in the semantics, Decl, Int, Imp and Excl, directly reflect sentence types. Conversion of a basic to a derived illocutionary force is allowable within the grammar, but only when the change is the result of specifiable grammatical devices. This leads to a situation where, for instance, the addition of a tag such as will you to an imperative clause is seen as a grammatical conversion to request status, but the corresponding modalised interrogative (Will you X?) is treated as derived, not within the grammar, but by pragmatic conversion involving inferencing. We have seen that Dik’s account has been modified in two basic directions. Firstly, the work of Risselada (1990, 1993) and Moutaouakil (1991) argues for a broadening of the range of phenomena included in the grammar, without the need for conversion. A prime candidate for such treatment is the category of requests realised by modalised interrogatives (e.g. Will/can you X?) if, as claimed, these can be reliably distinguished by linguistic properties from the corresponding true questions. Secondly, there has been development, in the work of Vet (1998a), Liedtke (1998) and van den Berg (1998), of Dik’s postulated split between a grammatical and a pragmatic component in the treatment of illocution – a split which, moreover, is also suggested by






Bolkestein’s (1998) work on information distribution in the clause. Vet, like Risselada, points out that the concept of illocutionary conversion postulated by Dik runs counter to the aspirations of the theory towards psychological adequacy, in that it is highly implausible to suggest that speakers first decide on a basic illocutionary force and then convert it to the one they really intend to convey. Vet’s two-module approach is therefore based on mapping rather than conversion, and this mapping between pragmatics and grammar is achieved by means of an interface component, which remains unspecified in Vet’s account. One of the most interesting aspects of the proposal by van den Berg (1998) is that it puts some flesh on the bones provided by Vet’s scheme, by spelling out what the interface (van den Berg’s ‘message module’) consists of, and how it interacts with both the grammar and the pragmatics. The model is presented in procedural terms, as involving the sending of requests for information from one module to another, and the supplying and transfer of information in response to these requests. Such a procedural description is, of course, exactly what is needed if we are to take seriously the criterion of psychological adequacy. The problem, as with so much work with pretensions to psychological/cognitive adequacy, is that no evidence whatever is provided to show that the mechanisms proposed relate to those actually used in the course of language processing. A second aspect of van den Berg’s work is of interest in relation to comparisons with SFG approaches. As we saw in §1.2.2.4.4, his model builds in aspects of Berger & Luckmann’s (1971) theory of the social construction of reality, stressing the importance of habitualisation and typification, leading to institutions in which roles are played out, and within which interactants in discourse can predict many aspects of both the linguistic and the non-linguistic properties of interaction. This is in many ways very close to the Hallidayan concept of language as social semiotic. In particular, the idea that it is the social context which accommodates particular types of language, even down to the choice of particular predicate frames, accords very well with Halliday’s view. Van den Berg’s paper thus introduces a much-needed social dimension into FG. Hallidayan SFG itself, as we have seen, makes no distinction between the semantic and the pragmatic, and tends to include within the grammar much of what in many other theories would be regarded as the province of pragmatics. This is certainly the case in the area of illocution, where indirect speech acts are brought within the grammar by means of the concept of grammatical metaphor, acting on interpersonal meanings. However, even here we can see some links with other approaches. Halliday’s formulations of grammatical metaphor rely heavily on the idea of mapping. Consider (116), which is very similar to an example analysed by Halliday (1994a: 367). In (117) is given an analysis along the lines suggested by Halliday. (116) How could you act so deceitfully, Joan? (BNC CCD 635)

Chapter 1


(117)

‘you Subject

shouldn’t Finite Mood

How could Wh/Adjunct Finite Residue

you Subject Mood

act Predicator

so deceitfully, Adjunct

Joan’ Vocative

Residue act Predicator

so deceitfully, Adjunct

Joan Vocative

Residue

As can be seen, two structures are provided, one (the lower) corresponding to the clause as presented, the other (upper) to what would have been the congruent form if no grammatical metaphor had been used. The result is a kind of mapping between how could you and you shouldn’t. We are not too far away, here, from the workings of Vet’s interface or van den Berg’s message module, within which decisions would be taken to present the meaning in a non-straightforward way, mapping the underlying semantics on to a variant form. The account of illocution within the Cardiff grammar given in §1.4.2 will have shown that it is in many ways very close to some of the modifications which have been proposed to Dik’s FG account. In particular, the inclusion of requests with modalised interrogative form within the set of systemic choices available, and the exclusion of highly indirect directives, is similar to the positions taken by Risselada and by Moutaouakil. Furthermore, the distinctions made within Fawcett’s socio-psychological purposes network, and involved in the production of highly indirect speech acts, could easily be incorporated into the pragmatic module of the van den Berg model. The model proposed by Davies, and summarised in §1.4.4, echoes the ‘illocution as coded in the expression’ approach of Dik, but also contains a crucial pragmatic element which specifies features of context which interact with the context-independent meanings of mood forms, to yield the interpretation of the utterance in context. In this model, even so-called ‘direct’ speech acts are seen as the result of the interaction of a contextindependent form-related meaning and factors deriving from the context, though in this particular type of case the two sets of factors are entirely congruent. In some ways, then, despite Davies’ linkage of her work with that of Halliday, her model is at the opposite end of the spectrum from that proposed in Sydney SFG, in which, as we have seen, no distinction is made between semantic and pragmatic effects. The sketchy nature of the account of illocution in RRG to date precludes detailed comparison with FG and RRG, but it is perhaps fair to guess that it is unlikely that the pragmatics of illocution, and particularly the relationship of this area with social contextual factors, will be a high priority for the theory in the near future.

.. Typological perspectives In view of the high priority accorded to typological adequacy in FG and RRG, it is hardly surprising that the discussion of illocution within both theories makes frequent reference to data from a range of languages. This is particularly well illustrated by Dik’s (1997b) account of interrogatives, in which, as we saw in §1.2.1, considerable attention is paid to






the cross-linguistic distribution of formal mechanisms in interrogatives of different kinds. Both FG and RRG are concerned with the scoping properties of illocutionary operators, as revealed across a range of language types. As is usual in SFG, the vast majority of the work done on speech function and mood so far has been on English. It will be seen from §1.4.2, however, that Matthiessen (1995a) does make some interesting and useful comments about similarities and differences between languages in this area, and that work on languages other than English has begun.

Chapter 2

Information structure

.

Introduction In this chapter I shall review the treatment, in Functional Grammar, Role and Reference Grammar and Systemic Functional Grammar, of the ways in which the informational status of particular parts of messages can be signalled. This will involve the discussion of concepts such as topic, focus, given and new information, and the notions of theme and rheme adapted by SFG from Prague School linguistics.1 Matters concerned with voice will also be discussed here, on the grounds that voice alternations can be seen as different ways of presenting the information content of the clause.

.

Information structure in Functional Grammar

.. Dik’s account of pragmatic functions ... Topicality and focality, Topic and Focus We saw in Chapter 3 of Part 1 that Dik’s treatment of information structure is centred on the assignment of the pragmatic functions Topic and Focus (and their various subtypes) within the clause itself (Dik 1997a: Chapter 13, 1997b: Chapters 13 and 14), and with the functions of extraclausal constituents such as Initiator, Theme, Setting and Tail (Dik 1997b: Chapter 17). The following passage summarises the overall approach to clause-internal pragmatic functions: By pragmatic functions (as relevant within the structure of the clause) we understand functions which specify the informational status of the constituents in relation to the wider communicative setting in which they are used. The main parameters along which (clause-internal) pragmatic functions can be distinguished are “topical. As with the area of illocution discussed in Chapter 1, the distribution of information within the clause is intimately connected with the contribution which such information makes to the ongoing discourse. Once again, then, I shall present only part of the story here, leaving certain more clearly discourse-related areas for Chapter 4.




ity” (= characterizing “the things we talk about”) and “focality” (= characterizing the most important or salient parts of what we say about the topical things). When a language gives special distinctive treatment to some topical or focal element, we assign to it one of the pragmatic functions subsumed under Topic and Focus. (Dik 1997a: 310)

Topicality and focality are related to the presence of ‘given’ and ‘new’ information in the clause, which in turn are the product of the speaker’s attempt to cause some change in the addressee’s stock of pragmatic information, often by starting from information which the addressee can be expected to possess already, and then leading to further information which is in some sense novel to the addressee. Note that even though an element may be topical or focal, it may not receive the pragmatic function Topic or Focus, since, as shown in the above quotation, such functions are assigned only where the language concerned signals topicality or focality by means of some special device: a special form, a marker, a particular linear position in the clause, a special prosodic pattern, or a special construction type (Dik 1997a: 313).

... Topic and topicality Topicality in FG is, as we have seen, concerned with ‘aboutness’. Clearly, there are different levels of aboutness, corresponding to different sizes of textual unit, right down to the clause itself: for instance, the subsection you are now reading fits into the overall organisation of the book in the manner shown in Figure 2.1. Book level: Chapter level: First subheading level: Second subheading level: Third subheading level: Fourth subheading level:

Structural-functional grammars Information structure Information structure in Functional Grammar Dik’s account of pragmatic functions Topicality and focality, Topic and Focus Topic and topicality

Figure 2.1. Levels of ‘aboutness’

Dik (1997a: 314) uses the term ‘Discourse Topic’ (D-Topic) for “entities about which a certain discourse imparts information”, and recognises that D-Topics can be hierarchically arranged, as shown above. As a discourse progresses, new D-Topics will be introduced, and some of the existing ones will fall out of use, some quickly, others more slowly. The term ‘D(iscourse) Topic’ is somewhat unfortunate, in view of Dik’s insistence that the term ‘Topic’ be reserved for elements with special marking: even if there were no explicit subheadings in the present chapter, we could still say that the hierarchical D-Topics were those on the right in Figure 2.1 above. The first presentation of a D-Topic is referred to as a New Topic (NewTop). If that topic is referred to again, it becomes a Given Topic (GivTop). If, as sometimes occurs in discourse, an entity related to a GivTop is introduced as if it were already present in the discourse, we have a Sub-Topic (SubTop). For instance, if we are talking about a car, and

Chapter 2


that car has the status of a GivTop at some point in the discourse, we may then refer to ‘the steering wheel’ of the car as a SubTop, using the device of definiteness which would normally be reserved for topics already mentioned in the discourse. Dik (1997a: 324–325) notes that the use of SubTops may require ‘bridging assumptions’ in order to link one topical referent to another. Let us examine the example below, which is part of a description of a room and its contents: the phrase the room occurs four sentences before the one under discussion. (1) Opposite the door and under the windows was an ancient oak desk with three righthand drawers, one without handles. On its top was a simple oak cross, a much used blotter in a leather pad, and an old fashioned black telephone, the receiver off and lying on its side. (BNC CJF 859) The door has not been mentioned previously, but we know that rooms have doors, so that the door is a SubTop of the room. The windows have been mentioned three sentences before this one, and so constitute a GivTop here. The ancient oak desk is clearly presented, in indefinite form, as a NewTop. In order to refer to an entity as it (in its top), the entity must be a GivTop. In turn, its top is a SubTop, because the top has not in fact been introduced before, despite the definite NP used to refer to it: rather, we know that a desk has a top. The NPs a simple oak cross, a much used blotter in a leather pad, a leather pad and an old fashioned black telephone are NewTops, introducing their referents for the first time. On the other hand, the receiver is a SubTop of ‘telephone’, since we know that telephones have receivers. The pronoun it in its side is a GivTop, referring back to the telephone, and its side is a SubTop of ‘receiver’. Dik (1997a: 315–318) discusses a number of construction types for introducing NewTops, which he claims to have wide cross-linguistic generality. We may make an explicit statement regarding the entity which is to be the Topic of the upcoming discourse segment, as in (2) below; we may use the Object or second argument position,2 as with the introduction of ‘a bridge’ and ‘a large ilex tree’ in (3); or, if we introduce the Topic in Subject or first argument position, then we may make use of existential or locative-existential types of construction, as in the introduction of ‘a thin plate’ in (4) and also the series of NewTops in example (1) above (which, however, lacks the explicit existential marker there); or, finally, we can use a predicate which lexically designates appearance on the scene of discourse, as with the introduction of ‘trouble in the steel industry’ by the use of came in (5) (which also, of course, has existential there). (2) I’ll tell you a story about a place I went. (BNC KB0 1131) (3) After two kilometres you will cross a bridge and see a large ilex tree on your right. (BNC FB9 167) . Dik (1997a: 315) claims that there is often a distinctive intonation contour associated with the introduction of NewTops in this position, but he does not say what it might be in a case such as (3), and it in fact seems doubtful that any intonation contour would be associated specifically with topicality in such examples.






(4) On the front of the astrolabe there was a thin plate . . . (BNC ASF 991) (5) Swiftly following on from coal there came trouble in the steel industry. (BNC ABU 365) Dik (1997a: 316) notes that the NewTop in such cases takes the form of an indefinite term, since the speaker does not have any reason to assume that the addressee can identify the referent. NewTops can, however, as Dik himself observes, be introduced by definite terms, if the referent is familiar enough for the addressee to be able to identify it easily, as with the cat mentioned in (6). (6) I hope you are settling down and the cat is well. (BNC FRC 1276) Dik (1997a: 316–318) notes that cross-linguistically, NewTops tend to occupy a late rather than an early position in the clause, irrespective of whether the default word order has the Subject first or not. Indeed, if the Subject is normally initial, there may be a dummy inserted at this position (e.g. there in English) in order to throw the NewTop to a later position in the clause. These principles can be seen at work in (2)–(5) above. Dik (1997a: 318–323) also reviews the mechanisms commonly used in languages for indicating that a Topic already introduced is still active as a GivTop in the discourse. In his discussion, he makes reference to work on topic continuity by linguists outside FG, such as Givón and Grimes. One important way of maintaining a GivTop is to refer to an entity anaphorically, through a personal pronoun or possessive (see the two instances of its in (1) above), a superordinate term (the man in (7)) or other reformulating device (the fool in (8)) or zero anaphora (as before caught in (9)). (7) He asked the forensic team leader for his views and the man shook his head. (BNC AB9 2291) (8) Scawsby hurried over, full of his own importance. The fool failed to realise the significance of the white rose, but instead peered down at Ruthven. (BNC HU0 441–442) (9) Folly saw a glimpse of gold, and something that sparkled, then caught her breath as he slipped a narrow band on to the third finger of her left hand. (BNC H8S 4316) In some languages, such as Dyirbal, ‘topic chains’ can be maintained by placing an introduced Topic in similar positions in successive clauses, always having the absolutive case, and so appearing either as the single argument of a one-place predicate or as the second argument of a transitive predicate, in this ergative language (1997a: 319). Where a GivTop would be expected as the first argument of a transitive predicate (requiring the ergative case), Dyirbal speakers must use an ‘antipassive’ construction which effectively detransitivises, and so restores the absolutive case. A third type of mechanism for signalling continuity and discontinuity of Topic (1997a: 321–322) is switch reference, as in the Papuan language Wambon, in which only the final verbs in a sequence of clauses expressing related states of affairs get full tense marking, the previous (‘medial’) verbs having no or reduced tense, but being marked to indicate that the next verb will have either the same Subject or a different Subject. If, how-

Chapter 2


ever, the change of Subject does not disrupt the topic chaining, this change does not result in a ‘different Subject’ medial verb form, suggesting that switch reference is actually functioning to indicate topic continuity and discontinuity rather than being concerned directly with a succession of Subjects as such. Finally, Dik (1997a: 322–323) notes that in some languages, such as the Algonquian group, a third person participant introduced into the discourse as a NewTop will have a ‘proximate’ form, while other third person referents are in the ‘obviative’ form. While a participant retains GivTop status, it remains in the proximate form. A GivTop which remains unmentioned for some time in the discourse may require ‘reactivation’ if referred to again. It then has the status of a Resumed Topic (ResTop), and this is normally signalled by the use of a stronger form of reference (e.g. a full NP rather than an anaphoric pronoun), or by some other indication that the referent has been mentioned previously in the discourse. One final point should be noticed in connection with Dik’s treatment of Topic: his discussion and examples, and the linkage of Topic with ‘entities’, suggests that only terms can receive Topic function assignment.

... Focus and focality Dik defines focal information as follows: The focal information in a linguistic expression is that information which is relatively the most important or salient in the given communicative setting, and considered by S [the speaker – CSB] to be most essential for A [the addressee – CSB] to integrate into his pragmatic information. (Dik 1997a: 326)

Such focal information may be either additive, increasing the addressee’s store of pragmatic information, or replacive, intended to substitute a piece of information for one already in the addressee’s store. Clear cases of focality arise in the answers given to questions, which by their very nature fill a gap of some kind in the questioner’s information (1997a: 328–330). Dik (1997a: 327) warns against any strict equation of focality with newness of information: although focality may indeed be related to the piece of information being presented as new (in other words previously unavailable) to the addressee, there are occasions on which a speaker will focalise information which, although it has already been mentioned in the discourse or could be assumed to be available to the addressee from some other source, is nevertheless salient because of some contrast, whether explicit or implicit. A case in point is (10), where A says you bought them, with the predicate focalised, despite the fact that buying the cherries has just been mentioned.3

. In the examples from the London-Lund Corpus in this section, I will indicate only pauses (indicated by ‘.’ and ‘-’ ), phonetic symbols (e.g. [m], with schwa indicated by @ and lengthening by : ), unintelligible words (indicated between ‘((’ and ‘))’) and the syllable carrying the main pitch change (underlined).






(10) A. these are better than ((the)) [la: ] than the cherries I bought . last - ( . giggles) B. what’s the difference A. you bought them - - (LLC 2 10 1401–1405) Just as the pragmatic function Topic is to be assigned only when topical information is signalled by some special treatment, so Focus is assigned only when information has linguistic properties which mark it as being focal. These properties may include prosodic prominence in the spoken language, placement in particular positions in the clause, Focus markers, and special constructions which unambiguously indicate that an element is the Focus. Dik (1997a: 330–335) recognises a number of different types of Focus, classifying these according to the extent of that part of the clause which is under focus (i.e. the scope of the Focus function) and the communicative reasons for assignment of Focus. The scope of Focus can be a π-operator such as Tense, Mood, Aspect or Polarity (as with not in (11)), a predicate (reply in (12)) or even part of a predicate (e.g. a prefix), a Subject term (Tom Walker in (13)) or some other term (April and May in (14)). (11) Mrs Skitt did not ask us to witness her signature (LLC 11 1 839–841) (12) I didn’t reply to it (LLC 1 4 62) (13) Tom Walker did it (LLC 2 6 189) (14) I may go up at the end of April again but won’t be going up in May (LLC 7 3f 762–764) The communicative point of Focus assignment may be to fill an information gap or to effect some type of contrast. In the former kind, both the element carrying the questioning (e.g. a wh-word) and the new information in the answer have Focus, as in (15), where A’s contribution has questioning Focus, while B’s has completive Focus: (15) A. Who is it? B. Pope Innocent the Fourth (LLC 1 4 610–611) Within the contrastive type of Focus, Dik distinguishes between parallel and counterpresuppositional kinds. Parallel Focus is illustrated by romance and one thing, living together without discomfort and another, in (16), assuming that romance, one, discomfort and another all bear intonational prominence. (14) above also provides an example of parallelism, though notice that won’t is not intonationally prominent here. (16) But romance is one thing, living together without discomfort is another. (BNC CGE 2156) Counter-presuppositional Focus can be rejecting, replacing, expanding, restricting or selecting. Rejecting Focus corrects a piece of information by rejecting it, Replacing Focus replaces a piece of information regarded as incorrect by one which is correct, the two kinds often occurring together, as in B’s contribution to (17), where ‘Schweppes’ is rejected and then replaced by ‘somebody else’. Expanding focus completes an incomplete

Chapter 2


piece of information, as in (18), where learning about Hamlet is expanded into learning about human nature in general. Restricting Focus corrects just part of something, as exemplified in (19), where B accepts that towns jam up, but not just any metropolitan town, and restricts this to manufacturing towns. Finally, Selecting Focus picks out one from a list of alternatives, as in (20), where a plain cigarette is chosen in preference to the menthol alternative offered. (17) A. I thought this was from Schweppes B. no it wasn’t [shwep] it it wasn’t Schweppes actually it was some somebody else (LLC 4 1 826–830) (18) we [@m] . we learn something . not just about Hamlet but about . human nature in general (LLC 3 5a 334–336) (19) A. any . sort of metropolitan town by half past eight the traffic is just jamming up nicely B. no only a manufacturing town (LLC 4 2 680–685) (20) A. would you like a menthol or [ei] plain . [@:m] you can have a menthol B. no ((a)) plain one please (LLC 2 11b 287–291)

... The expression of Topic and Focus We saw above that Dik postulates four types of mechanism for the expression of the pragmatic functions Topic and Focus: prosodic contour, placement in special positions in the clause, the use of particles, and occurrence in special constructions. Languages differ widely in the complexity of the apparatus for expressing these pragmatic functions. Dik (1997a: 335–338) contrasts two languages in terms of the strategies they adopt. The Papuan language Wambon has just a single morphological marker which marks constituents with any type of Focus. The Bantu language Aghem, on the other hand, has a very complex Focus system, differentiated according to both scope and communicative point, and making use of special constituent order, a Focus marking particle, a special Focus-bound tense marker and a cleft construction. .... Prosodic prominence. Dik (1997a: 456–457) claims that New Topics generally receive the most prominent accent present in the expression, but that Given Topics are normally unaccented unless contrasted with another GivTop. Sub-Topics, on the other hand, because their individual identity is new despite their relationship to a GivTop, tend to have some degree of accentual prominence, as do Resumed Topics. Consider the example given below.4 (21) A. but it ^doesn’t _help _you _get a !book ((^8 to 10 sylls)) B. *^quite* . The additional symbols used in these examples are as follows: * * overlapping material, ^ onset (first prominent syllable) of tone group, _ continuance, : higher than preceding syllable, ! higher than preceding pitch-prominent syllable, !! very high, ´ normal stress.






A. C. A. C.

^*I know* ( . [-] laughs) *there was a* ^book on a [s] on a ^list *^[yeah]* *which* Î _went . which ^wasn’t in the ´library . ^so they – [@m] !told me . that ^they would _ buy it . and I ^had to !fill in the ´form and ^bring *it* back and ^have it :signed. A. *^yeah* C. and ^that was . !over ´twelve ´months a:go and I’ve ^heard no _more of it !since . A. but have you ^been to ´look to ´see if the ´book had been bought (LLC 3 3 350–365) In the first of A’s contributions, ‘book’ is introduced as a referent: it is NewTop, and receives main accentual prominence. The next time a book is mentioned, in C’s first utterance, it refers to a specific book rather than having non-specific reference as in the first occurrence, and is introduced by a presentative construction. We should therefore treat it as a NewTop; the previous mention of a book probably explains the fact that, although stressed, book does not receive the main (intonational) prominence in its tone unit. In C’s second utterance, the chain is maintained by the anaphoric it as a GivTop, and this is predictably unstressed. In A’s final utterance in the extract, the book is presumably treated as a Resumed Topic, receiving the full NP form and normal stress. Let us now turn to the prosodic expression of Focus. Dik (1997a: 457–461) postulates that there is compensation between segmental and prosodic mechanisms: the greater the number of segmental features which indicate the Focus constituent, the smaller is the need for prosodic expression. For example, Q-word questions, as we saw in §1.2.1, are handled in three main ways in the world’s languages: the Q-constituent may remain in the place which would be occupied by the corresponding non-questioned constituent; it may be placed in a special position (commonly initial); or it may occur in the Focus position of a special Focus construction, again either in situ or in a special position. Thus we may find Q-word questions which are distinguished from declaratives by one feature only (the presence of the Q-word), two features (Q-word and either special position or special construction) or three (Q-word, and a special construction in a special position). Since all are marked by at least the Q-word, according to Dik (1997a: 458) this explains why such questions normally lack the rising intonation which is usual for other interrogatives. Dik also hypothesises that Q-words will have some prosodic prominence in the situation where it is only the presence of these words which signals a question, while prosodic expression will be less important in languages which mark Q-word questions by additional features. In the declarative answer to a question, there is no special Q-word to mark the constituent which provides the answer, so that the segmental factors in indicating Completive Focus are weaker than in Q-word questions. Dik (1997a: 459) therefore predicts that prosodic marking will be more important, especially in languages which use no special position or construction for the focal constituent. As Dik observes, Completive Focus in English is usually signalled by placing the main accent on the Focus constituent, as exemplified by Charterhouse and nineteen fifty-one in (22) below.

Chapter 2


(22) A. [@m] when did you leave school and which school did you go to . B. I was at ^Charter´house and I ^left in ńineteen _fifty-:one (LLC 2 2a 305–307) Of course, when the answer consists only of the constituent with Completive Focus, there is no doubt about the location of Focus, and Dik predicts that prosody will be less important in such cases, and also in situations where a language indicates Completive Focus with a special segmental marker.5 Contrastive Focus constituents are claimed to have a strong prosodic pattern in which all contrasted constituents receive a prominent accent (see example (20), given earlier). Counter-presuppositional Focus, where the speaker wishes to alter or expand something in the addressee’s pragmatic information, is said to have the strongest prosodic patterns in many languages. Dik (1997a: 460–461) notes that not every element of a constituent with Focus will necessarily attract prosodic prominence, even in cases where prosody does play a part: usually there is only one accent in the Focus constituent, determined by the expression rules of the language. The examples given in this section provide a number of instances.

.... Placement in special positions. We saw in §3.2.3 of Part 1 that Dik postulates a number of general and more specific principles regarding the operation of the expression component of the grammar, some of which are relevant to the expression of Topic and Focus. Firstly we have the general Principle of Pragmatic Highlighting: Constituents with special pragmatic functionality (New Topic, Given Topic, Completive Focus, Contrastive Focus) are preferably placed in “special positions”, including, at least, the clause-initial position. (Dik 1997a: 403)

Complementing this is a special principle: There is a universally relevant clause-initial position P1, used for special purposes, including the placement of constituents with Topic or Focus function. (1997a: 408)

which, combined with principles concerning the choice between Prefield and Postfield ordering of dependents with respect to heads, and the cross-linguistic tendency for Subject to precede Object, gives the basic word order patterns P1 S O V and P1 V S O (1997a: 409). It is also claimed that languages often have particular types of constituent which are obligatorily placed in P1, but that if this position is not occupied by such a constituent, it is available for the placement of elements with GivTop or Focus function. Further, since a GivTop constituent is often Subject, it follows that the Subject will often be in P1.6 . Wells (1986), in an experimental study of the marking of Focus in English, has provided evidence against the compensation hypothesis as far as cleft sentences are concerned. He demonstrates that clefts are certainly no less marked for focus phonetically than non-cleft variants, and in some circumstances are actually slightly more marked. Wells therefore concludes that “clefting is not in a commutational relationship with the phonetic features that indicate focus” (1986: 65). . For a somewhat different, pragmatically-oriented view of P1 see Braecke (1994).






Dik (1997a: 420–424) illustrates the uses of P1 from Dutch, and I shall do likewise, using examples from the Leiden Corpus. Dutch has the functional ordering patterns for main and subordinate clauses shown in (23).7 (23) (=Dik’s (4), 1997a: 420) main P1 Vf S O X Vi subordinate P1 S O X {Vf Vi}/{Vi Vf} Note that the main difference is in the placement of the finite verb (Vf), which is in second position in main clauses, but final or just before the non-finite verb (Vi) in subordinate clauses, depending on the construction involved. X in the above formulation represents oblique arguments and satellites. Dik gives the following rules for filling P1 in Dutch: (24) (= Dik’s (6), 1997a: 421) (R0) P1 must contain one and only one constituent.8 (R1) Place P1-constituent in P1, where P1-constituent = question word, subordinator, or relative pronoun. (R2) else, place constituent with GivTop, SubTop or Foc function in P1 (optional). (R3) else, place X in P1, where X = some satellite or a dummy element. In a main clause, the only possible constituent which must, if present, go into the P1 position is a Q-word.9 The placement of a Q-word in P1 blocks the placing of any other element in that position, according to R0 above. This is illustrated in (25) and (26). In (25), the Q-word waarom occupies P1, blocking the forward movement of the Object cijfers van illegale visvangsten to fill this position, with the consequent ungrammaticality of (26). (25) Waarom heeft het ministerie cijfers van illegale visvangsten niet why have-pres.3sg the ministry figures of illegal fish-hauls neg geregistreerd? (DUT02A01.ECI) register-past.part ‘Why has the ministry not registered figures for illegal fish hauls?’ (26) *Waarom cijfers van illegale visvangsten heeft het ministerie niet why figures of illegal fish hauls have-pres.3sg the ministry neg geregistreerd? register-past.part

. Note that Dik maintains that the basic position for Subject is after the finite verb Vf, although the most frequent order in the final clause structure is S Vf. This is because when a non-Subject constituent is placed in P1, the Subject itself must come after Vf (Dik 1997a: 410). . Note, however, that Vismans (2000) claims that P1 in Dutch can be empty in certain types of clause. . Unless the question is an echo question.

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If nothing is present in the clause which would obligatorily go to P1, then this position may be filled by a Topic or a Focus constituent. Thus in (27), dat is in P1 and is clearly a Given Topic, since it refers to the content of the previous sentence, but is unlikely to be focalised by having special accentual prominence.10 (27) Daardoor zijn er sinds april zeker 109 kinderen From-it be.pres.3pl there since April certainly 109 children gestorven. Dat heeft de Nigeriaanse minister van die-past.part That have-pres.3sg the Nigerian minister of volksgezondheid bekend gemaakt. (DUT02A01.ECI) public-health known make-past.part ‘As many as 109 children have died from it since April. That has been made known by the Nigerian Minister of Public Health.’ On the other hand, in example (28), dat is likely to be Focus, since the implication is ‘that, rather than anything else, is the highest priority’: (28) Hij zal zich daarvoor inspannen, maar pas nadat de He will-pres.3sg himself for-it exert but only after the ambassade zelf weer functioneert. En hij de Nederlandse vlag embassy itself again function-pres.3sg And he the Dutch flag heeft gehesen. Want dat heeft voor hem de have-pres.3sg hoist-past.part For that have-pres.3sg for him the hoogste prioriteit. (DUT02A03.ECI) highest priority ‘He will make great efforts for it, but only after the embassy is functioning again. And he has raised the Dutch flag. For THAT, for him, is what has the highest priority.’ As Dik (1997a: 422) points out, there are circumstances under which rules R1 and R2 fail to provide a constituent for P1. Since, in Dutch, this position must be filled, some other constituent must go there, and rule R3 is invoked. According to Dik, this happens in two main types of situation. Firstly, where a New Topic is being introduced, this is normally in pattern position, after the finite verb. This means, however, that P1 is unfilled, requiring the insertion of a dummy adverb er in this position, as in (29), or the use of a satellite in P1, as with vandaag in (30). (29) Er zouden 40 doden zijn gevallen. (DUT02A03.ECI) There will-past.3pl 40 dead be fall-past.part ‘40 people are said to have died.’

. Such fronting is less marked in Dutch than in English, so that the best translation is the passive.






(30) Want vandaag heeft ook een oude rivaal van Gorbatsjov weer For today have-pres.3sg also an old rival of Gorbachev again van zich laten horen: de aartsconservatief Jegor Ligatsjov. of himself let-past.part hear the arch-conservative Jegor Ligachev (DUT02A03.ECI) ‘For today an old rival of Gorbachev has also made himself heard: the archconservative Jegor Ligachev.’ Secondly, R3 operates when the Language-Independent Preferred Order of Constituents (LIPOC: see §3.2.3 of Part 1) leads to a clausal Subject being placed clause-finally. In this eventuality, a dummy het (‘it’) is placed in P1, as in (31). (31) “Het was jammer dat ik geen Engels verstond”, it be-past.3sg pity that I no English understand-past.3sg vertelde hij. (DUT02D01.ECI) tell-past.3sg he “It was a pity I didn’t understand any English”, he said. If some other constituent comes in P1, het must again appear, but this time in Subject position, as in (32): (32) . . . alleen is het jammer dat het zo lang heeft only be-pres.3sg it pity that it so long have-pres.3sg moeten duren voordat racisme afgeschaft werd . . . (DUT02D01.ECI) have-to last before racism abolish-past.part become-past.3sg ‘. . . It’s just a pity that it had to take so long before racism was abolished . . . ’ Finally, Dik (1997a: 424) observes that in subordinate clauses, a subordinator or relative pronoun, which must go into P1, is normally present. (33) gives an example with a relative pronoun in P1 in the subordinate clause die hij berijdt. (33) Daar is iedereen eigenaar van de paarden die hij There be-pres.3sg everyone owner of the horses which he berijdt. (DUT02D01.ECI) ride-pres.3sg ‘There everyone is the owner of the horses he rides.’ Although P1 is claimed to be universally relevant in the placement of constituents with Topic or Focus function, Dik (1997a: 424–427) also recognises that some languages have further special positions into which such constituents are placed. He cites work on Hungarian, Turkish, Serbo-Croatian, Arabic, Aghem and Polish, in which such further positions are postulated.

.... Particles. As we saw earlier, Dik (1997a: 335–338) mentions Focus-marking particles in Wambon and Aghem, and also treats the different/same Subject switch reference indicators in languages such as Wambon as being markers of Topic shift or maintenance.

Chapter 2


.... Special constructions. Dik (1997b: Chapters 13 and 14) devotes considerable attention to special constructions for marking Focus, including those normally known as clefts and pseudoclefts, exemplified by (34) and (35), respectively.11 (34) It was Anna who finally spoke. (BNC EDV 1463) (35) . . . what I want is the human angle . . . (BNC AN7 2511) He points out, however, that these terms are in some ways misleading (Dik 1997b: 292). Firstly, the term ‘cleft’ suggests that (34) should be derived from the structure underlying (36) by a process of cleavage, whereas Dik’s own view is that examples such as (34) have a different structure from the equivalent non-cleft form such as (36). (36) Anna finally spoke. Secondly, calling (35) a ‘pseudocleft’ construction implies that it is a variant of the structure in (34), while Dik’s view is that ‘clefts’ are variants of ‘pseudoclefts’. This view is supported by typological evidence, in that ‘pseudocleft’ constructions are widespread among the world’s languages, but ‘cleft’ constructions much rarer. Thirdly, Dik regards constructions such as that in (37) as having a different structure from (34), whereas most accounts regard both as clefts. (37) It was on 8 August that Father suffered his fall. (BNC HA0 2762) Dik proceeds to use the term ‘cleft’ to cover the constructions in both (34) and (35). As noted above, he regards the prototypical cleft construction as that in (35), or the equivalents in (38) and (39). (38) . . . the thing that I want is the human angle . . . (39) . . . that which I want is the human angle . . . The characteristic properties of prototypical clefts, as set out by Dik (1997b: 293–294) are: • •

• •

they are identifying constructions: in (35), what I want is identified as the human angle; in the prototypical situation, the identifying expression, as in other prototypical identifying constructions, is definite: it is perfectly possible to have an indefinite identifier, but this is regarded as one step away from the prototype; the identifying expression (the human angle in (35)) is Focus, and the expression representing the identified entity (what I want) the Given Topic; in accordance with the last point, the identifying expression represents the most salient information, while the expression representing the identified entity contains information which is assumed to be known to the addressee;

. Although these constructions involve more than one clause, and so strictly belong in Chapter 3, I shall deal with them here because of the clear parallels with non-cleft counterparts.






•

the topical expression is a free relative clause, as in (35), or a nominal with a general noun such as thing, person (as in (38)) or a pronoun (that, one, as in (39)), as its head, with a following restrictive relative clause (that/which I want).

Dik’s (1997b: 295ff.) treatment of such prototypical clefts is fundamentally the same as for any other identifying construction. As we saw in §7.2.1.6 of Part 1, such constructions are handled in terms of term predicate formation, in which a term is converted to a predicate which can then be used over another term. In the derivation of the underlying structure for (35), we have the term predicate formation rule shown in (40).12 (40) input: (d1xi : human angle) output: {(d1xi : human angle)}(xj )Ø The derived predicate can then be applied to the term what I want: (41) {(d1xi: human angle)} (d1xj : what I want)Ø The resulting structure indicates that ‘what I want’ has the property of being ‘the human angle’. The specification of tense will trigger copula support, giving: (42) Pres e: be [V] {(d1xi : human angle)} (d1xj : what I want)Ø Assignment of Subject function to the argument term, and GivTop to this Subject term, together with Focus assignment to the identifying expression, yields (43), which is also taken to be the underlying representation for (38) and (39).13 (43) Pres ei : be [V] {(d1xi : human angle)}Foc (d1xj : what I want)ØSubjGivTop Finally, if the GivTop expression is placed in P1, we obtain the expression in (35), while if the Focus constituent is placed in P1, we get (44): (44) The human angle is what I want. Let us turn now to the difference between (34) and (35). Dik analyses both as identifying constructions, such that we may represent (34) informally (omitting the irrelevant adverb) as in (45). (45) (Anna) was (who spoke) The only difference between this and the underlying structure for (35) is that in (34) we have a headless construction as the GivTop constituent: compare who spoke with what/the

. The internal structure of the term is left unspecified here, as it is irrelevant to the argument. . Treating (43) as the underlying representation for (38) raises the question of the status of general nouns such as thing, person. Dik (1997b: 297) points out that such nouns have a rather different status from other nouns, in that they are ‘classificatory’ elements also required in the analysis of Q-words such as who, what, etc. He therefore prefers not to treat them in the underlying structure as full nouns acting as heads.

Chapter 2


thing that/that which I want, all of which have a head, in the first case fused with the relative to give what.14 The structure of (34), after copula support has applied, is thus as in (46).15 (46) Past ei : be [V] {(d1xi: Anna)}Foc (d1xj : [Past ej : speak (Axi )Ag ])ØSubjGivTop The headed and headless constructions have different possibilities for realisation (Dik 1997b: 299). As we have seen, with the headed construction either the GivTop or the Focus constituent can be put in P1; with the headless construction, however, the GivTop must go into the default, clause-final position for non-Subject, non-Object constituents, and a dummy it is inserted into the Subject position. The fact that in FG clefts are not derived from underlying non-clefts raises the issue of how to deal with the selection restrictions between, for example, speak in (34) and the noun in the GivTop constituent, which must be (or be treated as) human. Dik (1997b: 301) deals with this by means of a rule stating that the Focus predicate must conform to the selection restrictions imposed on the (Axi) position. This rule is not ad hoc, since a similar rule is required for relative clauses and for Theme constructions (As for the one who spoke, it was Anna/*the stone). Let us now examine constructions with a satellite as Focus constituent, such as that in (37), repeated for convenience as (47) below. (47) It was on 8 August that Father suffered his fall. (BNC HA0 2762) I noted earlier that Dik does not treat examples of this kind as cleft constructions. He notes (1997b: 310) that only that (or zero) can appear in such constructions, the relative pronouns who/whom/which being barred, suggesting that the clause introduced by that is not a relative clause, but a general subordinate that-clause. In languages such as Dutch, German and French, where the general subordinator used in dependent clauses cannot occur in relative clauses,16 it is this general subordinator which occurs in the equivalents of (47). Such constructions do not identify one entity in terms of another, but rather assign a property to a State of Affairs. In (47), ‘on 8 August’ is not being identified with ‘that Father suffered his fall’; rather, the property ‘being on 8 August’ is assigned to the SoA ‘Father suffering his fall’, so that the structure is as in (48). (48) Past ei : {(8 August)Temp } (Past ej : suffer [V] (Father)ProcExp (his fall)Go )Ø Dik is, then, suggesting that the structure of (47) is different from that of the version in (49), which is, for him, a cleft construction, with the kind of structure given earlier. (49) It was 8 August on which Father suffered his fall. . Notice that what and who behave differently in this respect in English: we can say what I want is X, but not *who I want is X. . ‘A’ is the anaphoric operator needed in relative constructions and elsewhere. . In French, the restriction is applicable to clauses with relativised Subjects.






Dik substantiates this analysis by noting that there are circumstances under which the type of construction in (49) cannot be used, whereas that in (47) can. Consider (50) and (51). (50) It is with great pleasure that I now enclose a copy of the video film made of the first semi-final round. (BNC HD2 269) (51) *It is great pleasure with which I now enclose a copy of the video film made of the first semi-final round. Dik’s (1997b: 312) explanation is that indefinite expressions such as great pleasure do not conform to the requirements of the cleft construction, since they do not represent entities which can be identified with some other entity. Dik’s treatment of clefts allows him to make typological predictions concerning the behaviour of these constructions (Dik 1997b: 307–309): they are expected to abide by the rules for the expression of non-verbal predications with respect to constituent ordering and copula support, and will also conform to the rules of the language for the expression of GivTop and Focus constituents; furthermore, the GivTop constituent will be a headless relative construction or one with a dummy or classificatory head. Dik adduces positive evidence for these claims from Mojave and Tagalog. So far, I have reviewed Dik’s treatment of only those special constructions in which a term, either nominal or adpositional, is the Focus constituent. Dik (1997b: 314–318) also discusses constructions for Focus on the predicate. In English, there is no special mechanism for this, but a cleft with a form of do in the GivTop constituent can be formed, with the predicate in the infinitive, as in (52). (52) What he did was to copy the practices that he observed within his school. (BNC EV4 1075) Such constructions still have the basic structure of identity, but this time between the GivTop constituent and a predicational term containing an embedded predication of which the predicate with Focus forms a part. This predicational term, in turn, is converted to a predicate which acts on the GivTop constituent. Dik (1997b: 316–318) goes on to discuss special constructions for indicating Focus on the predicate in other languages, and concludes that there may be no genuine cleft construction which performs this function. Rather, the mechanisms involve embedding or the placing of a copy of the predicate in a salient position, usually P1. Dik (1997b: 318–324) also discusses cleft questions such as the one in (53) below. (53) Which is the one that has been informed of the letter? (BNC CKE 2869) He also describes the process whereby a construction which is originally specialised to indicate Focus can become the unmarked clause type in a language, usually with the emergence of a different construction for indicating Focus. I shall not deal further with these aspects here.

Chapter 2


... The informational role of extraclausal constituents As we saw briefly in Chapter 3 of Part 1, Dik proposes several types of extraclausal constituents, which are claimed to be marked off from the clause itself by a pause-like prosodic pattern, are always non-essential, and are not sensitive to the grammatical rules which operate within the clause. Among these extraclausal constituents are types relating to ‘discourse organisation’ and ‘discourse execution’ (Dik 1997b: 386–407). They will be discussed here, rather than postponed to Chapter 4, because they are at least “rather loosely associated with the clause” and because they may “co-determine the intended interpretation of the clause proper” (1997b: 380). Furthermore, we shall see later that in SFG, these elements are included within the clause itself, so that comparison of the two theories is facilitated by discussion of Dik’s account at this point. Under the category of ‘boundary marking’ ECCs, Dik recognises four types: ‘initiators’, such as well in English, precede the clause and “open up a new discourse, a new episode in an ongoing discourse, or a new turn in an ongoing conversation”; ‘topic shifters’, such as by the way, which also precede the clause proper, are ECCs “by means of which S can indicate that he wishes to broach a new topic of conversation”; ‘push and pop markers’ “signal that a subsection, subroutine, or subsequence within an ongoing unit is being entered or left, respectively”; ‘finalisers’, such as leave-takings, and some uses of items such as okay and anyway, “round off a (topic of) conversation” (1997b: 387). Under the general heading of ‘orientation’,17 Dik includes ECCs representing Theme, Condition and Setting, as well as ‘general Orientation markers’ in some languages. Such ECCs help to orient the addressee towards “the identity of the coordinates essential to a coherent ‘anchoring’ of the content of the proposition” (1997b: 388). Elements with Orientation function typically come before the clause proper, in a position which, in early accounts of FG, is labelled P2 (see Dik 1978: 21). A Theme ECC “specifies an ensemble of entities with respect to which the following clause is going to present some relevant information” (Dik 1997b: 389). Themes include what are often called left dislocations, as in the Spanish example in (54). (54) Y su marido, ¿de qué se ocupa? (HCM 12, 207) and your husband of what refl occupy-pres.3sg ‘And your husband, what does he do?’ Also included are elements with a similar function, introduced by as for in English or en cuanto a in Spanish, as in (55). (55) . . . en cuanto a esto pues hay también muchísimo escrito de as-far-as this well there-is also very-much write-past.part of origen de tauromaquia . . . (HCM 5, 92) origin of bullfighting . A pragmatic function labelled Orientation was introduced as long ago as 1987 to account for certain types of sentence-initial subordinate clauses (Hannay & Vester 1987).






‘. . . as far as this is concerned, well there’s a lot written about the origin of bullfighting . . . ’ Such an initial ECC “orients A [the addressee – CSB] with respect to the discourse topics in relation to which the content of the ensuing clause is to be interpreted” (1997b: 389). Dik’s conjecture is that all languages make use of such devices, though some do so more than others. Spanish, for example, makes very frequent use of Themes, not only in the spoken language, but also in certain kinds of written language (Downing 1997). Dik (1997b: 391) presents several kinds of evidence that Themes are indeed separate from the clause proper: they normally occur initially, outside the scope of the clause illocution; indeed, they may have their own illocution, separate from that of the clause, as in (56) below; and they are usually in an ‘absolute’ form, unmarked for any type of syntactic or semantic function; also, in procedural terms, it makes sense to claim that the speaker can produce a Theme before knowing exactly what will be said about this Theme in the clause itself, and this is borne out by the fact that hesitation markers or fillers often occur between the Theme and the clause proper (see the marker pues, ‘well’, in (55)). Dik (1997b: 393) notes, therefore, that “[t]he Theme is not extracted from the clause; rather, the clause is adjusted to the Theme”. This stance is, of course, quite different from that taken in theories where ‘left dislocated’ constituents have their origin in a constituent within the clause itself, and are produced by means of some type of transformational process. (56) A. ¿Y de teatro?, no hemos hablado. and of theatre? neg have-pres.1pl speak-past.part ‘And what about the theatre? We haven’t spoken about it.’ B. ¿De teatro? He ido, he visto of theatre? have-pres.1sg go-past.part have-pres.1sg see-past.part mucho teatro en mi vida, . . . much theatre in my life ‘The theatre? I’ve been, I’ve seen a lot of theatre in my life, . . . ’ (HCM 16, 275) The relative independence of Theme and clause proper does not, however, mean that there are no constraints on their combination. As Dik (1997b: 394) points out, in constructions such as exemplified in (54), the Theme must be such that it could occupy the relevant position within the clause itself, while in examples such as (55), where the entity picked out by the Theme does not recur in the clause, there is still a necessary relation of relevance (in Gricean terms) between Theme and clause content. Dik’s second class of Orientation ECCs is concerned with “a condition which limits the validity of the ensuing information to a world of which the condition is true” (p. 395). Such conditions usually take the form of a conditional clause, which must, in order to qualify as an ECC rather than as a subordinate clause acting as a satellite to the main clause, be set off from the main clause by an intonation break in the spoken language, or by a comma in the written language. An example from Spanish is given in (57), which is part of a conversation about portraits as opposed to photographs of people.

Chapter 2


(57) Si es por lo que tú dices porque if be-pres.3sg because-of what you say-pres.2sg.familiar because refleja el alma, pues sí, efectivamente, me gusta reflect-pres.3sg the soul then yes really to-me please-pres.3sg por eso. (HCM 4, 79) because-of that ‘If as you say it’s because it reflects the soul, then yes, really, I like it because of that.’ Dik’s third specific type of Orientation is Setting. Any contribution to an ongoing discourse will either specify a setting, or use a previously established setting as background. ECCs classified as Setting are restricted to “the time and place coordinates defined explicitly or implicitly in the discourse” (1997b: 397). Examples from English and Spanish are given below. (58) From downstairs came the smell of frying bacon and, outside in the garden, Loden, the pet spaniel, began to bark. (BNC FA5 4) (59) En Barcelona ¿sabes lo que hacen? (HCM 20, 391) in Barcelona know-pres.2sg.familiar what do-pres.3pl ‘In Barcelona, do you know what they do?’ In (58), outside in the garden serves as Setting for the event described in the clause proper, Loden, the pet spaniel, began to bark.18 In (59), en Barcelona is Setting for the clause proper: note that in Spanish, where question marks and exclamation marks occur in inverted form at the beginning of a question or exclamation, as well as in their more normal form at the end, the position of the initial punctuation provides further evidence for the claim that Themes are separate from the clause proper.19 The Setting element can also be a subordinate clause of time or place. Dik (1997b: 398–401) also gives information on markers, in languages such as Godié, Usan and Zulgo, which are generalised across Themes, Conditions and Settings, and so can be regarded as general Orientation markers. Just as there may be a pre-clausal ECC acting as Orientation, so there may be a postclausal ECC acting as Tail, consisting of “constituents which present information meant to clarify or modify (some constituent contained in) the unit to which they are adjoined” (1997b: 401). Such elements are often referred to in terms of ‘right dislocation’, and their position was labelled P3 in earlier accounts of FG (see Dik 1978: 21). An example from English is given below. (60) It’s great, this park. (BNC A74 1622) . Note, though, that from downstairs would not be analysed as an extraclausal Setting for the first clause, since it is not marked off from the rest of the clause by punctuation. . See also Downing (1997: 142) for the setting off of Theme elements in spoken Spanish.






Dik claims that Tails can also occur parenthetically within a clause. He also discusses briefly the way in which Clause + Tail constructions may become demarked in a language, so possibly giving rise to the kinds of construction found in languages with pronominal elements with a cross-referencing function. Finally, Dik’s ‘discourse execution’ type of ECC is split into two main types, Responses and Tags (1997b: 405–407). Responses in English include items such as yes, no and modal adverbs such as perhaps, as well as forms such as it is(n’t). Dik also recognises a category of Response Initiators, including well, which, in addition its role as a boundary-marking Theme, can initiate Responses and introduce and qualify the speaker’s reaction to what has just been said. Tags are, as we saw in Chapter 1, ways of converting a basic illocution into a derived one.

.. Other accounts of pragmatic functions in FG Dik’s account of pragmatic functions has given rise to considerable criticism within the FG community, and to proposals for alterations and/or additions to that account. Sadly, although some of this work appeared in the years immediately following the publication of the first edition of TFG1, it finds almost no reflection in the second edition. In this section I shall concentrate on two groups of issues, beginning with the central problem of the definition and identification of pragmatic functions, and then moving on to discuss pragmatic functions in the light of the FG commitment to pragmatic, psychological and typological adequacy.

... The definition and identification of pragmatic functions As observed by Tomlin (1994: 150), “most linguistic functions, particularly pragmatic functions like old information or topic or focus, lack either theoretically satisfying definitions or reliable means of identification”. In this section I shall review the problems of definition and identification of pragmatic functions in FG. Siewierska (1991: Chapter 6) offers a very useful critical review of pragmatic functions in FG, in which she distinguishes two approaches, within the spectrum of linguistic theories, to the specification of how the morphosyntax and prosodic structure of a language can interact with semantic and pragmatic information, and with information from context, to define specific pragmatic functions in the grammar (1991: 147). One approach is to start from the discourse itself, allocating informational functions to constituents according to the role they play in the discourse setting and in the exchange of pragmatic information between speaker and hearer, as illustrated in the work of the Prague School and of Givón and his colleagues (see e.g. Givón 1983a). The second approach starts from the formal end, looking at ways in which surface constituents are selected for special treatment, then allocating informational functions to these constituents and finally seeking corroboration of these functions in the discourse itself. Siewierska identifies a movement, within Dik’s model of information structure, from the discourse-based approach in his earlier work (e.g. Dik 1978), towards a greater concern with morphosyntactic realisation in later accounts (e.g. Dik 1989a). The later position is, of course, consonant with the

Chapter 2


claim that FG should incorporate within the grammar itself only those distinctions which have repercussions on linguistic form, including prosody. Siewierska (1991: 148) sees the subdivision of Topic and Focus functions in the later model as an attempt to redress the balance, linking these functions more clearly with the discourse setting, while still maintaining the line that such functions are to be assigned only when special treatment can be demonstrated. Problems with Dik’s account of pragmatic functions and their assignment arise from the relationship between discourse-oriented and formal considerations, and are particularly acute in the area of topicality. I shall therefore begin with this area, before giving rather briefer consideration to focality.

.... Problems and extensions: Topic.20 Siewierska (1991: 148) observes that Dik’s subdivision of Topic corresponds reasonably well to the scalar view of topicality advanced by scholars such as Givón (1983b) and Lambrecht (1987). Under the scalar view, elements can be more or less topical, depending on their status with respect to a number of underlying cognitive dimensions, identified by Siewierska (1991: 155) as the given/new distinction (or rather, more sophisticated versions of it, as discussed in, for example, Prince 1981 and Chafe 1987), the identifiability of referents, newsworthiness, relative importance and ‘aboutness’. As we have seen, it is the dimension of ‘aboutness’ which is most important in Dik’s conception of topicality. However, as Siewierska points out, and as will be evident from the discussion of Dik’s account in §2.2.1.2, the four types of Topic (NewTop, GivTop, SubTop, ResTop) correlate with a different dimension, that of given/new information. We are thus up against the paradox that although the various kinds of Topic are discussed by Dik in terms of givenness/newness, they cannot actually be defined in these terms, since the ‘special treatment’ requirement means that a function such as GivTop can be assigned only to those constituents which are formally identifiable as constituting given information: any constituent which, in the discourse context, clearly reflects given information, but which does not receive formal treatment identifying GivTop in the language concerned, cannot be labelled with this function. Furthermore, as Siewierska (1998: 245) points out, languages differ in terms of which types of Topic, if any, are encoded grammatically: English has no formal means for distinguishing GivTop from SubTop, while Japanese has a marker which applies to GivTop, SubTop and ResTop, but no marking for NewTop. Issues of this kind, of course, make it crucial to be able to specify precisely what counts as ‘special treatment’, and this problem will be a recurring theme in our discussion. As Siewierska (1991: 155ff.) notes, the given/new distinction comes in two rather different versions, the difference between which is important to an understanding of the issues surrounding topicality in FG. Gundel (1988) refers to these as the ‘relational’ and ‘referential’ approaches. Consider the following excerpt from a Spanish dialogue: . An account of the problems to be addressed in this section can also be found in Fumero Pérez (2001: 66– 87).






(61) A. ¿Quién quiere vino? who want-pres.3sg wine ‘Who wants wine?’ B. A mí échame un poquito. to me put-imp.2sg.familiar-me a little-bit ‘Pour me a drop.’ C. Yo un poquito también. I a little-bit too ‘A drop for me too.’ (Referencia PINS002E.WPT) In one sense, both mí (also the resumptive clitic -me) in B’s utterance and yo in C’s constitute new information, in that they provide an answer to A’s question. This is the relational sense of ‘new’ referred to above: ‘new’ here relates to the informational value of the elements concerned. In the other, ‘referential’ sense, however, the speakers, to whom the pronominal items refer, are given, since the discourse participants are always taken to be present in the mind of the speaker. The referential sense of given/new thus relates to the cognitive activation status of the referent of an item. Chafe (1987: 25) recognises three such activation states for discourse referents: ‘active’, that is, present in the focus of consciousness at a particular time; ‘semi-active’, that is, peripherally present in consciousness; and ‘inactive’, or not currently present in consciousness, though present in long-term memory. Semi-active referents can either be inferable from other referents, or relegated from active status due to not having been used recently in the discourse. The concept of activation, as Siewierska (1991: 158) observes, applies only to referents which are located somewhere in the addressee’s memory. Such referents are at least potentially retrievable by the addressee. They thus contrast with Prince’s (1981) concept of ‘brand new’ referents, not previously present in the addressee’s long-term memory, and so not retrievable. Retrievability is linked to Chafe’s (1976) concept of ‘identifiability’, in the sense that a referent can be regarded as identifiable only if the speaker thinks that the addressee can pick it out from the set of potential referents for a particular expression. Identifiability correlates with definiteness, and unidentifiable referents are usually, though not always, indefinite. Siewierska (1991: 159) thus arrives at a fourfold categorisation of the cognitive status of referents on the basis of activation and identifiability, which fits in closely with the ‘topic acceptability scale’ proposed by Lambrecht (1988: 147): the most acceptable topics are those which can be retrieved most easily from memory, that is the identifiable active referents; the next best topics are the identifiable semi-active referents; then come the identifiable inactive referents, which must be retrieved from long term memory; and finally, unidentifiable, brand-new referents are not acceptable as topics at all, since an addressee must be able to identify a referent before s/he can assess what is said about it.21 . For a comprehensive list of the various types of givenness recognised in the literature, see GómezGonzález (1996a: 236), who claims that all these different factors are involved in the FG conception of Topic. Gómez-González (1998a: 9, 2001: 163) particularly argues that the FG concept of Topic suffers from

Chapter 2


There are, as Siewierska (1991: 160) remarks, clear correlations between the four cognitive statuses and the four subdivisions of Topic in Dik’s account of FG, though, as we have seen, the special treatment requirement means that there is no one-to-one match between cognitive status and the assignment of pragmatic function. GivTop, SubTop and ResTop are clearly related to degrees of activation: GivTop is associated with active referents; SubTop may be assigned to those kinds of semi-active referent which are inferable from an established GivTop; ResTop is concerned with those referents which have changed from active to semi-active through lack of recent use in the discourse, but which are then used again. NewTop, however, brings in not only activation but also identifiability: a referent introduced into the discourse by a NewTop may be a semi-active referent which is inferable from some other referent but has not yet been used in the discourse, or it may be brand-new. This last possibility, as Siewierska (1991: 161) rightly observes, is at odds with the referential ‘aboutness’ view of topic, in which, as we saw above, a brand-new and therefore unidentifiable referent cannot act as topic, since the addressee cannot be expected to be able to assess the validity of anything said about a referent which s/he cannot identify. Brand-new referents are in fact normally associated with focus rather than with topic, so that, as Siewierska points out, there is overlap here between the Topic and Focus pragmatic functions. This is also commented on by Bolkestein (1998: 197), who remarks that it possible to find, in the FG literature, both the view that Topic and Focus are mutually exclusive, and the view that Focus constituents may have some degree of topicality, and Topics some degree of focality. This latter view is expressed by Dik in his treatment of Parallel Focus (where Focus may fall on an element which is topically given), and of Resumed Topic and Sub-Topic (both of which may have some degree of accentual prominence, and so some degree of focality). Clearly, much depends on the difference between topicality/focality on the one hand, and Topic/Focus on the other, but it is at least clear that Dik (1997a: 326–327) would assign both GivTop and (Parallel) Focus functions to pairs of constituents which are contrasted by means of parallel focus. Crucially, however, Dik does not comment on the essentially focal nature of New Topics, so that, as Siewierska (1991: 160) says, NewTop is the most controversial of Dik’s Topic categories. It is perhaps significant that Dik (1997a: 331) appends the label ‘New’ to Completive Focus, used when the speaker assumes the addressee has an information gap that needs to be filled: it seems reasonable to expect that information introduced in this way will normally be a NewTop in those cases where the element under focus is a term. It should be noted that according to Siewierska (1991: 161) there are cases in which a term which clearly indicates a new referent is not assigned the NewTop function. This situation occurs in statements such as (62), which are “reports of events, expressions of single, non-complex pieces of information where none of the discourse referents is imbued with

being accounted for in terms of types of givenness which are not only difficult to pin down, but also not coterminous, namely those of recoverability, predictability, shared knowledge and assumed familiarity.






pragmatic saliency” (Siewierska 1991: 161),22 and have been related to the philosophicallybased distinction between categorial statements, which name an entity and then say something about it, and thetic statements, which report an event or state as a whole. Statements such as (62) can thus be assimilated to the latter type. The lack of Topic assignment in such cases is taken to reflect that fact that the purpose is not to present the referents as such, but rather to introduce the event in which the referents take part. (62) A bullet hit a rock three yards in front of him. (BNC H92 3088) Further light has been shed on the relationships between Topic/Focus and given/new information in the work of Mackenzie & Keizer (1991). These authors note that Dik’s division of Topic presents us with categories (such as Given Topic and New Topic) which are a hybrid of the two kinds of classification, but that the relationship between the two classifications is very indirect, the more so because of the special treatment requirement. Mackenzie & Keizer (1991: 181–186) demonstrate that there are a number of differences between Topic/Focus, on the one hand, and given/new information, on the other, which are, in their view, great enough to make the conflation of the two dimensions untenable. Firstly, they point out that although both refer to the bodies of pragmatic information available to interactants in the discourse, they are defined in very different ways: givenness and newness are defined in relation to what is available in, or inferable from, someone’s pragmatic information; Topic and Focus, on the other hand, are defined in terms of special treatment.23 Secondly, as we have already seen, givenness/newness are not simple, unitary concepts. Mackenzie & Keizer, like Siewierska, cite the more sophisticated approach to these notions in the work of linguists such as Chafe and Prince.24 They also remind us of Dik’s view that a person’s full body of pragmatic information consists of three components: general, long-term information relating to the known world and possible worlds; situational information derived from what participants experience during the period of interaction; and contextual information derived from the ongoing discourse itself. This being the case, we may also recognise three types of given information, derived from each of the three sources. Neither this nor the possibility of different degrees of givenness (corresponding to different degrees of activation or retrievability) finds any reflection in Dik’s treatment of pragmatic functions. Mackenzie & Keizer also comment on the restriction of Topichood to expressions referring to discourse entities, pointing out that our pragmatic information consists not only of such entities, but also of relationships between them, States of Affairs into which they enter, and so on, as well as plans, goals, motivations and the like.25 They demonstrate . Note, however, that even these statements will have a focalised constituent. . This is essentially the point made earlier in relation to Siewierska’s critique. . See also Keizer (1988) for the further elaboration of some of these ideas within the framework of FG. . Bolkestein (1998: 197) comments on the variability of opinion to be found in the FG literature on this area: see further Braecke (1994: 250), H. Dik (1995), Ziv (1997: 167–169), who claim that predicates can receive Topic function, Rijksbaron (1986) and de Vries (1995) for whom clauses can be topical, and Togeby

Chapter 2


that a variety of kinds of information may be drawn upon in the attempt to make sense of messages, and conclude that much more must be assumed to be given or inferable than that which would qualify for Topichood in Dik’s account. In line with this view, Mackenzie & Keizer suggest that the Given Topic function could be assigned not only to elements with referents already introduced via New Topics, but also to constituents referring to information available from the situation or from general pragmatic knowledge. They thus distinguish three types of GivTop: Contextually GivTops, Situationally GivTops and Generally GivTops, all of which meet the special treatment requirements for GivTop. They also propose that rather than restrict Sub-Topics to elements whose referents are inferable from a previous GivTop, they should be redefined as ‘inferable Topics’, the inference being based on any of the three kinds of potentially available information. Again, although Dik implies that Contrastive Focus elements are contextually given, Mackenzie & Keizer (1991: 189) show that this is not necessarily the case, but rather that the element of givenness involved can arise from situational or general information. The authors also comment on problems with the assignment of the Resumed Topic function, pointing out that it is unclear if there has to be some explicit indication of resumption, as in the examples Dik gives. Mackenzie & Keizer (1991: 203) suggest that an alternative would be to assign ResTop to any return to a GivTop after a temporary interruption in the topic chain.26 Mackenzie & Keizer (1991: 191–196) also discuss problems in relation to Dik’s requirement of special treatment for Topic and Focus elements. They begin by pointing out that in Parallel Focus constructions, certain elements to which ParFoc is assigned also qualify for Topic assignment. Consider again example 16, repeated as (63) below. (63) But romance is one thing, living together without discomfort is another. (BNC CGE 2156) Here, romance and living together without discomfort, as well as one thing and another, receive Parallel Focus. The first two of these, however, will also qualify for Topic status if the entities they refer to, or entities from which they can be inferred, are available from the preceding discourse. Mackenzie & Keizer’s view is that it is not clear from Dik’s account whether we are to assign both Focus and Topic to such constituents, although there is some indication that GivTop can be assigned to contrasted elements (Dik 1989a: 391, repeated in Dik 1997a: 457). In fact, as we saw earlier, Dik does imply that both functions can be assigned: he actually refers to the emphasis on the GivTops as ‘focusing’ (Dik 1989a: 278, repeated in 1997a: 327). If both functions can be assigned, then the questions arise as to whether the formal features of both must be present, and what, in that case, the point of prag(1994: 191), who claims that any kind of information can be topicalised or focalised, though clearly the last two types of claim do not entail that the relevant constituents receive the Topic function. Bolkestein’s own view is that restriction of Topichood to entities is misguided. . Siewierska (1991: 168) likewise remarks that if the morphosyntactic codings listed by Dik for ResTop are strictly required for the assignment of this function, then many topic resumptions will not qualify.






matic function assignment might be. On the other hand, if only one function could be assigned, there would be, as Mackenzie & Keizer point out, a problem in deciding which it should be. The authors suggest two possible ways out of this dilemma. The first is to redefine Topic and Focus in such a way that they will be more consistently applicable, a solution which they consider may not be feasible. Their preferred solution is to abandon Topic assignment in English, a radical proposal which is, however, fully supported by their demonstration that Topics cannot be said to have special treatment in English. GivTops have no prosodic prominence unless contrasted, in which event they are not distinguishable, prosodically, from Focus elements. SubTops and ResTops may have some accentual prominence, but this is only ‘typical’, and anyway only applies to spoken language. Presumably, then, special treatment for Topic must be identified with placement in P1; however, as Mackenzie & Keizer point out, this is somewhat arbitrary, since Topics can go into P1 only when no constituent which is specialised for this position is present, and furthermore, Topics compete with Focus elements for P1. The proposal to abandon Topic for English is reinforced by the observation that of the various devices listed by Dik as operative in Topic continuity, only one, anaphora, applies in English, and this is clearly not specific for Topic elements.27 Finally, Mackenzie & Keizer suggest that New Topics are, even within Dik’s own framework, more consistently treated as a type of Focus. If the special treatment requirement is adhered to, then NewTops are not Topics, since their proposed non-initial position is only ‘preferred’ or ‘typical’, and prosodic prominence will not differentiate them from Focus elements. Furthermore, as we have seen, the criterion for NewTop status is actually whether the constituent introduces a new element into the discourse, and in this respect NewTops are focal, as well as introducing a referent which may be taken up topically.28 A similar conclusion is arrived at by Hannay (1985), who proposes a focal Presentative function which is to all intents and purposes equivalent to Dik’s NewTop. In recognition of this, Mackenzie & Keizer treat NewTops as Presentative Focus elements. Hannay’s later work (e.g. 1991: 138) confirms his earlier view. The abandonment of Topic for English raises the question of what use is made of P1 if no constituent specialised for that position is present, and if there is no constituent . Similarly, Siewierska (1991: 166) points out that although there is evidence for strong correlation between the level of activation (or ‘givenness’) of discourse referents and their morphological form, active referents tending to be coded by pronouns or zero anaphora, these correspondences are not limited to Topics. Furthermore, the considerations involved in the choice of pronominal versus nominal anaphora go beyond matters of activation, to include factors relating to the hierarchical structure of the discourse. . As we have already seen, Siewierska (1991: 173) presents a similar viewpoint. Bolkestein (1998: 195) likewise comments that NewTop characterises “an element newly presented (and therefore not topical but focal) as a ‘future Topic’ or Topic-to-be”. Similarly, Cornish (forthcoming), in the context of a comparison between FG accounts of pragmatic function and the treatment of this area in the work of the ‘Columbia school’ of linguistics, avers that the notion of NewTop is incoherent in discourse-contextual terms, and suggests that NewTops are better seen as one type of Contrastive Focus.

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with special pragmatic significance. Mackenzie & Keizer propose that Dik’s own rule, whereby the Subject goes into P1 if no other element is to go there, provides an answer to this question. Mackenzie & Keizer (1991: 196–207) go on to apply Dik’s original proposals to the analysis of a short children’s story, and show that although it is possible to analyse the text in this way, the results are often not particularly insightful. All GivTops were found to be Subjects, and the evidence suggested that Dik’s claim for a preferred non-initial position for NewTops may be unfounded. The textual evidence strongly supports the decision to abandon the Topic function for English. A further conclusion which emerges from Mackenzie & Keizer’s story analysis is that if the criteria for Topichood in Dik’s proposals are strictly applied, clauses may have two Topic elements, e.g. a GivTop and also a NewTop, and this appears to go against the principle that the Topic is the element which is chosen as the most topical in the given setting. This problem is, of course, caused by the fact that, as noted above, NewTops are only potentially topical; if we reinterpret NewTop as a type of Focus, then this problem disappears. It has, however, been claimed that multiple Topics are possible in, for example, Hungarian (de Groot 1981a), and furthermore, that these multiple Topics are all in P1.29 Bolkestein (1998: 197) also comments on the confusion in the FG literature with regard to the possibility of multiple instances of Topic in a clause. Even Dik himself, in early work (1978: 143), expresses uncertainty about whether multiple topics in a clause should be allowed. Hannay (1991, 1993) takes a different line from Mackenzie & Keizer, which results in the preservation of the Topic function for English, and of the claim that Topic can be applied only to expressions coding entities. As we saw above, for Mackenzie & Keizer, the fact that P1 is the unmarked position for Subject counts as evidence for the claim that Topic is irrelevant to the specification of word order in English. Hannay argues that even where the Subject is in P1, it is ultimately pragmatic function which is responsible for this. Hannay considers a number of sets of sentences to illustrate variation in the filling of P1 in English. Consider (64) below: (64) No, this he threw back into the bushes . . . (BNC G0M 839) Here, the speaker has chosen to make this the Topic and place it in P1, rather than the Subject he as in the unmarked variant shown in (65): (65) No, he threw this back into the bushes . . . Note that although this could also be focal in (64), receiving prosodic prominence, this is not necessarily the case. And yet, as Hannay (1991: 143) points out, there is a difference in interpretation, which Hannay interprets as due to the different choice of Topic: in (64), we could paraphrase as ‘no, as far as the thing you have mentioned is concerned, . . . ’, while in (65), the person being talked about is selected as the Topic referent. . This, of course, contradicts Dik’s claim that there can be only one constituent in P1. Multiple filling of P1 has, however, also been discussed for English (Hannay 1993; van Hoorick 1994: 14, 19) and Polish (Siewierska 1991: 223). See also the discussion of work by Fumero Pérez (2001), later in the present section.

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(66) and (67) illustrate a different type of situation with regard to Topic assignment: (66) I was absolutely furious. (BNC BMM 908) (67) Absolutely furious I was. As Hannay (1991: 143) observes, the Topic is I in (66), but in (67) there is no Topic at all, since absolutely furious, as a non-term, cannot receive this function, and neither, it is claimed, can I, since we do not need a Topic function to explain its form, position or accentuation. In order to explain the communicative effects outlined above, Hannay (1991: 146) suggests that they correspond to different ‘modes of message management’, or planning strategies employed by the speaker, which are formalised as subtypes of the illocutionary operator Decl (Decl-T, Decl-R, etc.), and expressed through the choice of whether to choose a Topic or not30 (and, if there is a choice of topical elements, which is selected), and what to put in P1. (64) and (65) are examples of what he calls the Topic Mode, showing the frequent Topic + Focus ordering. This is also the mode chosen in (66). (67), on the other hand, is an example of Reaction Mode, in which the most important focal information is placed in P1. Three other modes are also proposed by Hannay. In the Presentative Mode, the speaker may choose an expression for P1 which acts as a scene-setting element to aid the presentation of a new referent. To this element, which is typically, but not obligatorily, a spatial or temporal expression, Hannay allocates the pragmatic function Stager. Some Stagers, such as particularly noteworthy in (68), could not be assigned Topic function anyway, since they are not terms. (68) Particularly noteworthy is the economically important Animikie Basin, . . . (BNC H7K 172) More importantly, however, according to Hannay, the initial element of clauses such as that in (68) does not serve the usual function of a Topic, in that the point of the utterance is not to say something about this element, but rather to introduce the new referent the economically important Animikie Basin. Other types of presentative have no Stager, but rather a dummy in P1. Hannay’s Neutral Mode is characterised as having no Topic or Focus in P1, but rather a dummy which allows the later placement of the focal element, extraposed clauses being of this type. Finally, the All-new Mode corresponds to clauses where the speaker does not present the new information in the context of any other information which s/he considers to be shared with the addressee. In such cases, no element is singled out for special treatment by word order, and the Subject is placed in P1. In later work, Hannay (1993) has refined his proposal in the light of further issues relating to the function of P1, and also provided explicit arguments against certain aspects of Mackenzie & Keizer’s (1991) suggestions. The modes of message management are seen . It is assumed that there is always a constituent with Focus.

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as linking two ideas already current in the literature: the importance of the initial element of clause structure in acting as a foundation for the clause and the mental representation to which it corresponds, and the two conflicting cognitive principles, the idea that given information tends to come before new information, and the principle of communicative task urgency (Givón 1988: 275), according to which clause-initial information will be either less predictable or more important than other information in the clause. Hannay (1993), pace Mackenzie & Keizer, defends the view that even when the Subject is in P1 position in English, this should be seen not simply as a default, but as a result of the speaker’s decision to begin communicating the message in this particular way. This is reflected in a change to the placement rules for the Topic mode, which now specify that if there is a Topic constituent, it will go into P1, but if there is no Topic, the Subject is placed in P1. Hannay makes it very clear, however, that emphasising the overall role of P1 does not mean that this position is associated with a particular pragmatic function: rather, it has a number of possible functions, which can vary cross-linguistically, but all of which have in common that the element concerned is chosen as a point of departure for the message. Hannay’s decision to retain the Topic function for English reflects his concern that to drop it would remove the possibility of accounting for the difference in communicative effect between certain types of construction, such as extraposed and non-extraposed Subject clauses, the latter being strongly marked Topic constructions in English. He also points out that his message mode proposals remove the arbitrariness which Mackenzie & Keizer perceive in the suggestion that Topic is placed in P1 only if other elements, including Focus, have not been selected. Under Hannay’s proposals, all placements in P1 are seen as reflecting the speaker’s decision to present his/her message in a particular way. His scheme also has the advantage of removing the optionality which is inherent in Mackenzie & Keizer’s placement rules. Hannay (1993) also makes new proposals for a Setting pragmatic function corresponding to initial temporal and spatial adverbials. In line with other work on this area outside FG (e.g. Lowe 1987; Downing 1991), he suggests that such initial satellite elements serve to define a discourse span over which the temporal or spatial meanings they set up operate. He tentatively recognises a separate Setting mode, though he also suggests that Topic, Presentative and Setting modes, which all instantiate the given/new principle, may be subtypes of a more general Grounding mode, the placement rules for which would specify that Topic, Setting or Stager, if present, go into P1, otherwise P1 is filled by a non-Focus Subject, while if the Subject is also Focus, a dummy element fills P1. Hannay also discusses the Neutral mode, in which a dummy appears in P1, as in extraposed Subject constructions. He considers that assimilation of this mode to one of the others, on the basis of what status the first content constituent has, would run the risk of paying insufficient attention to the differences in syntax. He seeks, but does not find, evidence in the psycholinguistic literature for a specific cognitive-pragmatic function for dummy-initial clauses. Hannay’s modes of message management have been adopted also by Siewierska (1998: 259) for Polish, where she claims that All-new, Topic and Reaction modes gov-

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ern the SVO functional pattern, while the Presentative mode governs the VSO pattern. In earlier work, Siewierska (1991: 217) had pointed out that in principle, variations in word order for Polish could be accounted for through either syntactic function (i.e. Subject assignment) or pragmatic function (equating preverbal placement with Topic). In his most recent work, Hannay (forthcoming) expands considerably on his earlier proposals for placement in ‘initial’ positions. Interestingly, this latest discussion does not explicitly relate these positions to Topic at all. Hannay shows that in a sample of 39 written English texts from a variety of genres, containing 2627 sentences, 38% of the sentences are not Subject-initial, but begin with a range of orientational devices: other core clause elements (as in the fronting of Objects and many Adjuncts) in what is normally seen as the P1 position; conjunctions; single or multiple orienting phrases before and/or after the Subject, other than P1 constituents and conjunctions; and combinations of these. Building on a suggestion made in an earlier paper (Hannay 1994a: 115–116) and on empirical studies of complex sentence beginnings by Smits (2002), he recognises an ‘orientational field’ at the beginning of the declarative sentence in written English, with (as a maximum) three sets of paired slots, each pair consisting of an orienting element and a further element which modifies that orientation. This field is followed by the Subject, which may have various types of modification of its own. The pre-Subject orientation devices may mention circumstantial factors such as reason or condition, they may provide a temporal or locational frame for the event, they may relate the coming message to the previous co-text, state the speaker’s attitude to the message, focalise a different orientational element, or ground another orientational element by specifying it further. An example is given below. (69) However, as fortune would have it, when I did put my ear to M. Dupont’s door, I O1 O2 O3 S happened to hear Mr. Lewis’s voice, . . . (BNC AR3 1305) Smits’ work demonstrates that the relative ordering of the orientational elements in written English is determined by organisational properties of the discourse, probably at the level of the move. A recurring theme in our discussion of types of Topic has been the requirement that in order to receive a pragmatic function such as Topic, a constituent must be marked grammatically in some specific way. It has been observed by Bolkestein (1998: 195) that GivTop, ResTop and SubTop are in fact defined by Dik in terms of their discourse functioning rather than in terms of special treatment in the grammar. In fact, the problems of insisting on special treatment for Topics extend to other languages too: Siewierska remarks as follows: As regards the marking of the topic constituent, cross-linguistic investigations reveal that none of the actual forms of topic marking found in individual languages is an unambiguous marker of the topic. Nor do all the constituents identified as topics in a language exhibit the same type of marking. (Siewierska 1991: 164)

The question of special treatment is one of the issues taken up in a text-based study of Topic in English by Fumero Pérez (2001). After a detailed discussion of the literature on

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topicality in FG and other relevant approaches, the author presents a detailed analysis of the transcripts, totalling over 300 lines of text, of three addresses by the then President Clinton to the American people. For each text, two analyses are presented: one following exactly the description given by Dik, the other incorporating suggestions aimed at remedying some of the perceived deficiencies in Dik’s approach. Fumero Pérez’s overall conclusion (2001: 405), like that of Mackenzie & Keizer (1991), is that the strict application of Dik’s account to real texts reveals a number of problems and contradictions in the theory, the main reason for this being the discrepancy between the carefully-chosen constructed examples used by Dik to illustrate his proposals, and the much more complex situations encountered in the analysis of authentic texts. With respect to GivTop, Fumero Pérez (2001: 406–416) highlights the problems caused by the lack of any well-articulated connection, in Dik’s work, between the concept of pragmatic information and the assignment of pragmatic functions. In particular, she points to the fact that although Dik (1997a: 130–131), in his discussion of the referring properties of terms, lists four ways in which a referent mentioned by a speaker may be ‘available’ to an addressee (from long-term pragmatic information, previous mention in the discourse, perceptually available information, or inference from any of these), only one of these, previous mention, is a criterion for the assignment of Topic function, except in the case of SubTop, which involves connection with a previously mentioned Topic through long-term pragmatic information. Like Mackenzie & Keizer (1991), Fumero Pérez comes to the conclusion that not only information from the text itself, but also that deriving from the communicative situation and the general pragmatic knowledge of the interactants, should be taken into account in assigning Topic function. Furthermore, Fumero Pérez demonstrates that the previous introduction of a referent into the discourse does not guarantee that future mentions of that referent can be classified as GivTops: more specifically, there are cases where such an assignment is blocked by the fact that some other element occurs in P1. The author gives an example where the pronoun they occurs twice in one line of text, with identical informative value in the two cases, but where only one of these occurrences can be labelled as GivTop because in the other case the P1 position is already occupied. There is thus a discrepancy between the requirement for P1 position and Dik’s (1997a: 314) notional statement about GivTops, namely that once an entity has been introduced as a NewTop, subsequent mentions can be classified as GivTop. A further problem in relation to GivTop and P1 is that there are examples, in Fumero Pérez’s corpus, of relative clauses where P1 is occupied by a relative pronoun whose referent is known because it has already been presented as a NewTop. Yet Dik (1997a: 424) states that the presence of a constituent which must be in P1 (question word, subordinator, relative pronoun) blocks the placement of Topic or Focus constituents in that position. In relation to NewTops, Fumero Pérez (2001: 416–417) observes that there are, in her corpus, cases where an entity introduced for the first time in the discourse does not occupy the clause-final position in which, according to Dik, such Topics tend to occur; furthermore, there are constituents which, according to Dik’s scheme, would receive NewTop function, but which cannot strictly be classified as new information, since this informa-

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tion can be inferred from the communicative situation or from the general pragmatic information of the addressee. Fumero Pérez (2001: 417–418) also raises problems with SubTop: although Dik (1997a: 323) further specifies these as SubTops of a GivTop, most of the instances in her corpus are inferred from NewTops rather than from GivTops. Moreover, some constituents which she considers to have the function of SubTop code information which is inferable from the preceding discourse as a whole rather than from mention of a specific entity. With regard to ResTop, Fumero Pérez (2001: 419) reports that there are cases in her corpus which conform to the definition of ResTop in all respects except that they do not occupy P1 position as demanded by Dik’s scheme. Furthermore, there are instances of topic resumption which show none of the strategies listed by Dik as formal indicators of ResTop function. Finally, Fumero Pérez (2001: 424) concludes from her analysis that there are many cases in which it is necessary to allow more than one constituent with Topic function to occur in a single clause. The recent work of Gómez-González (forthcoming) expands on brief comments made in Gómez-González (2001: 190–191) in relation to the relationship between information structuring and the perspective, or viewing angle, taken by the speaker at a particular point in a discourse. Taking her cue from work in cognitive linguistics, she reconceptualises Dik’s D-Topics as concerned not with entities but with relationships between them. Intonation units mapped on to clauses or parts of clauses are seen as ‘attentional frames’, each of which profiles a particular relationship by directing attention towards some substructure of the overall organisation. A D-Topic, conceived in this way, has both a prospective potential in terms of signalling that it is available as a reference point for further conceptualisations, and a retrospective aspect in that it normally refers to information to which access is already available through the discourse context. Unfortunately, Gómez-González is unable to devote much space to exemplification of these ideas, so that we must await a more detailed presentation.

.... Problems and extensions: Focus. Siewierska (1991: 174) regards Dik’s definition of Focus in terms of ‘relatively most important or salient information’ as “rather vague and [. . . ] loosely interpreted”. She also comments (1991: 175) on the operational test for Focus suggested by Dik for the isolation of (Completive) Focus elements, viz. to find the expression which would provide the answer to an appropriate question. She provides examples in which it is not clear what the question is to which the clause under analysis could provide an answer. Bolkestein (1998: 197) comments on the divergence of views to be found in the literature on whether Focus can be placed only on elements at the lowest two layers in the structural hierarchy of the clause, or also on constituents at higher layers. Her own view is that satellites at the propositional and clause layers may also take Focus. A case in point is a comment adverbial placed initially, with a following intonation break or comma. Such

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elements, although not clausal but extraclausal, may nevertheless carry focal emphasis, which is additional to that which may be present within the clause itself. Mackenzie & Keizer (1991) propose that Focus in English, for which (in contrast to Topic) prosodic and structural correlates clearly are operative, should be classified along four dimensions: completive (textually new) vs. non-completive (contextually given), presentative vs. non-presentative, emphatic vs. non-emphatic, and contrastive vs. noncontrastive. Their proposals are supported by their analysis of a story text, referred to in §2.2.2.1.1. The distinction between emphasis and contrast is also discussed briefly by Siewierska, who remarks that it “has proved to be notoriously difficult to characterize” (1991: 180). She notes that contrast is typically regarded as a subclass of emphasis, but that such a hierarchical organisation is not reflected in Dik’s treatment of Focus. She also cites work on languages, such as Dutch and Aghem, in which emphasis and contrast are said to be marked differently. Subdivisions of the Focus function have also been proposed for Modern Standard Arabic. Moutaouakil (1989) distinguishes, for example, between a Focus element which constitutes surprising information and one which is focalised because some other piece of information has been rejected. As Bolkestein (1998: 200) points out, however, no grammatical motivation for these distinctions is offered. Martínez Caro (1998, 1999), in a detailed corpus-based study of focus and emphasis and their expression in English and Spanish, also makes further subdivisions within Focus. Firstly, she distinguishes, within Parallel Focus in both English and Spanish, between the default contrast between two elements, and contrast among more than two elements within a limited set, which, after Geluykens (1992), she labels Listing (Martínez Caro 1998: 234–236, 1999: 137–143). Secondly, she recognises, again for both languages, a type which is related to Counter-presuppositional Focus in that it has the function of confirming rather than rejecting something another speaker has said or something the current speaker presupposes (1999: 193–201), giving rise to particular mechanisms for the expression of the function: an example is given in (70). (70) (= Martínez Caro’s (45a)) A. just you excuse me two minutes while I try and find out this [@: ] figure (exit) - - - (enters) it is one fifty that *[@: ]* Fanny gets at present B. *mhm]* - yes (LLC 3 2a 419–424) Two further pragmatic functions are postulated within the area of emphasis in both languages. Emphatic Given Topic is assigned to those constituents which refer to contextually given information, which is, however, given prominence through constituent order (Spanish and English) or prosody (English) (1999: 266–287). Examples are this in (71) and eso in (72). (71) but this I I really like (LLC 1 8 924)

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(72) Eso yo tampoco lo veo muy claro. (HCM 20, 395) that I neither it see-pres.1sg very clear ‘I don’t see that very clearly either.’ Emphatic Focus (1999: 287–297) focalises emotive information, and is equivalent to the Emotive Focus of Quirk et al. (1972: 969). Finally, we should note that Gómez-González (forthcoming) proposes a division, within New Focus, between utterance focus and predicate focus types: this is the ‘sentence focus’ vs. ‘predicate focus’ distinction of Lambrecht (1994), taken over in RRG and therefore reviewed later (see §2.3.3).

.... Problems and extensions: extraclausal pragmatic functions. We saw in §2.2.1.5 that Themes precede the clause, in the position which used to be labelled P2, and that Tails typically follow it, in what is sometimes called the P3 position. As Siewierska (1991: 152) remarks, much of the FG literature blurs the distinction between position and pragmatic function for these elements, though it should be remembered that Dik himself, in his later work, drops the designations P2 and P3, and also indicates that Tails can be parenthetically inserted within the clause itself (Dik 1997b: 401–402). As pointed out by GómezGonzález (2001: 158–162), there is a tension in FG between two views of the relation between position and function. On the one hand, FG insists that the positions of pragmatically important items should not be confused with their function, so indicating what Fries (1981/1983) has called a ‘separating’ interpretation, that is one which maintains a clear distinction between the syntactic property of position and the informative status of the constituent. On the other hand, Theme and Tail functions are typically linked to the P2 and P3 positions, respectively. The inadvisability of equating position and function is shown by the work of de Schutter (1985, 1987), cited by Siewierska (1991: 152), in which it is shown that in Dutch the P2 and P3 positions do not carry a unitary pragmatic function. Indeed, as is shown by Vismans (1997), these positions in Dutch may be filled by constituents without any special pragmatic function at all. Other evidence for the importance of separating position and function comes from the corpus-based work of Downing (1997) on the FG Theme in Spanish. She shows that Themes, identified through disjunctures or through separation using embedding or wh-clefting, frequently serve functions which are those normally associated with Topics of different kinds: they introduce entities inferable from a general Discourse Topic, and make backwards links with entities introduced earlier in the discourse. A further important function is the shifting of the current topic to the speaker. A further problem is the reliable differentiation of clausal and extraclausal special positions. The placing of a constituent with some pragmatic function in P1 or in the pre-clausal (P2) position may depend on the presence or absence of a pause or intonation break in the spoken language, or a comma in writing. As noted by Hannay (1993), however, comma placement, in English at least, is the result of various factors, including

Chapter 2


personal style;31 furthermore, Dik is somewhat vague about the criteria for the spoken equivalent, when he writes of “breaks or pause-like inflections in the prosodic contour” (Dik 1997b: 381) as demarcating ECCs. To make matters worse, there have, as Siewierska (1991: 151) notes, been suggestions that constituents with Theme function may be located within the clause itself (see de Groot 1981b on Hungarian). Conversely, Topics may be separated from the rest of the clause by a prosodic disjuncture in Arabic (Moutaouakil 1989) and by a pause-indicating marker in Wambon (de Vries 1989). In such cases, other criteria, such as the inability of the Arabic Topic to precede the illocutionary force marker, may still identify the constituent as clausal rather than extraclausal; nevertheless, the weakness of the prosodic criteria is somewhat disturbing.32 Nor are other ways of marking pragmatic function exempt from difficulties: as observed by Siewierska (1991: 164), the marker wa in Japanese can be used for Topic, Theme and Focus constituents. Finally, it has been suggested that Theme, Tail and Topic should be regarded as a single pragmatic function, with positionally different realisations (Jiménez Juliá 1981: 342; Gómez-González 1998a: 6, 2001: 158), on the grounds that all three are concerned with ‘what the message is about’, in a broad sense. The overall picture which emerges from the work summarised above is one in which the distinction between extraclausal and intraclausal phenomena is blurred, especially with regard to the functionality of the elements concerned. The work of Hannay and of Smits on the ‘orientational field’ at the beginning of sentences in written English, described briefly in §2.2.2.1.1, again serves to underline this fluidity.

... Pragmatic functions in relation to standards of adequacy Information structure, handled through the concept of pragmatic function assignment, is a particularly fruitful area for the testing of the FG commitment to the three standards of adequacy, pragmatic, psychological and typological, all of which have been implicit in our discussion at various points. In this section I shall assess the extent to which the various proposals reviewed above help in approaching these standards of adequacy. .... Pragmatic adequacy. Mackenzie & Keizer (1991: 171ff.) note that the concept of discourse is a vital link between pragmatic function within the grammar and the wider theory of verbal interaction in which the grammar is embedded. They point out that Dik uses the term ‘discourse’ in both a static sense, to refer to linguistic products displaying a hierarchical structure which can be studied by the analyst, and a dynamic sense, concerned with the processing of pragmatic information in real time. Indeed, Dik (1989a: 267, repeated in 1997a: 314) takes a process-oriented line when he writes of the ‘topic store’ being filled with D-Topics as these enter the discourse. Mackenzie & Keizer not only con. See Hannay (1987) for an account of comma placement in English. . More generally, we may agree with the opinion expressed by Keijsper (1990), and echoed by Vismans (1997), that a clearer account of the semantic contributions made by prosody, as well as word order, is needed in FG.

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sider the process-oriented approach to be inconsistent with the basically static perspective of FG, but also perceive an important gap between the speaker’s store of Discourse Topics and his/her choice of Topic for individual clauses. They note Hannay’s ‘modes of message management’ as an attempt to bridge not only this gap, but also the disjunction between the static and dynamic approaches, while cautioning that pragmatic function assignment is not simply a result of the speaker’s decisions about how to present the message, but is also conditioned by language-specific requirements. Hannay himself (1991: 136) recognises that his proposals go some way towards an integration of product-oriented and process-oriented approaches. Hannay’s account succeeds in providing the first stages towards a typology of information management strategies which have correlations in the choice and placement of pragmatic functions. As such, it begins to provide a solution to the problem that FG has so far not attempted to account for why particular choices are made from those offered by the grammar. There are nevertheless certain aspects of Hannay’s proposals which are not so convincing. Hannay sees his ‘modes’ as part of the grammar itself, suggesting that the five modes discussed earlier can be incorporated formally into the grammar as subtypes of illocutionary operator: Decl-A, Decl-T and so on. He provides no detailed justification for this particular proposal, but contents himself with the observation that the modes provide alternative ways in which the speaker can present the content of a statement. Alternative analyses, however, would be at least as plausible: while illocution is concerned with the choice of (the semantics of) a speech act, Hannay’s modes are ways of organising the informational content of an information-giving speech act, reflected in the assignment of pragmatic functions. In other words, while illocution is clearly interpersonal in function, Hannay’s modes are interpersonal only in the more general sense that they are concerned with how the speaker chooses to present the content to the addressee. In Hallidayan terms, the modes are textual, in that they are concerned with the organisation of information rather than with either the content (Halliday’s ‘ideational’, equivalent to FG ‘representational’) or the choice of speech act, modal meanings, etc. (interpersonal). We may also ask whether the modes should be incorporated into the grammatical model itself, as conceived in FG. Hannay makes it clear why he wishes to take this course: . . . handling word order variation in terms of mode selection provides a satisfactory division of labour between the grammar and the encompassing theory of verbal interaction. The grammatical model accommodates the considerations of message management which are directly responsible for formal aspects of the linguistic expression involved, while the interaction model provides a context which allows us to understand the nature of the motivations and goals which guide a speaker to choose one mode of management, or construction pattern, rather than another. (Hannay 1991: 154)

In other words, Hannay wishes to preserve the status quo regarding the division of the overall linguistic model into a grammar (the province of the FG linguist) and a separate theory of verbal interaction (lying outside the FG linguist’s domain), and so wishes to lo-

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cate as much as possible within the grammar itself. This position is also supported in the recent work of Mackenzie (1998, 2000), which, like Hannay’s, is based on the original assumption of FG, that anything which affects the form of utterances must be located within the grammar. Indeed, Mackenzie makes use of Hannay’s modes of message management in his Incremental Functional Grammar model (see §3.7.2 of Part 1). Once again, however, there is an alternative view. The message management strategies themselves are surely not choices within the grammar itself: rather, they are, as Hannay himself says, ‘responsible for’ those choices. Similarly, one might argue, the operation of concepts such as politeness is responsible for the choice from among the various ways of expressing, for example, a request. This does not mean that politeness is itself part of the grammatical component of an overall linguistic model, and the same argument can be applied to modes of message management. A more attractive solution would be to see Hannay’s modes as part of the interface between a grammatical and a pragmatic module in a model of the kind proposed by Vet (1998), van den Berg (1998) and Liedtke (1998), and reviewed in Chapter 1 in relation to illocution. I noted there that such a model has also been advocated by Bolkestein (1998), specifically in relation to a review of Topic and Focus in FG, from which she concludes the following: Without going into the precise characteristics of such a pragmatic component, suffice it to point out that the intention to perform a successful Move implies prior assessment by (S) [the speaker – CSB] of what counts as topical and focal information for (A) [the addressee – CSB]. In other words, the outcome of (S)’s assessment concerning (subtypes of) topicality and focality is determined by situational, contextual and interactional factors. This means that topicality and focality cannot originate in any other than the pragmatic module, whatever shape we conceive it as having. (Bolkestein 1998: 211)

Although Bolkestein is careful to say that topicality and focality, rather than specifically Topic and Focus functions, must arise in the pragmatic component, she also remarks that in view of Dik’s claim that for FG pragmatics is the driver of semantics, and semantics the driver of syntax (to the extent that these can be separated), pragmatic structure should be considered prior to clause formation. The conclusion reached by Bolkestein is, of course, precisely that which informs the position taken by Nuyts (e.g. 1992, 1994, 1999, 2001) in his Functional Procedural Grammar. We saw in §3.6 of Part 1 that his proposals, which aim to achieve greater levels of both pragmatic and psychological/cognitive adequacy than have so far been attained in FG, entail the abandonment of the claim that the informational status of message components is assigned late, after the building up of the underlying semantic structure of the clause. Rather, in Nuyts’ scheme, the assignment of informational status takes place at the early, pre-linguistic stage of the ‘textualising’ of material drawn from the Universe of Discourse.

.... Psychological adequacy. We saw in §3.7.2 of Part 1 that Mackenzie’s recent Incremental Functional Grammar (Mackenzie 1998, 2000), proposes that the full structure of

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utterances should be derived from simple holophrastic utterances, rather than the latter being seen as truncated versions of the former. This model is very much bound up with questions of pragmatic function, in that it is assumed that P1 is filled in every utterance, and that every utterance has focal material, so that a holophrase must be in P1 and carry Focus. Expansion of the holophrase by adding constituents after the P1 position can, but need not, lead to relocation of Focus in some position other than P1. Mackenzie’s proposals, in which individual utterances, as well as larger stretches of discourse, are seen in terms of temporally organised sequences of discourse subacts, are specifically designed to improve the credibility of FG claims to psychological adequacy. In particular, the model emphasises the importance of placement in initial position in the utterance, as responding to the principle of task urgency, and also to final (or at least late) position, as the default for focal constituents, on the principle that the most recently presented material is the most easily remembered. As we saw with regard to Topic in §2.2.2.1.1, the recent work of Gómez-González (2001, forthcoming) is also intended to give a greater level of psychological adequacy to the area of pragmatic function assignment. Building on the work of Hannay (1994a, forthcoming) reviewed briefly earlier, Gómez-González discusses the ‘Theme zone’ in English as an orientational field, reworking this idea in terms of the concept of discourse as a series of shifting attentional frames, as proposed by cognitive linguists. In this approach, different orderings of material within the ‘Theme zone’ are seen as correlating with different profilings of the relationships to be expressed. The overall model within which Gómez-González’s proposals are made will be outlined in Chapter 4. It will be clear from our discussion of work on processing-oriented models that pragmatic function assignment must occur at an early stage in the development of the utterance. In those approaches which take their starting point in Hengeveld’s Functional Discourse Grammar, Topic and Focus are assigned during the construction of the move (for further discussion and illustration see e.g. Cornish, forthcoming; Bakker & Siewierska, forthcoming).

.... Typological adequacy. Finally, it should be noted that Dik’s own account of pragmatic functions, and also the proposals for alterations and additions to that account, are based on data from a range of languages of varying types. Clearly, as yet more descriptive work is done on further languages, FG should be able to achieve yet greater levels of typological adequacy; already, however, a considerable body of work is available, much of which, for reasons of space, I have dealt with only cursorily or been unable to include in the present account.33 . I have, for instance, been unable to do full justice to the detailed corpus-based work of Downing (1997) and Martínez Caro (1998, 1999) on pragmatic function in Spanish. Other recent work which has been touched on only briefly, or not at all, in this chapter includes: Vismans’ (1997, 1998, 2000, forthcoming) account of pragmatic functions, special positions and accent in Dutch; Stanchev’s (1997) work on pragmatic functions and special positions in Bulgarian; Siewierska’s (1998) account of the contribution of pragmatic

Chapter 2


.. Voice in FG In §3.2.2.5 of Part 1 we saw that Dik’s treatment of voice is inextricably bound up with the mapping between the Subject and Object syntactic functions and the semantic functions of arguments. Indeed, only in languages with voice alternations is Subject or Object assignment to be recognised. In the sense that different mappings represent different syntactic ways of arranging the same representational semantic information, voice can be regarded as a mechanism for varying the information structure within the clause. It will be remembered that Dik himself regards Subject and Object assignment as a kind of perspectivisation of the clause content. Mappings between Subject and semantic functions are constrained by the Semantic Function Hierarchy (SFH), repeated for convenience below. Subj Obj

Ag > Go > Rec > Ben > Instr > Loc > Temp + > + > + > + > + > + > + + > + > + > + > + > +

Figure 2.2. The Semantic Function Hierarchy, as presented by Dik (1997a: 266, example (41))

The SFH is an implicational series which predicts that some sets of assignments will be possible, others impossible. For instance, in Cebuano, a Philippine language, it appears that Subject can be assigned to constituents with Agent, Goal, Recipient, Beneficiary, Instrument, Locative and Temporal functions, that is all the functions in the SFH; on the other hand, Sudanese has assignment only to Agent, Goal, Recipient and Beneficiary, and Dutch only to Agent and Goal (Dik 1997a: 267). On the other hand, the SFH predicts that assignment to just, say, Recipient and Beneficiary, or Goal and Instrument, would be impossible. The combination of Subject with different semantic functions leads to the different syntactic consequences which we call voice, though some semantic functions may share a single voice. In addition to voices connected with Subject assignment, Dik (1997a: 264) recognises different ‘Object voices’ in languages where the Object can also be assigned to different semantic functions. The linking of voice to Subject assignment means that the expression rules for predicates must be sensitive to syntactic function in a language such as English. Dik proposes the following rules, where PaP indicates a past participle: (73) (= Dik’s (26a and b), 1997a: 378) Pass[pred[V]] = [be[V]] PaP[pred[V]] PaP[pred[V]] = pred-ed In some languages, such as German and Dutch, the passive auxiliary used is also dependent on the values of other operators. For instance, in the Dutch perfect passive, and syntactic function to constituent order in Polish; and Ziv’s (1997) work on initial infinitivals in relation to Theme, Topic and Focus in Modern Hebrew.



 Structure and Function

the auxiliary is zijn, but in other passives it is worden, as illustrated by (74) and (75) respectively. (74) De complexiteit van het gebouw is door iedereen the complexity of the building be-pres.3sg by everyone onderschat. (DUT02E03.ECI) underestimate-past.part ‘The complexity of the building has been underestimated by everyone.’ (75) Het recht op anticonceptie wordt door niemand the right on contraception become-pres.3sg by nobody betwist . . . (DUT02E03.ECI) dispute-past.part ‘The right to contraception is disputed by nobody.’ The first rule of (73) must therefore be replaced by the following two rules for Dutch: (76) (= Dik’s (29 a and b), 1997a: 379) Perf Pass [pred[V]] = [zijn[V]] PaP[pred[V]] Pass [pred[V]] = worden[V] PaP[pred[V]] In languages with complex Subject assignment options, such as those of the Philippines, the introduction of the formal reflex for each passive will be sensitive to the semantic function to which Subject is assigned (Dik 1997a: 379). Siewierska (1991: 82–86, 91–93) discusses in some detail the issues relating to the various passives in Philippine languages. She points out that there is still some controversy as to whether these languages should be regarded as nominative/accusative or as ergative, FG opting for the former position. Certain features of the passives in these languages support the FG account of the active/passive distinction as imposing two different perspectives on a single predicate frame. This view entails that the quantitative valency (number of arguments) and qualitative valency (kind of arguments) are the same in the passive as in the active. Siewierska points out that while it is widely accepted that passive predications are semantically bivalent, they are often seen as syntactically monovalent, the actor of the active being an Adjunct in the passive clause structure. She notes that while most passives in English are actorless, in Philippine languages they usually retain the actor. Furthermore, the passive actor is marked morphologically in the same way as the Goal of a transitive clause, and can serve various syntactic functions which suggest that it continues to act as a verbal argument. Siewierska notes the irony of the fact that the languages which are most atypical in terms of their Subject assignment possibilities afford the best evidence for the FG account of the passive actor. Siewierska (1991: 86–91) also examines antipassives which, in ergative languages such as the suffixing Australian Aboriginal type, are often considered as the structural analogue of the passive in nominative-accusative languages. She observes that Dik does not consider ergative/antipassive alternations to result from different Subject assignments, be-

Chapter 2


cause of the change in quantitative valency suggested by the oblique marking of the second argument, as opposed to the absolutive marking of the first argument, in the antipassive.

.

Information structure in the simplex clause in Role and Reference Grammar

..

Introduction: The nature of informativity In §4.9 of Part 1 we saw that the account of information structure given in RRG is based on the work of Lambrecht (see especially Lambrecht 1994). Lambrecht makes an important distinction which bears on the interpretation of the term ‘information’: . . . a distinction [. . . ] between (i) the pragmatic states of the denotata of individual sentence constituents in the minds of the speech participants and (ii) the pragmatic relations established between these denotata and the propositions in which they play the role of predicates or arguments. It is the establishment of such pragmatic relations that makes information possible. (Lambrecht 1994: 49, emphasis in original, cited in Van Valin & LaPolla 1997: 199–200)

Consider (77): (77) It was Susy who took up most of the lunchtime conversation, . . . (BNC CD9 948) In order for this to be a felicitous statement, in its most normal reading, the addressee must already know who Susy is, and must also have, as part of his/her pragmatic information, the proposition ‘someone took up most of the lunchtime conversation’. The new information which this utterance conveys is the identification of Susy with the one who took up most of the conversation. These pragmatic relations are coded in various ways in the information structure of a sentence. Van Valin & LaPolla (1997: 200–201) elaborate briefly on the first part of Lambrecht’s distinction, the pragmatic states of denotata in the minds of participants, by recalling the distinctions between active, accessible and inactive referents established by Chafe (1987), as well as Prince’s (1981) distinction between brand-new referents which are ‘unanchored’ and those which are ‘anchored’ by association with some other more easily identifiable referent.34 The classification of referents assumed in RRG (Van Valin & LaPolla 1997: 201) is that elaborated by LaPolla (1995) on the basis of Lambrecht’s work: referents are either identifiable or unidentifiable; if unidentifiable, they can be anchored or unanchored; if identifiable, they are active, accessible or inactive; active referents derive their activation status textually, situationally or inferentially. The cognitive status of referents is one of the factors influencing the form in which referents are represented in discourse; other factors include information structure, politeness strategies, ellipsis, etc. RRG assumes the position taken by Sperber & Wilson (1986/1995), namely that the addressee can assume that the speaker will choose a form for the utterance which will allow the addressee to create . See also §2.2.2.1.1.



 Structure and Function

the most appropriate context for interpretation, with the least expenditure of processing effort. Hence manner of coding indicates accessibility: zero marking means that the referent is the most accessible of all the possible ones; anaphoric pronouns indicate that the referent is active, or at least accessible; a definite NP signals that the referent is identifiable, and probably inactive or inaccessible; and an indefinite NP usually means that the referent is not identifiable in the discourse context (Van Valin & LaPolla 1997: 201).

.. Pragmatic presupposition, topic and focus Van Valin & LaPolla make the important point that to say that certain constituents present ‘old’ information and others ‘new’ information is rather misleading since, as we saw in commenting on (77) above, what makes an assertive utterance informative is the relationship between such types of information. RRG, after Lambrecht, characterises ‘old’ information as “the set of assumptions evoked by the utterance that make up the context necessary for understanding the utterance” (1997: 202). This set of assumptions is referred to as the (pragmatic) presupposition of the utterance. The rest of the assertion, outside the pragmatic presupposition, is the focus (of the assertion), and the relationship between the two constitutes the information conveyed. In (77), the pragmatic presupposition is that someone took up most of the lunchtime conversation, and the element in focus is Susy. Within the pragmatic presupposition there may be a topic expression, which is construed as the referent about which the proposition expresses some information. Unlike many accounts of topic, that given by Lambrecht, and adopted in RRG, does not assume that it is identical with what is given or presupposed in the utterance. Indeed, strictly speaking, the topic is not the referent itself, but rather its status as a centre of interest, expected to fulfil some role in the proposition (Lambrecht 1994: 151, cited in Van Valin & LaPolla 1997: 203–204), though terms such as ‘topic expression’ are still used as a kind of shorthand. There is nevertheless a correlation between the cognitive status of a referent and its acceptability as a topic, as we saw when referring to Lambrecht’s scale of topic acceptability in §2.2.2.1.1. This can be combined with the correlations between cognitive status and formal expression, to give the picture in Figure 2.3, which is very similar to schemes presented elsewhere in the literature. increasingly marked as focus Zero anaphora

Clitic or bound pronoun

Unstressed pronoun

Stressed pronoun

Definite NP

Indefinite NP

increasingly marked as topic

Figure 2.3. Topic and focus in relation to coding, adapted from Van Valin & LaPolla 1997: 205, Figure 5.2

Information structure 

Chapter 2

We have seen with regard to focus that the new information involved is not a referent as such, but rather a relationship which obtains at the level of the proposition as a whole (e.g. the relationship of identity between ‘Susy’ and ‘the one who took up most of the lunchtime conversation’, in (77), Susy being the focus of this new information). The constituent within which the focus appears is, as we saw in §4.9 of Part 1, the focus domain, and must be phrasal rather than lexical, since it must express an entity or a state of affairs.

.. Types of focus I pass now to the taxonomy of focus proposed by Lambrecht and summarised by Van Valin & LaPolla (1997: 206–210). This taxonomy can be expressed in diagrammatic terms as in Figure 2.4. focus narrow focus

broad focus predicate focus

sentence focus

Figure 2.4. Focus types according to Lambrecht (1994)

In narrow focus, only one constituent is included in the focus domain, in broad focus, more than one. Predicate focus is what is often called the topic-comment construction, and is the unmarked type, while sentence focus represents the case where the whole sentence is in focus. Below are examples of predicate focus from English and Spanish. (78) A. what was the climate like there at Christmas B. ((oh)) it was [f@n] fantastic it was gloriously sunny (LLC 2 1a 1334–1336) (79) A. ¿Qué le pasó a uste[d], don Juan? what to-you happen-simple.past.3sg to you Don Juan ‘What happened to you, Don Juan?’ B. Bueno, pues eh . . . mire, yo tuve Well er . . . look-imp.2sg.polite I have-simple.past.1sg torcedura de tobillo muy fuerte. sprain of ankle very strong ‘Well, er . . . look, I had a very badly sprained ankle.’ (Referencia CPUB002A.ASC) In (78), the presupposition evoked by the question, and so relevant to the answer, is ‘the climate was (like) X’, so establishing the expectation that the climate is a topic about which comment can be made. The focused information (corresponding to X) in the first clause of the answer is the predicate fantastic, and in the second clause gloriously sunny. In (79),

 Structure and Function

the presupposition set up by the question is ‘something happened to you’, establishing the addressee himself as a topic about which comment is expected, and the focused information in the answer is tuve torcedura de tobillo muy fuerte. Note that in both examples, the Subject35 is topic. Example (80), however, shows that this is not necessarily the case. (80) Bueno, el Arte, yo en principio ya dije que Arte well the Art I in principle already say-simple.past.1sg that Art no cogía, . . . neg take-imperf.1sg ‘Well, Art, in principle, I already said I wouldn’t take it.’ Here, we have a left-dislocated element, in what RRG labels the left-detached position (see §4.6 of Part 1), as topic, and furthermore this is coreferent with a non-Subject NP in the clause itself. Topics can also be marked by particles, for example in Japanese. Van Valin & LaPolla (1997: 207) make it clear that all that is needed for topic status is for there to be a relationship of aboutness. In sentence focus, as the whole clause is in the focus domain, there is no topic, and indeed no pragmatic presupposition (cf. the ‘all new’ predications discussed earlier). Examples from English and Spanish are given below. (81) [@m] then there came [dhi: ] - at last the . Christmas recess (LLC 6 7 877–878) (82) . . . ha llegado un ingeniero . . . japonés para ayudarles . . . have-pres.3sg arrive-past.part an engineer Japanese for help-them ‘. . . a Japanese . . . engineer has arrived to help them . . . ’ (Referencia ECON0066.ASC) The above examples demonstrate the use of sentence focus in clauses which present a new situation, referent or both, and illustrate the different coding of sentence focus as opposed to predicate focus: in the English example we have a presentative there construction, and in the Spanish one we see VS constituent order (cf. the SV order in B’s utterance in (79)). Van Valin & LaPolla (1997: 208) point out that such devices mark the Subject (or, in the case of (81), what would be the Subject in the form the Christmas recess came) as a non-topic. This is also true of the type of construction in English shown in (83). (83) and the doctor called and said that under no circumstances were you to get out of bed for at least two weeks (LLC 6 4a 306–309) Here, the doctor is clearly non-topical, as can be seen by comparing it with the parallel expression in which the intonational nucleus falls on called rather than on doctor: the doctor called has the doctor as topic. . Although, as we saw in §4.12 of Part 1, RRG does not use the traditional category of Subject, Van Valin & LaPolla (1997) still use the term in much of their discussion (though often in ‘scare quotes’), and I shall follow this practice, though without the quotes, where no confusion is likely to result.

Information structure 

Chapter 2

Finally, narrow focus is illustrated by examples (84)–(86), again from English and Spanish. (84) A. came with faculty of arts stuff perhaps B. no it came on its own (LLC 1 4 1135–1137) (85) it was Johnny that stole her money (LLC 2 13 1190) (86) . . . pero siempre son ellas las que están en la but always be-pres.3pl they (fem) who be-pres.3pl in the cocina . . . (Referencia AHUM033A.ASC) kitchen ‘. . . but it’s always they who are in the kitchen . . . ’ In (84), B’s utterance corrects A’s suggestion that whatever is the topic came with the Faculty of Arts stuff, by using narrow focus to pick out on its own: the focus domain is a single clause constituent. The presupposition is ‘it came X’, where X stands for some comitative relation, and B’s assertion is that ‘X = on its own’. In (85) a cleft construction is used to give narrow focus on Johnny, and in (86) we have a similar cleft structure in Spanish, focusing ellas. Van Valin & LaPolla (1997: 209) also use Lambrecht’s (1994) distinction between marked and unmarked kinds of narrow focus. For English, the unmarked position for focus is the final position in the core (not necessarily the final position in the clause); any other position is marked. Consider (87): (87) I gave it to Christopher this morning . . . (BNC KBW 19507) Since the core ends with to Christopher, the phrase this morning being in the periphery, the unmarked narrow focus position, according to Lambrecht’s scheme, is illustrated by (88), and (89)–(92) show marked narrow focus. Note that clauses such as (88) are seen as ambiguous as between a narrow focus interpretation and a predicate focus interpretation in which gave it to Christopher is the focus domain. (88) I gave it to Christopher this morning. (89) I gave it to Christopher this morning. (90) I gave it to Christopher this morning. (91) I gave it to Christopher this morning. (92) I gave it to Christopher this morning. Where there is a wh-element in the pre-core slot, we have an example of unmarked narrow focus (see what in example (93)), while if some other focused element is there, we have marked narrow focus (as in the reading of (94) in which only this one is focal in the first clause). (93) What did they want for a wedding present? (BNC FPM 2129)

 Structure and Function

(94) No this one I left at home but the other one the yellow one he’s got that one. (BNC KP3 265) On the other hand, some non-wh elements in the pre-core slot are non-focal, as in (95), where the focal stress is on the verb, not on this. (95) . . . this I I really like (LLC 1 8 924)

.. The coding of focus Van Valin & LaPolla (1997: 210–214) discuss the coding of focus structure, claiming that all languages make some use of intonation in this respect, some also using morphosyntactic devices. English, as we have seen, can mark focus purely intonationally, but also with marked constituent orders such as clefts, while Japanese uses postpositional topic and focus markers. In some languages (Van Valin & LaPolla mention French, Italian, Mandarin Chinese and the Sotho language Sesotho), there are constraints, either partial or absolute, on the preverbal placing of focus, so that it is impossible to focalise preverbal information simply by giving it prosodic prominence. Instead, syntactic devices are used to distinguish particular kinds of focus structure: for instance, in Italian, the Subject of an intransitive verb, if focal, must appear postverbally, whereas overt topical Subjects are preverbal. We saw in §4.9 of Part 1 that for each language there is a potential focus domain within which the actual focus domain in a particular construction must fall, and that these are distinguished within the focus structure projection for a clause (see Figure 4.11 in that chapter). We now see that although the potential focus domain in English is the whole clause, in languages such as those just mentioned it is the verb plus postverbal elements. Within this type of language Van Valin & LaPolla make a further distinction between those, like Italian, which allow focus-bearing interrogative pronouns to appear in the pre-core slot, and those, like Sesotho, which do not. For the former type of language the restriction on preverbal placement of focus applies only to the core, while for the latter type it applies to the whole clause. Van Valin & LaPolla (1997: 213–214, 418–421) also comment on the trade-off, in typological terms, between focus placement and word order flexibility. English, for example, has very flexible focus placement but fairly rigid word order; Russian, on the other hand, is much more flexible with regard to grammatical constraints on word order, but quite rigid with respect to the effects of focus structure, strongly preferring topic-focus ordering in statements.36 Van Valin & LaPolla (1997: 218) also make the interesting claim that the category VP, to the extent that it can be demonstrated across languages, arises from the interaction of focus and constituent projections. They note that predicate focus structures, which are claimed to be universal, have as the actual focus domain that part of the clause which . For a categorisation of languages into four main types in terms of the flexibility or rigidity of their focus structures and of their syntax, see Van Valin (1999).

Information structure 

Chapter 2

would be labelled as VP in some theories, and also that narrow focus constructions in which the focused element is the Subject also divide the clause into NP + VP.

.. Focus and the scope of negation and quantification Van Valin & LaPolla (1997: 219) note the long-standing observation that only the asserted part of an utterance, and not the presupposed part, can be negated. In the light of the relationship between presupposition and focus structure outlined in §2.3.2, Van Valin & LaPolla therefore predict that the scope of negation will be expressible by the same means as those available for the expression of focus structure. They demonstrate that in Italian and Mandarin Chinese, which, as we have seen, have restrictions on preverbal focal material, both focal and negated Subject constituents are postverbal. Van Valin & LaPolla (1997: 219–223) also show that focus interacts with the scope of quantification, according to the principle that topical quantified NPs have scope over focal quantified NPs. This principle interacts with other hierarchies discussed on the literature on quantification, in determining quantifier scope.

.. Focus and pronominalisation Focus is also involved in the specification of constraints on intrasentential pronominalisation, according to the following principle: (96) (= Van Valin & LaPolla’s 5.29, 1997: 227) Coreference is possible between a lexical NP and a pronoun within the same sentence if and only if a. the lexical NP is outside of the actual focus domain, and b. if the pronoun is in a syntactic argument position and precedes the lexical NP, there is a clause boundary between the pronoun and the lexical NP. Part (b) of this principle takes us beyond the study of the simplex clause, but we may illustrate the operation of part (a) as in (97) and (98). (97) Lisai still saw herself i as a ‘smoker’ who was struggling to give up. (BNC CA5 967) (98) Lisai still saw herj,*i as a ‘smoker’ who was struggling to give up. (99) Harriet i ’s heart oppressed heri,j . . . (BNC CBS 887) Assuming that the clause has predicate focus, the lexical NP Lisa and the pronoun herself in (97) are both within the domain of obligatory reflexivisation: the approximation to the appropriate rule given by Van Valin & LaPolla (1997: 224) is that if the potential antecedent and the anaphor are coreferential, and both are core arguments in the same core, then reflexivisation must take place. Therefore (97) is grammatical, (98) ungrammatical with coreference, grammatical without it. In (99), however, the lexical NP Harriet is not itself a core argument (the core arguments are Harriet’s heart and her), so reflexivisation is not required, and since if the clause has predicate focus Harriet is outside the

 Structure and Function

actual focus domain, being part of the topical Subject, coreference between this NP and the pronoun her is possible. It is not, of course, obligatory, as indicated by the indexing ‘i,j’ on the pronoun, which could equally refer to some other female person, though this is pragmatically less likely. Van Valin & LaPolla also discuss some more complex cases of pronominalisation and instances of intersentential pronominalisation, which I shall not go into here.

.. Focus structure and linking The linking between semantic and syntactic structures, in both directions, was illustrated briefly in §4.13 of Part 1. We shall now see that linking is influenced in important ways by information structure. In what follows I shall summarise the discussion in Van Valin & LaPolla (1997: 421–428). First let us consider linking from semantics to syntax. The first step, the reader may remember, is to determine which semantic role will be linked to Actor and which (if appropriate) to Undergoer. In the case of ditransitive verbs in English, the choice of Undergoer will affect the order of postnuclear core arguments. Consider (100) below: (100) A. well I went ( . coughs) for example I went to the library last week . B. yes A. ( - laughs) [@: ] for a book . which had . disappeared completely . so I . gave gave the . title to the librarian she put it in the lost book (LLC 3 3 338–344) Compare the clause so I gave the title to the librarian in A’s second utterance with the variation in (101): (101) so I gave the librarian the title Both title and librarian can be taken to be activated by elements of the previous discourse, the former by book and the latter by library, and so could be considered as given information. In the original version in (100), the speaker chooses the title as Undergoer, in immediately postverbal position, and the librarian as the element in the core-final position which is the unmarked position for focus, on the grounds that it was her handing of the title to the librarian which was the salient piece of information, leading on to what the librarian then did with the information provided. In (101), on the other hand, the order of postverbal constituents is reversed, so that the title becomes focal, and this makes (101) somewhat less appropriate than the original. The second stage in semantics-syntax linking is to assign specific morphosyntactic status to non-wh arguments in logical structure. This involves the concept of Privileged Syntactic Argument (PSA), introduced in §4.12 of Part 1. This, it may be remembered, is a cover term for the syntactic controller of a core-internal grammatical phenomenon (such as verb agreement) and the syntactic pivot of a complex construction (e.g. the argument omitted in the dependent part of English constructions of the type Mary wants to marry a Norwegian). A PSA is recognised for a construction when there is restricted neutralisation

Chapter 2

Information structure 

of two or more semantic roles for syntactic purposes. Where there is restriction, but no neutralisation, as for example in Acehnese, we have semantic pivots for constructions. We now need to make a further distinction within syntactic controllers and pivots, according to whether they are variable or invariable. If there is never any choice with regard to which semantic argument acts as syntactic controller or pivot, then we have an invariable PSA; if there is such as choice, we have a variable PSA (Van Valin & LaPolla 1997: 281). If there is a variable syntactic pivot for which it is impossible to predict, from semantic roles alone, which argument will act as the pivot of a transitive verb, then we have what RRG calls a pragmatic pivot, since the choice is then sensitive to discourse-pragmatic considerations. For instance, in English, the prototypical Subject is a pragmatic pivot (1997: 291), in that the choice of which semantic role is mapped on to ‘Subject’ during semantics to syntax linking is influenced by information structure. I shall return to this in our discussion of voice in §2.3.8. The third step in the linking of semantics to syntax is concerned with wh-phrases, which have language-specific placements: in some languages (e.g. Lakhota), they are assigned to the normal pattern position for the corresponding non-wh phrases; in others (e.g. English, Icelandic, Spanish), they go in the pre-core slot; and in yet others (e.g. Hungarian, Turkish), they are assigned to a position within the potential focus domain, the default being the unmarked focus position for that language. The fourth step in linkage is to assign non-wh phrases to either the pre-core or the post-core slot. This step is again subject to language-specific constraints involving focus structure: for instance, in English, the pre-core slot can contain focal or non-focal material, as shown by examples (93)–(95), discussed earlier; while in Japanese, which has a post-core slot, this is never the primary focal element in the clause (1997: 334). Step 5 in the linking algorithm is concerned with the assignment of appropriate case markers or adpositions to core arguments, and the correct agreement marking to the nuclear predicate. Again this step is language-specific, and again information structure plays a part. For instance, in Turkish, only Undergoers with specific referents are assigned the accusative case; indefinite Undergoers representing newly introduced referents do not receive this case marking (1997: 419). Finally, Step 6 deals with the positioning of any semantic arguments relating to logical structures other than that of the main verb. The default is to assign them to the periphery, but if they are focal, they may, in a language-dependent manner, be assigned to the precore slot or a special focus position; if they are highly topical, they may be assigned to the left-detached position (1997: 428). Turning now to the opposite direction of linking, from syntax to semantics, Van Valin & LaPolla (1997: 428) observe that the main function of information structure here is to aid in the determination of referents for anaphoric expressions since, as we saw earlier, possibilities for coreference are conditioned by focus structure.




.. Voice in RRG Van Valin & LaPolla (1997: 294–302) demonstrate that there are two distinguishable features of voice constructions, which may appear together or separately, according to the language concerned. The first feature, which Van Valin & LaPolla call PSA modulation, is concerned with the choice of which macrorole is selected as the PSA for a construction. As we saw in §4.12 of Part 1, the default is for the highest-ranking macrorole, in terms of the PSA hierarchy, to act as PSA in a syntactically accusative construction, but the lowest-ranking macrorole in a syntactically ergative construction. If a non-default argument is chosen as PSA, we get a passive or antipassive construction. Consider the following examples from English. (102) Edwina Currie rightly criticised Mr Major for stomping around in a Barbour jacket. (BNC AHN 2101) (103) Civil servants who leak information are criticised by politicians for a breach of trust. (BNC GVN 633) In (102), the Actor Edwina Currie, which is the highest-ranking macrorole, has been chosen as PSA (traditionally, Subject), thus instantiating the default. In (103), however, the Undergoer civil servants who leak information has been selected as PSA, giving a passive construction. The second feature of voice constructions, argument modulation, is concerned with whether the argument which would be chosen as PSA by default (i.e. in the active voice) appears at all in the passive, and if it does, then whether it takes its normal form or appears as an oblique form. In (103), for example, the Actor, which would have been the PSA in the active voice, is in the periphery, introduced by the preposition by. In (104), the Actor is omitted altogether: (104) But these experiments have been criticised on two counts. (BNC B7B 352) In languages with ergative constructions, such as Dyirbal, the same two facets of voice can be discerned, though it is now the Actor which uncharacteristically appears as PSA through PSA modulation, and the Undergoer which appears in a different case from that it would have in the active, through argument modulation. As noted above, the two features of voice can occur independently. In Dutch, for example, as in certain other languages such as German and Icelandic, there is an impersonal passive which can be formed from intransitive verbs, as in (105): (105) Er wordt in dit bedrijf hard gewerkt . . . (DUT02D02.ECI) there become-pres.3sg in this company hard work-past.part ‘There is hard work done in this company.’ In such a case, since the verb is intransitive, there is no question of a choice for PSA, so we have only argument modulation. Van Valin & LaPolla (1997: 295–302) cite work on various languages which show just one of the two voice features in constructions with transitive verbs. In the Nilo-Saharan

Chapter 2


language Lango, there are passive constructions which involve PSA modulation, but in which the Actor remains a direct core argument. In the Uto-Aztecan language Ute, on the other hand, only the Actor acts as PSA, but in the passive the Actor is not expressed and no other argument takes over as PSA. In Inguish, a Caucasian language, there is an antipassive in which the Actor is made the PSA, but with no modulation of the Undergoer. Some languages have multiple structures for antipassives: for instance, Jakaltek has a form for PSA modulation and two for argument modulation. The non-default assignments of semantic roles to Actor or Undergoer involved in passive and antipassive constructions obviously require alternative steps in the linking algorithm. These are illustrated for Icelandic and Sama in Van Valin & LaPolla (1997: 328– 329).

.. Problems and extensions Gómez-González (1996a) voices a number of criticisms with respect to Lambrecht’s account. Here, we can do no more than mention those which are of particular relevance to the RRG account of information structure presented by Van Valin & LaPolla (1997). These are concerned mainly with the concept of topic. Gómez-González (1996a: 279) recognises that Lambrecht has separated out various dimensions relevant to topic: a distinction between discourse-level and clause/sentence level topics; differentiation between topical referents and their expressions in the clause; the lack of one-to-one correlation between cognitive states and the relations entered into by referents as elements of the proposition; and the separating of several notions (presupposition/assertion, identifiability/activation, topic/focus) which are often conflated. Nevertheless, she holds that these ‘separating’ intentions are neutralised by the identification of topic expressions with only those constituents with identifiable referential entities. Since identifiability and presence in the presupposition of a clause are established from the discourse context, the at first seemingly clear distinction between clausal and discourse topics becomes blurred. Furthermore, Gómez-González considers the restriction of topic to referring expressions undesirable, in that it bans from topical status that component of a person’s pragmatic information which is concerned with general knowledge structures pertaining to types of entities and events. She is also critical (1996a: 282) of the lack of any specification of the conditions under which the pre-core slot, left-detached and right-detached positions are filled by a pragmatic element, or how certain of the topic types which Lambrecht discusses are to be analysed or distinguished in languages which lack these positions, or in cases where an element without special pragmatic function is placed in one of them. What is needed here, as Gómez-González (1996a: 254) implies, is the development of a wider theory of discourse structure within which the theory of information structure can be integrated. Although Van Valin (1993b: 151) points to such a development as one of the major directions for future work in RRG, there has as yet been little progress in this area. Recent work on Korean has added to the RRG account of relationships among the levels of syntax, semantics and pragmatics in the area of information structure. As pointed out by Han (1999: 62), attempts to determine Subject and Object status in Korean on the






basis of case assignment are problematic, because a number of constituents in the clause can receive the same case. In an attempt to answer the question of what licenses these case assignments, Park (1995) suggests that case is sensitive to both semantics (macrorole assignment, etc.) and pragmatic factors. Han (1999) builds on this suggestion, defining pragmatic case specifically in terms of the effects of topic and focus. He proposes a twolevel analysis of case in which the semantic representation of a sentence is first processed by the semantic case-assigning rules, operating through the Actor-Undergoer hierarchy, and introducing case markers such as -ka/-i (for nominative), -lul/-ul (accusative), -uy (genitive) and eykey (dative). After this, the pragmatic case-assigning rules can assign one of the markers NUN (for topic), KA and LUL (for focus), the latter operating through a proposed Focus Accessibility Hierarchy and the discourse context. Note that the surface markers -ka and -lul are bifunctional, since they can reflect either semantic case or the pragmatic markers KA and LUL, concerned with particular types of focus construction. If either marker has already been assigned via the semantic case rules, then it cannot be reassigned by the pragmatic case rules. The latter are as shown below. (106) (= Han’s (12), 1999: 72–73) a. Determine the focus structure type of the sentence, based on what is activated (topic) and what is inactivated (focus) in the context. b. Depending on the focus structure types assign the appropriate topic and/or focus markers using the following steps in this order. (1) If it is a predicate focus structure (PFS) i. The topic NP marked by NUN appears in the LDP (topicalization). ii. To NPs in the AFD (actual focus domain), assign KA if it is in a state verb sentence but LUL if it is in a non-state verb sentence. If -ka and -lul are assigned in the semantic case layer, then, skip the assignment of KA and LUL (stacking prohibited). (2) If it is a sentence focus structure (SFS) i. apply (12b.1.ii) (3) If it is a narrow focus structure (NFS) i. apply (12b.1.ii) and assign the focal accent to the NP. The effect of focus structure, then, can be to shift the surface case of a constituent. The Focus Accessibility Hierarchy (Han 1999: 78) for the clause is a two-dimensional structure, in which the further right and the further down an element is, the more focal (and the less topical) it is. A further such hierarchy is proposed for the NP. The relative values of focality assigned by means of the hierarchy can be overridden by other factors in the context: for instance, although the speaker is one of lowest-ranking elements in terms of focality, and one of the highest in terms of topicality, a referent with lower topicality can be picked out for placement in the left-detached position, thus being promoted to topic status over the speaker. Han also applies the two case layer hypothesis, including the case shifting proposal, to the Korean genitive construction, the HA (‘do’) construction, the postverbal negation light

Chapter 2


verb construction, quantifier floating and various other phenomena occurring in simple sentences. Work on information structure in RRG has also been done on Japanese (Shimojo 1995), Polish (Eschenberg 1999), Russian (Rodionova 2001) and Acadian French (Pavey 2001).

.

Information structure in Systemic Functional Grammar

.. Information structure in the Sydney grammar ... A ‘separating’ approach to information structure The concepts of Theme and Rheme, so important in the SFG account, derive from the Prague School, and Halliday fully acknowledges his debt to this work. The conception of Theme introduced by Mathesius is as follows: . . . that which is known or at least obvious in the given situation and from which the speaker proceeds. (translated in Firbas 1964: 268)

Thus, as pointed out by Fries (1981/1983: 116–11737), this Prague School view38 of Theme combines the concepts of starting point and given information. Halliday’s approach, on the other hand, separates out the two aspects: the concept of ‘that from which the speaker proceeds’ is covered by the SFG concept of Theme, while ‘that which is known or at least obvious in the given situation’ corresponds to the assignment of given, as opposed to new, information status, which in English is signalled by the intonational structure.39 I shall deal first with the Theme/Rheme structure of the clause, and then with given/new information.

... Theme and Rheme .... Definition of Theme. Halliday (1994a: 37) assumes that every language has some kind of organising principle which confers on the clause the status of a communicative event. This is what he labels the thematic structure of the clause. The basic idea behind Halliday’s account of thematic structure is the following: In English, as in many other languages, the clause is organized as a message by having a special status assigned to one part of it. One element in the clause is enunciated . The page reference is to the 1983 reprinted version. . Gómez-González, in her detailed review of Prague School approaches to information structuring (1996a: 67–113), notes that some later work within this movement did begin to separate Theme from given information. . It should be noted that Halliday uses the term ‘information structure’ to refer only to the assignment of given or new status. I shall continue to use the term in the broader sense, to include meanings realised by either syntactic or prosodic means.






as the theme; this then combines with the remainder so that the two parts together constitute a message. (1994a: 37)

The ‘remainder’ of which Halliday writes is the Rheme. Halliday offers several formulations of a functional characterisation of the Theme: . . . the Theme is the point of departure for the message. It is the element the speaker selects for ‘grounding’ what he is going on to say. (1994a: 34) The Theme is the element which serves as the point of departure of the message; it is that with which the clause is concerned. (1994a: 37) . . . the Theme is the starting-point for the message; it is the ground from which the clause is taking off. (1994a: 38) The English clause consists of a ‘theme’ and a ‘rheme’. The theme [. . . ] is as it were the peg on which the message is hung, . . . (Halliday 1970: 161)

The Theme can be realised in different ways in different languages: in English, it is indicated by being put in first position in the clause; in Japanese, on the other hand, it is claimed to be marked by the postposition wa (1994a: 37). It is important to note, then, that Theme is defined functionally (as ‘starting point for the message’, ‘ground from which the message proceeds’, ‘what the message is about’, ‘peg on which the message is hung’), not positionally.

.... Marked and unmarked Theme in relation to mood. To illustrate the concept of a simple Theme in a declarative clause, consider (107) and (108), in each of which the Theme is given in bold print. (107) The Institute collects the money on the first banking day in January each year. (BNC CBU 4835) (108) Before this most people never saw the Royal Family. (BNC CBC 10116) According to the Hallidayan account, the starting point chosen by the speaker in order to ground his/her utterance is the Institute in (107), and before this in (108). It is important to note that examples such as (109) and (110) below are regarded by Halliday (1994a: 39) as explicit announcements of the Theme. (109) As for him, his heart was still set on finding the sea-king’s palace, . . . (BNC FUB 43) (110) With regard to these countries, the study finds that it is important that they do not attempt to keep their existing inter-industry specialisation . . . (BNC HXK 349) Such Themes are, for Halliday, within the structure of the clause itself, rather than assigned to some extraclausal position. Halliday (1994a: 39) also notes that Themes often have a tone group to themselves, and that if the clause does indeed correspond to two tone groups, the boundary is extremely likely to occur between Theme and Rheme.

Chapter 2


Halliday distinguishes between unmarked and marked Themes, pointing out that what constitutes the unmarked structure varies with the mood of the clause (1994a: 42– 48). In the declarative clause, the Subject is the unmarked thematic element, as in (107) above. If any other clause element is in first position, this constituent bears marked Theme: (108) above has marked Adjunct Theme, while (111) has Complement Theme. (111) This one I swapped with Christopher. (BNC KCT 7427) Note that for English, Complement Theme is much more marked than Adjunct Theme. Compare the following thematic variants of the clause in (107): (112) On the first banking day in January each year the Institute collects the money. (113) The money the Institute collects on the first banking day in January each year. The second of these would normally be used only when a contrast is being made between the money and something else which the Institute collects at some other time. The most marked Theme of all for a declarative clause is the Predicator, as in (114). (114) He had dropped me a note the day he left advising me to sell, so sell I did, . . . (BNC K8T 1610) In wh-exclamative clauses, the unmarked Theme is the wh-element, as in (115). (115) What a little beauty he is. (BNC ASD 1667) In yes/no questions, it is natural that the element expressing polarity, that is the finite verb, should be in first position, and Halliday (1994a: 45) glosses the meaning of the Theme here as ‘I want you to tell me whether or not’. However, according to Halliday’s analysis, this does not exhaust the Theme in such cases, since he also includes the Subject, as in (116). The rationale for this is that the Theme extends up to and includes the first ideational element in the clause. The argumentation behind this claim is that until we meet an ideational element in the clause, this “still lacks an anchorage in the realm of experience” (1994a: 53). Since the Finite element is part of the interpersonal mood structure, the Theme in (116) must include you, in its ideational role as a participant in the transitivity structure. I shall return to the topic of such ‘multiple Themes’ later. (116) Do you want to take some cones to nursery? (BNC KDE 2836) On the other hand, in a wh-question, it is the element standing in for the missing bit of information, that is the wh-consituent itself, which is the unmarked Theme, with the meaning ‘I want you to tell me the person, thing, time, manner, etc.’ (1994a: 46): (117) Why are you here? (BNC HGK 4493) Marked variants of both kinds of interrogative are possible, though rare. Examples are given in (118) and (119).






(118) On MOTD, did they show the banner unfurled at that point which said LEEDS HAVE WON AWAY? (BNC J1F 886) (119) In women, what is he looking for, mother, daughter, sister, wife? (BNC FYV 2622) In positive imperatives, the unmarked Theme is the Predicator (see (120)), although if an expression relating to the addressee is present, this can be Theme (121). (120) Choose varieties which will succeed in your area, . . . (BNC EER 1283) (121) You go and have your lunch now, and your rest. (BNC AN8 1002) There is also a marked positive variant in which do plus the Predicator is the Theme. In negative imperatives, don’t plus Predicator is unmarked Theme (122), unless an expression relating to the addressee is present (123). (122) Don’t let the banners fall! (BNC HH5 3001) (123) Don’t you let her know what you’re up to, mind. (BNC A0D 588) In first person imperatives, the unmarked Theme is (don’t) let’s. (124) Let’s have a look. (BNC CKF 2666) Halliday (1994a: 48–52) also discusses sets of items which are either obligatorily or typically thematic. Among the obligatorily thematic type are conjunctions and relative pronouns/adverbs. Examples are given in (125) and (126). (125) But water is a creator of land as well. (BNC AMS 475) (126) It may of course be a partner who is the one who needs caring for. (BNC B3G 1029) In (125), the conjunction but, as well as the first constituent with ideational function, water, form part of the Theme. In (126), the relative clauses who is the one (who needs caring for) and who needs caring for are introduced by an obligatorily thematic relative pronoun. The elements which are typically, but not obligatorily thematic are the conjunctive and modal Adjuncts. Conjunctive Adjuncts relate the clause to the text which has gone before. Halliday (1994a: 49, 324) classifies conjunctive elements into elaborating, extending and enhancing types,40 each with a range of subtypes, of which just two are illustrated below.41 (127) Anyway, it all worked out. (BNC CK6 643) [elaboration, clarification, dismissive] (128) Therefore I am now looking for a larger tank. (BNC C97 856) [enhancement, causal, general] . See §7.2.3.2.1.7 of Part 1 for a gloss on these terms. . Halliday’s view of meanings in the area of conjunction (i.e. those realised by conjunctive Adjuncts and a small set of conjunctions) emphasises their role in the achievement of textual cohesion. This area will therefore be given more detailed treatment in Chapter 4.

Chapter 2


Modal Adjuncts were dealt with briefly in §1.4.1.1 in relation to their role as elements of mood structure. Halliday (1994a: 49) again recognises various subtypes, of which three are illustrated in (129)–(131). (129) Perhaps we can go fishing now. (BNC GUF 1383) (130) Apparently the severe winter of 1947 was responsible for their destruction. (BNC ANC 1129) (131) Wisely, Margaret Thatcher decided to withdraw. (BNC ABU 361) In (129), perhaps is a probability Adjunct, in (130) we have the presumption Adjunct apparently, and in (131) the evaluation Adjunct wisely. Since these are part of the interpersonal structure of the clause, the Theme must include the first ideational element too, as shown by the bold print in the examples. Halliday (1994a: 49–50) points out that both modal and conjunctive Adjuncts are naturally candidates for thematic status, in that it is natural for speakers to present their own angle as a point of departure, and similarly if there is an element which indicates the relationship of the clause to what has preceded it, then again it makes sense for this to be in initial position. This is, however, still for the speaker to decide: s/he may choose to put these Adjuncts later in the clause, in the Rheme part of the thematic structure. Reorderings of (127)–(131) are shown in (132)–(136), with restriction of the Theme to the ideational element. In some cases, further alternative placements are also possible. (132) It all worked out, anyway. (133) I am therefore now looking for a larger tank. (134) We can perhaps go fishing now. (135) The severe winter of 1947 was apparently responsible for their destruction. (136) Margaret Thatcher wisely decided to withdraw. Some corpus examples are given in (137)–(139). (137) So much is, perhaps, obvious. (BNC BML 971) (138) Most of the Celtic Church’s sacred texts apparently continued in use for a time, . . . (BNC EDY 2102) (139) Joyce wisely decided to take her three smallest charges around the block to get away from the trauma, . . . (BNC H7E 18)

.... More on multiple Themes. Let us now look in rather more detail at the concept of multiple Theme, examples of which we have already seen. Halliday (1994a: 52) observes that in the case of items which are obligatorily or at least normally thematic, the fact that these elements are built into the thematic structure of the clause means that their thematic status is weakened. This is particularly clear for the obligatorily thematic items: since the speaker has no choice of where to put the conjunction or relative pronoun, that choice






is, as it were, displaced to another item. It is thus possible to choose a marked ideational theme after an obligatorily or normally thematic element (1994a: 51), as shown in the following reorderings of (128) and (129): (140) Therefore now I am looking for a larger tank. (141) Perhaps now we can go fishing. Corpus examples are given in (142) and (143). (142) Consequently, at the age of nine he was a pale thin child and short for his age. (BNC FRK 42) (143) Perhaps now we should all go down and join the others. (BNC FA5 2401) The Theme thus always contains one (and indeed only one) ideational element (i.e. participant, circumstance or process), which constitutes the final element in the Theme. Halliday (1994a: 52) relates this element to the concept of topic used in topic-comment types of analysis, and therefore calls it topical Theme. As we have seen, a number of different kinds of element can precede the topical Theme within the Theme as a whole. I have already commented on the fact that certain of these (Finite verbal operators in yes/no questions, modal Adjuncts) belong to the mood structure of the clause, within the interpersonal component of the grammar. Vocatives, which can also occur in the Theme, are also clearly part of the interpersonal component. In wh-interrogatives, the wh-element acts simultaneously as a mood indicator and a participant in the ideational transitivity structure: for instance, in example (117), why is a circumstantial element in the transitivity structure as well as indicating a wh-interrogative (1994a: 54), and is thus both interpersonal and topical Theme. The other types of element which can precede the topical Theme derive from the textual component of the grammar. Halliday (1994a: 53) divides these into three types: those items which show that the speaker is beginning a new move (e.g. yes, no, well) are labelled continuatives; the elements which are obligatorily thematic (conjunctions and relative words) are termed structural Themes; and the third type is the conjunctive Adjuncts discussed earlier. The individual elements of a textual Theme must occur in the order continuative > structural > conjunctive. The typical ordering of non-ideational Themes is textual > interpersonal, both, of course, coming before the ideational (topical) Theme. Examples are given below. (144)

Yeah continuative

well continuative

textual (145)

Well continuative

but structural

textual

presumably modal

we ’re reversing this position. topical (BNC JP3 233)

interpersonal

ideational

they topical ideational

are really equal ... (BNC HUJ 496)

Chapter 2


.... Halliday’s account of cleft and pseudocleft constructions: Thematic equatives and predicated Themes. I turn now to Halliday’s treatment of what in other approaches would usually be called cleft and pseudocleft structures. As pseudoclefts have the simpler analysis, I shall deal with them first. Halliday (1994a: 40–43) calls these thematic equatives,42 on the grounds that they set up a relationship of identity between the Theme and Rheme,43 as shown in example (52), repeated as (146) below. (146)

What he did

was

to copy the practices that he observed within his school.

Theme

Rheme

(BNC EV4 1075) Thus the Theme is now not itself a nominal group but a clause which is acting like a nominal group, i.e. a nominalisation. Halliday observes that (like other identifying structures – see §8.3.1.2.2.3 of Part 1) such structures can be reversed, as in (147), which is clearly marked with respect to the ordering in (146).44

(147)

Copy the practices that he observed within his school

was

Theme

what he did. Rheme

The function of a thematic equative is to enable the speaker to structure the information thematically in any way s/he chooses. Compare (146) and (147) above with the non-pseudocleft version in (148). (148) He copied the practices that he observed within his school. The effect of the thematic equative is to pick out the copying of practices within his school as being the action performed. The speaker could have chosen to pick out other parts of the message by the same mechanism: (149) What he copied was the practices that he observed in his school. (150) The person/one who copied the practices that he observed in his school was him. Furthermore, as well as equating the Theme with the Rheme, the element picked out is given a meaning of exclusiveness: in (149), for example, it was specifically the practices that he observed in his school that were copied: this, and only this, is the new information which is being offered. Cleft constructions are also relabelled in Halliday’s analysis, this time as predicated Themes (1994a: 58–61). These are again a mechanism for picking out a particular element of the message as the new information. Halliday provides a dual analysis for such structures, as exemplified in (151). . Halliday (1994a: 301) also refers to pseudocleft constructions as ‘Theme identification’. . Strictly speaking, the Rheme minus the verb be. . The reversed version seems more acceptable without the explicit infinitive marker to.



 Structure and Function

(151)

It Theme

was Ben Rheme

who Theme

Theme

answered for her, ... Rheme (BNC CK9 1667) Rheme

In the top analysis, each clause has its own Theme and Rheme, as usual. In the bottom analysis, the first clause is shown as a predicated Theme. Halliday specifically links predicated Themes with intonationally realised information structure, pointing out that in the spoken language a near equivalent of the meaning of predicated Theme can be achieved by placing the tonic accent on the new information, as in (152). (152) Ben answered for her, . . .

I shall come back to the issue of prosodically realised information structure in §2.4.1.3.

.... Thematic structure at other ranks. We saw in §7.2.3.5.1 and §7.5.1 of Part 1 that Halliday draws parallels between Theme in the clause and the significance of first position in the nominal and verbal groups, pointing out that just as the Theme is the point of departure for the message carried by a clause, so the Deictic element in a nominal group and the Finite element in a verbal group are natural starting points for these groups because they anchor the content to the here-and-now of the speaker. Halliday (1994a: 54–58) also recognises Theme-like structures in the clause complex and even in discourse structure, where he equates the ‘topic sentence’ of a paragraph with the ‘Theme’ of that paragraph. As far as the clause complex is concerned, Halliday is concerned with the fact that a main and a subordinate clause can come in either order. An example is given below.45 (153)

I would wait a little Theme

(154)

if I were you. (BNC AB9 981) Rheme

If I were you

I would wait a little.

Theme

Rheme

... Given and new information As we have seen, the assignment of given or new status to parts of the message is signalled in spoken English by means of intonation. The unit of intonation in SFG is the tone group: a tone group consists of one or more rhythmic units (feet), a foot of one or more syllables, and a syllable of one or more phonemes (Halliday 1994a: 11ff.). We saw briefly in §1.4.1.1 that the tone group is said to be the realisation of “a quantum or unit of information in the discourse” (1994a: 295). This information unit, realised by the tone group, does not correspond exactly to any one unit on the grammatical rank scale: the relationship between the two is referred to in early work as ‘tonality’ (Halliday 1967a: 32). Halliday . See Chapter 3 for further discussion.

Chapter 2


claims that “other things being equal, one information unit will be coextensive with one clause” (1994a: 295): this, then, represents unmarked tonality. Other things, however, are often not equal, and there are many instances in which a clause may correspond to two or more information units, or in which a single information unit extends over more than one clause, or even over one complete clause and just part of the next: for instance, a clause with marked Theme will normally have two tone groups associated with it, one for the thematic constituent, one for the rest of the clause. Halliday (1967a: 33–40) details the various possibilities and their meanings. In the idealised case, the information unit in SFG consists of two functional elements, Given and New (1994a: 296). A discourse-initiating unit, however, can be all-New. Furthermore, since given information refers to something in the discourse or external context, it may be ellipted. In practice, then, an information unit consists of a New element accompanied optionally by a Given element. The New element is marked by carrying the main pitch movement of the tone group: it bears information focus, signalled by tonic prominence. Options in the placement of the tonic syllable are referred to in Halliday’s early work as ‘tonicity’ (Halliday 1967a: 33).46 The foot in which the tonic syllable is found marks the end of the New element, and the unmarked position for this New element is at the end of the information unit. Where the tone group coincides with a clause, the end of the New element in an unmarked focus construction will fall on the last functional element of clause structure (Halliday 1994a: 296). There is nothing in the intonational structure, however, to indicate where the New element begins: this must be determined from the context. Consider the following example. First the coding of a stretch of conversation in the London-Lund Corpus is given, followed by a ‘translation’ of the last five tone groups into the notation used by Halliday to indicate feet and tone groups.47 (155) ^there was a ![ra dh@ dh@] . ˝^{[?]\almost} R\ussian ´lecturer at C/ambridge# ((he)) ^wasn’t {r\eally} :R\/ussian# . ^Toma!r\ovsky# - . but ^he had ´been . o{r\iginally} :\educated in R/ussia# be^fore the _revo!l\ution# -^then he ´went to G\/ermany# ^then to /Oxford# and ^then to !C\ambridge# - but he ^still ´had :quite a ´good \accent# - - . and he ûsed to give !t\alks# . (LLC 1 6 953–962)

. Halliday also uses ‘tonicity’ as a heading in IFG (1994a: 295), but since the term is not explained in that section, or used further in the discussion, it is difficult to know whether it is being used in exactly the same way as in earlier accounts. . In the LLC transcription, the additional symbols have the following meanings: # end of tone unit, \ falling intonation, / rising intonation, \/ falling-rising intonation, ˝ heavy stress. In Halliday’s conventions, the / symbol indicates the boundary of a foot (rhythmic unit), and // the boundary of a tone group. Note that some feet may have ‘silent stress’ at the beginning, indicated by ^ . Tone groups in Halliday’s system always consist of an integral number of feet, and it will be noted from (156) that unstressed syllables coming after the tonic syllable are taken to belong to the same tone group (as with the tone group // Oxford and //). The differences between Halliday’s conventions and those used in the transcription of the LLC mean that tone unit boundaries may not always coincide in the two versions.



 Structure and Function

(156) // then he / went to / Germany // then to / Oxford and // then to / Cambridge // ^ but he / still / had / quite a / good / accent // ^ and he / used to give / talks // (Halliday’s notation) The first tone group corresponds to a single clause, and tonic prominence falls on the first syllable of Germany, the complement of the last functional element of the clause structure, the prepositional phrase to Germany, this being thereby marked as the end of the New element of information structure. The Subject he is anaphoric, and so clearly Given, but went is new, in view of the fact that the previous part of the discourse is concerned with where the lecturer being discussed was born, rather than where he went. The New element is thus went to Germany. In the second clause, the Subject and main verb have been ellipted and the tonic prominence falls within the last functional constituent to Oxford, which is the New information. Note that by ‘last functional element’ Halliday means the last ‘content’ element: and, although it belongs to the same tone group as to Oxford, is not a content element. The next tone group likewise has to Cambridge as the New element. In the remaining two tone groups, which also coincide with clauses, tonic prominence likewise falls on the last content element. Now consider (157), of which the essential features of one tone group are re-presented as (158): (157) ând !they ˝!know that ´they will _be - if ^they - [?] - áctually ac˝!c\/ept the ´job# ^they will be ˝!s\/igning {a ^c\/opy#}# - ôf . a ˝!{c\/ontract} the :copy óf !th\/is# and a ^copy of the dr/\awings# (LLC 3 7 1136–1139) (158) // ^ if / they / actually ac//cept the / job // Here, we have a tone group in which the tonic prominence falls on an element (accept) which is not the last content item. We thus have marked information distribution, and the job is thereby signalled as being Given information. Some elements, however, are inherently Given: anaphoric elements and deictic items such as today, there, etc. Such items do not carry information focus in the unmarked case and are an exception to the generalisation that in the unmarked form the tonic prominence falls on the last (content) element. This is exemplified in (159)/(160). (159) the ^{s\ituation in Íreland} ˝:th\/en# . ^wasn’t :t\erribly ´different# - [@:] in re^spect ((to the)) ´situ_ation . with ´Scotland and ´Wales tod\ay# (LLC 2 8a 196–198) (160) //^ the / situation in / Ireland // then // wasn’t / terribly / different // ^ in re/spect to the / situation with / Scotland and / Wales to/day // The marked tonic prominence on the deictic items then and today, which are final in their tone groups, signals that a contrast is being made between the situation at some former time and at the time of speaking. Halliday (1994a: 298) is careful to point out that the Given/New distinction is concerned with what is presented by the speaker as being recoverable or non-recoverable to

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the addressee: information presented as Given may have been mentioned in the discourse itself, may be recoverable from the situation, or may not be available in either, but presented as old information for rhetorical reasons, when in fact the addressee is unaware of it.48 Similarly, what is presented as New to the hearer may indeed be so, but may consist of something which has indeed been mentioned already, but which is now noteworthy in some way. Halliday’s glosses on New (‘this is news’) and on Given (‘this is not news’) succinctly summarise this view.

... The relationship between Given/New and Theme/Rheme As was said earlier, Halliday’s stance on the relationship between Given/New and Theme/Rheme is a ‘separating’ one: they are regarded as potentially separate, but interacting, distinctions (1994a: 299–302). The unmarked case is for the Theme to be included in the Given information, while the information focus, the central element in the New information, is within the Rheme. This situation is illustrated in (161)/(162). (161) ^he _went to !T\urkey# (LLC 1 6 766) (162)

// he

went to / Turkey //

Given

New Given

Theme

OR

New Rheme

The difference between Theme/Rheme and Given/New, which is what enables them to be separated, is that the former, being what the speaker chooses as the starting point for the message, is speaker-oriented, while the latter, being what the speaker presents as being recoverable for the addressee, is listener-oriented (1994a: 299). In an appropriate discourse situation, then, the speaker may choose information which is (presented as) New to the hearer, as the starting point for the message, the Given element being co-extensive with, or within, the Rheme. An example is given in (163)/(164). (163) and ^they said _ah yes !\Arthur did ´this# (LLC 7 1e 1532) (164)

//Arthur did / this // New Given Theme Rheme

Halliday (1994a: 301) points to one situation in which the markedness associations between Given/New and Theme/Rheme are reversed. In predicated Theme constructions (see §2.4.1.2.4), the unmarked case is for the New element to be within the predicated Theme, with the Given element in the Rheme. This is illustrated in (165)–(169) below. (165) ^that is the b/asis# (LLC 12 5 473) . We might compare this with the frequent ploy of saying “As you know, . . . ” and following it with something which the speaker knows the addressee does not know.



 Structure and Function

(166)

// that is the / basis // Given New Theme Rheme

(167)

is the / basis // // that New Given Theme Rheme

(168)

// ^ it’s / that which is the / basis // New Given Theme Rheme

(169)

// ^ it’s / that which is the / basis // Given New Theme Rheme

With the simple, unpredicated Theme structure, (166) is unmarked, (167) marked; but with predicated Theme structure, (168) (with New = Theme) is unmarked, (169) (Given = Theme) marked. Halliday remarks that it is indeed the normal function of the predicated Theme construction to make the focus fall on the Theme.

... Networks and expansions As for other areas of the grammar, Matthiessen (1995a: 513–617) presents a very detailed account of information structure, which not only discusses the system networks implicit in Halliday’s account, but also expands on that account. The most that can be given here is a brief summary, highlighting the extensions proposed in Matthiessen’s work. .... Theme. Matthiessen defines Theme as “the resource for setting up the local context or local semiotic environment in which each clause is to be interpreted” (1995a: 531, emphasis in original). This ‘local context’ is equated with Halliday’s ‘point of departure’. As in many other areas, Matthiessen stresses the interplay between metafunctions in the treatment of Theme: The thematic context or semiotic environment may [. . . ] itself be ideational (a transitivity role; for example, temporal or spatial – a circumstance of time or space), interpersonal (a key to the speech function or an assessment; for example, the modal value of the proposition or the speaker’s attitude towards it), or textual (the conjunctive relationship to preceding text); or a combination. (1995a: 532)

Clearly, this corresponds to Halliday’s concept of multiple theme. Matthiessen, however, emphasises that there is only a single Theme element, which can extend to cover functions from each of the three metafunctions. Clauses with the feature [conjunct] select between having a textual Theme (conflated with an element with the textual function Conjunctive) and not having one. As in Halliday’s account, Matthiessen (1995a: 538) recognises continuative and conjunctive types of textual element in the Theme. He presents a network for the semantic area of

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conjunction in English which covers the subclasses of meanings recognised by Halliday, realised by both conjunctions such as and, but, and conjunctive adjuncts of the various types (1995a: 521). The interpersonal element of the Theme may include the Finite, an interpersonal Adjunct or a Vocative. Matthiessen (1995a: 536) presents a network, in which clauses with the feature [attitudinal] select between having an interpersonal Theme (conflated with an element with the interpersonal function Attitude) or not. Matthiessen (1995a: 540) also provides a system network for ideational Theme in clauses, with the feature [major] as entry condition. The theme selection system distinguishes between [marked Theme] and [unmarked Theme]. The feature [marked Theme] leads to a system differentiating between [as Theme matter] and [as transitivity role]: the first of these caters for the situation in which the Theme is presented explicitly as an aboutness relation, realised by ‘as to/for + nominal group’ (see example (109), given earlier), and Matthiessen (1995a: 552) notes that such Themes play a purely textual role, and are not to be interpreted ideationally as circumstances of Matter, for two reasons: they are obligatorily thematic; and they cannot be focused in Theme predication, whereas ideational elements can (see below). The feature [as transitivity role] corresponds to those cases where the Theme is some participant or circumstance other than that which is most usual for the mood type of the clause, or for the type of clause, if bound. The remainder of the network shows interactions with mood choices, which are simultaneous with those for Theme selection. Clauses with the feature [indicative] select from the theme predication system ([non-predicated Theme] vs. [predicated Theme]). Matthiessen (1995a: 559) points out that only those elements with a transitivity role can be predicated. He also differentiates between the most usual (i.e. unmarked) type of predicated Theme, realised as ‘it + be + X + that clause’ (see example (151)), and a marked variant of the form ‘X + it + be + that clause’, as in (170). (170) So the dog it was that died. (BNC G3E 2426) Indicative clauses with non-predicated, unmarked Theme select, in the theme substitution system, between [non-substitute] and [substitute], the latter having a pronominal ‘Pro-Theme’, with a ‘substitute Theme’ at the end of the clause.49 An example is given in (171). (171) It’s mine this one. (BNC KBW 13087) Matthiessen also discusses Theme identification (i.e. thematic equatives, or pseudoclefts), but does not integrate this into his system network. He further points out (1995a: 566) that topical Themes can occasionally be selected from outside the clause itself, especially with cognitive mental process clauses, as in (172). (172) Who do you think killed Riddle? (BNC GW3 2504)

. For the original proposal on which this is based, see Halliday (1967b: 239–241).



 Structure and Function

.... ‘Information’ and ‘culmination’. Matthiessen adds little to Halliday’s account of the distribution of Given and New information and the realisation of these textual functions through intonation in English. For written language, he proposes systems for ‘culmination’, defined as “the resource for assigning informational prominence in writing in terms of newsworthiness to constituents in the clause” (1995a: 600). Culmination is realised by the ordering of elements at the end of the clause. A number of culmination systems are envisaged, depending on which transitivity functions the elements to be ordered have: for instance, one of the systems (‘benefactive culmination I’, 1995a: 601) offers the option of placing the Medium before the Beneficiary or vice versa. As Matthiessen points out, culmination complements Theme in that the former is concerned with establishing a point of information at the end of the clause, the latter with a point of information at the beginning of the clause. ... Voice Voice in SFG is seen as a mechanism for achieving alternative mappings of the transitivity functions derived from the ideational metafunction on to the mood functions derived from the interpersonal metafunction. This is shown clearly in examples such as those below. (173) Someone smashed the lock with a tool of some kind . . . Actor/Agent Process Goal/Medium Manner (Means) Circumstance Subject Predicator Complement Adjunct (BNC CEB 1490) (174) The lock was smashed by someone with a tool of some kind . . . Goal/Medium Process Actor/Agent Manner (Means) Circumstance Subject Predicator Adjunct Adjunct Halliday (1994a: 168) distinguishes between clauses which involve agency, labelled as ‘effective’, and those without agency, which are ‘middle’. Only effective clauses can be active or passive. These contrasts are seen most clearly with verbs which can be transitive or intransitive, such as open in the following examples. (175) He opened it slowly, . . . (BNC EF7 569) [effective, active] (176) When the van came to a halt and the loading doors were opened he slowly raised his head . . . (BNC GW0 1965) [effective, passive] (177) The door opened, slowly at first. (BNC BP7 1384) [middle] Note that in the passive the Agent may be implicit, as in (176): although there is clearly agency here, the identity of the Agent is not indicated. Indeed, Halliday (1994a: 169) points to the possibility for Agent omission as one motivation for the use of the passive. If the Agent is present, as in (178), the passive has the effect of placing it late in the clause, as a candidate for unmarked information focus. (178) One of the frogs was eaten by a lizard. (BNC CEU 1604)

Chapter 2

Information structure 

An additional motivation may be to get the Medium into Subject position, so that it can be the unmarked Theme, the starting point for the message. Halliday (1994a: 169) also discusses briefly the possibilities for conflation of roles other than Medium with Subject in the passive. Examples of Beneficiary and Range as Subject are given in (179) and (180) below. (179) He was given £2 for his troubles. (BNC AJ8 479) (180) A 500 m (1,750 ft) ascent, which took an experienced human mountain walker 90 minutes, was climbed by a mountain goat in 20 minutes. (BNC CJ3 1661) Even expressions of Location and Manner can sometimes become the Subject of a passive if they would be the complements of prepositions in the active counterpart. (181) His bed had been slept in, . . . (BNC JY1 427) The passive, unlike marked Theme (the other information structuring device involving constituent ordering), involves alteration in the form of the verbal group. Halliday’s view of tense (see §9.4.1.1 of Part 1) as a recursive system in the verbal group leads him to claim that the passive “functions like an extra secondary tense”, in the sense that it is expressed by a form of be or get plus a past/passive participle, appearing at the end of the verbal group (Halliday 1994a: 199). We can see this in the two passive verbal groups of example (182): has been taken is ‘past in present passive’, while has been being discussed is ‘present in past in present passive’, under Halliday’s analysis. (182) . . . little action has been taken in the last thirty forty years since this has been being discussed . . . (BNC JJG 541) We saw in §9.4.1.2 of Part 1 that Halliday treats various types of meaning, including some regarded as aspectual in many other approaches, in terms of realisation in verbal group complexes. He demonstrates (1994a: 282–288) that the various types have different relationships with the passive. For instance, in verbal groups expressing an elaborating ‘phase’ meaning, the transitivity functions remain the same in the passive, as shown in (183) and its active counterpart (184). (183) I haven’t been very successful with my aubergines the last couple of years, as they keep being eaten by caterpillars. (BNC A0G 2302) (184) . . . caterpillars keep eating them. On the other hand, in a verbal group complex expressing an extending ‘conation’ meaning, the transitivity roles are changed in the passive, as demonstrated in (185) as compared with (186), where the relationships are different. (185) It was one of those old-established inns tucked away into the side streets of London that have somehow avoided being bought over and sanitized by the big chains, . . . (BNC CAM 1213) (186) . . . the big chains have somehow avoided buying them over and sanitizing them.

 Structure and Function

Matthiessen (1995a: 591) points out that voice options are different for different transitivity types. He gives a network for what he calls ‘effective voice’ and ‘benefactive voice’ in material process clauses. The effective voice system distinguishes, in effective material process clauses, between active and passive (which Matthiessen, returning to an earlier nomenclature of Halliday’s, labels [operative] and [receptive]), with [receptive] having the further option of being overtly [agentive] or not. Dispositive50 material clauses can be [benefactive] or [non-benefactive], and if a clause is both [benefactive] and [receptive], it may then be [bene-receptive] (i.e. with Beneficiary and Subject conflated) or [medio-receptive] (with conflation of Medium and Subject). Downing (1996) presents a study of the get-passive in English, based on over 800 examples taken from the Cobuild Bank of English corpus. Through the use of authentic examples and a Hallidayan transitivity framework as the basis for her analysis, she is able to test and refine various claims which have been made in the literature. She defines the get-passive, for her purposes, in terms of a set of criteria (1996: 181): they are basically effective, they have a be-passive counterpart, they have a unique active counterpart, and they can potentially take an agentive by-phrase. Thus (187) would count as a get-passive, but (188) would not, since it is clearly relational, and neither would (189), as get is not replaceable by be. (187) The desert town of Perfection, Nevada – all tumbleweed and beat-up trucks – gets attacked by giant earthworms. (BNC ACP 488) (188) . . . I got stuck. (BNC CCX1032) (189) Marie gets changed behind the wardrobe door, . . . (BNC A74 314 ) Downing finds that the get- and be-passives are not always in free variation. The getpassive emphasises the Medium and what changes it undergoes as a result of the process described in the clause; in most cases this change is adverse, and then the Medium tends to be human. There are also meanings of causation and responsibility which are not part of the meaning of the be-passive. Responsibility may be shared by Medium and Agent, or by Medium and speaker/Agent; where responsibility is not strongly in evidence, a ‘come to be X-ed’ meaning may be prominent. The process type found with the highest frequency in combination with the get-passive was material dispositive, with Goal/Medium; the least likely process type is relational. As suggested in other studies, get-passives are usually agentless, and Downing suggests that this may be in order to avoid split emphasis on the Medium and a focal Agent.

... Modifications, alternatives and extensions Halliday’s account of information distribution, and especially of Theme, has given rise to a good deal of controversy. In this section I shall give a summary of the contentious issues, and of the considerable body of work which has attempted to clarify and refine the ideas involved. A useful starting point is the distinction made by Huddleston (1991: 95) . As opposed to ‘creative’: see §8.3.1.7 of Part 1.

Information structure 

Chapter 2

between two facets of Theme: (i) the linguistic expression which is claimed to realise the function of Theme (which Huddleston labels ThemeE ), and (ii) Theme considered as content (ThemeC ). On the basis of this distinction, Huddleston puts forward a set of questions which he believes require to be answered if the concept of Theme is to have any real validity. i. ii. iii. iv. v.

How is ThemeE determined? What does it mean to say of some “x” that “x” is ThemeC ? How is ThemeC determined, and what is the relation between ThemeC and ThemeE ? What is the constituent structure assigned to a clause with multiple ThemeE ? What is the nature of the empirical evidence supporting the analysis? (Huddleston 1991: 95)

These questions are basically concerned with the identification, extent and structure of ThemeE , and with the meaning of ThemeC and its relationship with ThemeE .51 In what follows, I shall take these areas as the basis for discussion.

.... The identification, extent and structure of ThemeE . We saw in §2.4.1.2.3 that Halliday regards the Theme of a clause as extending up to, and including, the first element with a function in the transitivity structure of the clause. The Theme may include textually- and interpersonally-oriented material which precedes the first ideational element. Huddleston raises a number of problems for this approach to the identification of ThemeE . He points out (Huddleston 1988: 160–161, 1991: 96–97) that in the clause Wouldn’t the best idea be to join the group? (simplified, in ways irrelevant to the point being made, from Halliday’s example (1985a: 55, repeated in 1994a: 55) well then Ann surely wouldn’t the best idea be to join the group?), Halliday’s takes the topical Theme to be the best idea, and this is indeed consistent with the claim that ThemeE extends over everything up to and including the first element with a transitivity function. But in the clause Isn’t the best idea to join the group?, since isn’t has a transitivity function (as Process) as well as being the Finite element in the interpersonal strand, it should be the topical Theme. It seems somewhat counter-intuitive to have entirely different topical Themes for these two clauses. Matthiessen & Martin’s reply to Huddleston’s criticism in his 1988 review is that for Halliday, the best idea is the topical Theme in both clauses, because both wouldn’t and isn’t are thematic as Finite: . . . it is Finite that is selected as Theme – Process is not selected as Theme (contrast the thematic Process in he said he would run and run he did). Since Finite is co-extensive with Process, the latter will also be initial in the clause, but only due to its role as Finite. Consequently, it does not constitute the topical part of the Theme. (Matthiessen & Martin 1991: 48) . Related to these distinctions is that in SFG between definition criteria, based on the meaning/function of a category, and recognition criteria, formal properties by which the category can be identified (see Hasan & Fries 1995b: xvi).

 Structure and Function

Nevertheless, as Huddleston (1991: 96–97) points out in his reaction to Matthiessen & Martin’s response, isn’t does still satisfy Halliday’s criterion for topical Theme. Clearly, then, the recognition criterion needs tightening up. Huddleston also points out that the criterion needs refining for clauses which are claimed to have no Theme. Huddleston (1991: 96–97) also notes that existential there is problematic in that Halliday (1985a: 130, repeated in 1994a: 142) explicitly states that there has no representational function in this context, yet he treats it as topical Theme in and there was nothing more he could do about it (Halliday 1985a: 65, repeated in 1994a: 64). A further criticism voiced by Huddleston in his review of IFG (1988: 161–162) is concerned with the constituent structure of a ThemeE with multiple components. He interprets Halliday’s box diagram for well but then Ann surely wouldn’t the best idea be to join the group? as indicating that on the textual dimension, the sequence well but then Ann surely wouldn’t the best idea is treated, at one level of the constituency hierarchy, as a single Theme constituent, with sub-constituents corresponding to the textual, interpersonal and topical Themes. He finds such constituents highly implausible from a grammatical point of view. Matthiessen & Martin’s reply to this criticism is that Halliday’s analysis postulates only one level of constituency, that of the whole Theme, the component parts (which, unlike grammatical functions, are not given an initial capital letter) being simply “a more delicate interpretation of thematic progression within the clause” (1991: 8). These authors also reject Huddleston’s claim that the constituency structure Halliday proposes is in any way strange, pointing to the Theme/Rheme dichotomy in Prague School linguistics and to its usefulness in the study of information packaging in texts (see below). Nevertheless, as Huddleston (1991: 105–106) observes, Halliday does indeed write of the ‘structure’ of the Theme and of the elements within it, and his box diagrams clearly imply constituency relations here as elsewhere. Huddleston notes: What we need from Systemic-Functional Grammar in this context is discussion of the kinds of criteria and evidence that are relevant to determining whether some string is a constituent or not. (Huddleston 1991: 106)

The further discussion of this point clearly indicates that Huddleston is thinking in terms of syntactic criteria here. This exemplifies an important underlying difference in how Huddleston and Matthiessen/Martin view Halliday’s account of Theme: the former approaches it from the viewpoint of a grammarian interested primarily in form and its relationship with meaning; the latter, on the other hand, emphasise the role of Theme in text structure. This is clearly a matter of emphasis: there is no reason to think that Huddleston rejects the importance of clausal information distribution in the structure of text,52 and Matthiessen & Martin are certainly interested in form/meaning relationships;53 nev. Indeed, when discussing the relationship between Theme and topic, Huddleston (1991: 99) writes: “It is undoubtedly true that one could not give a satisfactory explanation of topic without using examples in context”. . The SFG view of formal structure, however, is itself strongly conditioned by considerations of meaning, as we have seen at numerous points in this book.

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ertheless, the difference in approach is significant and needs to be borne in mind when evaluating the claims made on each side. This point is taken up by Berry (1996) in an interesting and ambitious paper which suggests a research programme with the aim of answering the question ‘What is Theme?’. Berry writes as an applied text linguist, interested in the application of SFG thematic analysis to the description of written communication in business, for the purpose of helping teachers to prepare students for careers in business and industry. For her, then, matters of meaning and its relationship with text structure and genre are of paramount importance. Berry replaces Huddleston’s ThemeE by ThemeF (i.e. Theme as form) in order to forestall any confusion about how the term ‘expression’ is being used, and replaces ThemeC by ThemeM (Theme as meaning) in order to avoid any implication, from the term ‘content’, that we are dealing only with ideational meaning here. She also distinguishes between ThemeM at the discourse level and at the clause level: I shall assume that discourse ThemeM is something that a speaker or writer has in relation to a text or large section of a text, a priority set of types of meaning that reflects his/her underlying concerns for the duration of the text or large section of text, and that clause ThemeM is something that a speaker or writer has in relation to a particular clause, a (set of) meaning(s) that reflects his/her priority for that particular clause. (Berry 1996: 18)

Because of her orientation towards the meaning end, she prioritises discussion of those of Huddleston’s questions which are concerned with ThemeC/M ; a considerable proportion of her article, however, is devoted to suggesting how we might evaluate a number of proposals made in the literature for the extent of ThemeE/F . Berry (1996: 29–31) lists a range of different hypotheses for the interpretation of what ‘the beginning of the clause’ might mean in relation to Theme. These are summarised below: i. ii.

the initial hypothesis: first position in the clause (Halliday 1985a: 39, 1994a: 38); up to and including the first ideational element (i.e. the first element with a transitivity function) (Halliday 1985a: 54, 1994a: 53); iii. everything up to and including the Subject (Enkvist 1973); iv. everything (in a main clause) up to the (main) verb (Berry 1989a, 1995); v. as (iv), but including any auxiliaries (Stainton 1993); vi. up to and including the lexical verb (a hypothesis which does not appear in the literature prior to Berry’s own paper); vii. the continuum hypothesis: Theme and Rheme shade into each other, with no clear boundary (Matthiessen 1992: 51); viii. a version of Matthiessen’s hypothesis in which the boundaries of Theme and Rheme can be isolated, but the two overlap somewhere in the area of the main verb, within an approach which views Theme and other functions as unfolding dynamically as the clause progresses (Ravelli 1995).






Berry also mentions the importance of unusual positioning in relation to marked Themes, and the hypothesis that position in a main clause is more important than that in a subordinate clause in realising prioritised meanings. As might be expected in a theory in which meaning and form are so closely linked, we can go no further in discussing the extent of the Theme constituent without considering the meaning of Theme, and it is to this that I now turn.

.... The meaning of ThemeC/M and its relationship with ThemeE/F . One particularly important source of problems in the area of Theme is the concept of ‘point of departure’ or ‘starting-point’ and its relationship with ‘what the clause is about’. An early critique of this concept can be found in Taglicht (1984: 14–15), which is based on the account of Theme given in Halliday (1967b, 1968). Taglicht points out: The unwillingness to part company with the idea of theme as ‘what is being talked about’ has this drawback: it leads easily to the conclusion that if x is the theme of a sentence, all that remains must be ‘what is being said about it’, the rheme . . . (Taglicht 1984: 14)

In particular, Taglicht criticises Halliday’s claim that in the set of clauses John saw the play yesterday, Yesterday John saw the play and The play John saw yesterday (discussed in Halliday 1967b: 212ff.), Halliday treats John as thematic only in the first clause. This, Taglicht observes, ignores an important fact about the interplay of textual and syntactic aspects of structure: Textual order is not merely linear order, related only to preceding and following sentences (if any) in the text; textual order is linear order in relation to syntactic dependency structure. (Taglicht 1984: 14)

The syntactic dependencies between John and saw are exactly the same in all three of the clauses cited above, and this leads Taglicht to suggest that a shift in Theme, from John to yesterday or the play respectively, is unwarranted. Taglicht himself (1984: 15ff.) proposes an analysis in which John is (unmarkedly) thematic in all three examples, the second and third also having a marked Theme (yesterday and the play respectively). Taglicht’s scheme also differs from Halliday’s in treating the Operator element as distinct from the Theme: in John is painting the shed or Is John painting the shed? the form is is labelled as Operator rather than forming part of either Theme or Rheme. Taglicht also criticises Halliday for not complementing the concept of marked Theme with that of marked Rheme, a term which Taglicht (1984: 23ff.) uses to cover ‘end-shifted’ Subjects (as in Into the room came a strange man [Taglicht’s example 1]) ‘end-shifted’ elements of the Predicate (as in There were in this article a number of interesting points [his 6b]), and cases where a final item is separated by a ‘partitioning’ element from an item which would come before it if it were part of an unmarked Rheme (as in They are returning, however, to England [Taglicht’s 13]). Finally, Taglicht (1984: 25ff.) makes proposals for the interaction between thematic structure and intonation structure, suggesting that all marked Themes and Rhemes must

Chapter 2


have an intonation focus, though this may be non-nuclear in the case of a marked Theme; while unmarked textual elements may be ‘residual’ in the information structuring. Let us now return to the specific problem of aboutness. Huddleston’s review of the original edition of IFG also devotes considerable attention to this. He writes: It is not clear that ‘point of departure’ or ‘starting-point’ can sustain an interpretation that is independent of syntactic sequence – that the theme is the point of departure for the message in a more significant sense than that of being the first element. (Huddleston 1988: 158)

This, according to Huddleston, leaves only the interpretation of Theme as what the clause is about: this interpretation, however, makes little sense in the case of clauses such as Nothing will satisfy you, You could buy a bar of chocolate like this for 6d before the War, or There’s a fallacy in your argument, which are arguably not about nothing, you, and there respectively (Huddleston 1988: 158). Huddleston also points out that these elements cannot be preceded by as for/with regard to/about . . . , which are regarded by Halliday as ways for announcing the Theme explicitly. Furthermore, although as for my wife, she couldn’t stand the dog is clearly about ‘my wife’, and as for the dog, my wife couldn’t stand it is equally clearly about ‘the dog’, my wife couldn’t stand the dog could be about either, though in Hallidayan terms, as interpreted by Huddleston, it would have to be about ‘my wife’. Hudson, in his own review of IFG, makes similar points: . . . those of us who can’t easily pick out the parts of a clause which define ‘what it is going to be about’ or its ‘point of departure’ are simply unable to decide whether any of his [Halliday’s – CSB] claims about themes are right or wrong. What could one give as a counterexample? Indeed, one wonders what criteria he himself is using to identify themes when one reads that the subordinating conjunction that is a theme in the clause it introduces [. . . ] – it is very hard to see it as defining what the clause is going to be about, and if it is ‘the point of departure’ of the clause, it can only be in the sense of being the first element. (Hudson 1986: 798)

Huddleston also observes that Halliday’s analysis of question-answer pairs will often, counter-intuitively, involve a change of Theme. For instance, in Huddleston’s example A. What’s the new boss like? B. She seems O.K., the answer has she as Theme, referring to the new boss, but the Theme of the question is what, an element which does not refer to the new boss. A further point raised in Huddleston’s critique of Theme is that the concept of aboutness cannot apply to non-nominal Themes such as initial adverbials (1988: 159–160). The problems, as Huddleston remarks, become even more acute when we are dealing with multiple Themes. He concludes: It seems clear that his [Halliday’s – CSB] concept of Theme cannot be defined in terms of the usual intuitive idea of what a clause or message is about. (Huddleston 1988: 159)

Matthiessen & Martin (1991: 43) reject Huddleston’s criticism of Hallidayan Theme on two grounds: that he does not discuss the contextualisation of Theme in actual text, and that he narrows discussion of Theme to the notion of topic, or ‘aboutness’. They argue



 Structure and Function

(1991: 43–47) that negative Themes (such as nothing in the example discussed above) can take part in the thematic progressions to be found within texts; that thematic existential there establishes, as a point of departure, the expectation that an element with the transitivity function Existent will be presented; that as for is not a test for thematic status, but is restricted to Themes which have ideational function, represent given information and mark specific Themes rather than generalised ones such as generic you or people. For question-answer pairs, they argue (1991: 47–48) that the Hallidayan account of Theme makes sense of the thematic progression involved: in the example discussed above, the new boss in the Rheme of the question is picked up as the Theme, she, of the answer. Matthiessen & Martin conclude: What is critical is that Theme has to be understood through its contribution to the development of discourse not through the experiential semantics of lexical items such as ‘about’. For example, thematic progression may be interpersonal as well as experiential. (1991: 49)

They then go on to exemplify thematic progression by means of interpersonal Themes.54 Huddleston (1991: 97ff.), in his reply to Matthiessen & Martin’s criticisms, defends his focus on the relation between Theme and ‘aboutness’ on three grounds: it provides a point of contact with other, non-systemic accounts in which aboutness is commonly invoked; ideational Themes are the easiest to grasp, so that we are unlikely to be able to understand other kinds if we cannot understand these; and furthermore (as was also demonstrated in the introduction to Halliday’s account given in §2.4.1.2.1) aboutness plays a very prominent part in Halliday’s own discussions of Theme. He points out that when Halliday introduces Theme in terms of aboutness, he does not give any clue that this is to be restricted to topical Themes. His view, however, is that even if we restrict aboutness to topical Themes, Halliday’s view remains untenable. He observes that no contextualisation is required in order to clarify the interpretation of the examples with negative, general or existential Themes on which part of his argument was based, and maintains that Matthiessen & Martin have not answered the criticism that these purportedly thematic elements are not what the clause is about.55 On Theme in question-answer pairs, Huddleston (1991: 101) points out that in Japanese, which codes topic explicitly with a postpositional marker, the equivalents of . See also Martin (1995), where he again argues against Huddleston’s position through an analysis of the importance of topical and interpersonal Themes in the development of texts, the essence of his claim being that Theme is ‘more than what the message is about’. . Here it is worth noting that McGregor (1997: 288ff.), who in his Semiotic Grammar treats Theme as essentially a linking relation, agrees with Huddleston that negative Themes such as nobody or presentatives such as there are not what the clause is about, but does not regard this as vitiating the concept of Theme. For McGregor, the Theme of a clause is the element which serves as “a reference point for the purpose of anchoring the utterance, for tying it down to its context, both linguistic and speech-situational” (1997: 291). Although McGregor goes on to exemplify the concept of anchor, it is not clear to me that it is any less metaphorical or more easily definable than terms such as ‘starting point’ or ‘peg on which the message is hung’ offered by Halliday.

Chapter 2


the new boss and she are both treated as topic in the minimal exchange discussed above. He also comments (1991: 102–104) on Halliday’s gloss of the meaning of wh-questions as ‘I want you to tell me the person, thing, time, manner, etc.’, pointing out that this meaning does not attach to the wh-word itself (e.g. what does not mean ‘I want you to tell me the thing’), but to the construction as a whole, and that this is a far cry from simple examples in which ThemeC can be related directly to ThemeE . Any extension of this kind needs to be acknowledged, justified and explained. Furthermore, Huddleston asserts, the fact (acknowledged by Halliday) that wh-questions can be used for a variety of reasons (e.g. in examination questions), not simply when the speaker genuinely wants to know the answer, militates against the claim that wanting to know the answer is part of the meaning of the construction. He notes that Matthiessen & Martin do not incorporate ‘I want you to tell me ..’ into the meaning of the Theme, interpreting this rather in terms of the condition that the speaker does not know the answer, but assumes that the addressee does know it – a condition which again does not apply to all wh-questions. He further observes that in alternative questions such as Is it a boy or a girl? the ThemeE will be is it, just as in Is it a girl?, but the meaning is no longer ‘I want you to tell me whether or not’, so complicating the problem of finding a consistent relationship between ThemeC and ThemeE . This relationship is also problematic in Halliday’s interpretation of imperative clauses, where the meaning ‘I want you to do something’, realised just by the form of the clause in a normal subjectless imperative, is claimed, in Huddleston’s interpretation of Halliday, to be thematised in imperatives such as You keep quiet: yet, as Huddleston (1991: 105) points out, you clearly does not mean ‘I want you to do something’. One particularly noteworthy aspect of the debate on ‘aboutness’ in relation to Theme, which can account to some extent for the apparently irreconcilable positions taken, is concerned with alternative interpretations of ‘aboutness’. As interpreted by Huddleston (and, it is fair to say, by many other linguists in discussions of this area) ‘aboutness’ is a referential notion; Matthiessen & Martin (1991: 43), however, appear to regard it as more a matter of setting up paradigmatic proportionalities between variants of clauses with different thematic structures. This point is taken up by Gómez-González (1996a, 1996b, 1998b, 2001), who claims that Halliday’s conception of topical Theme should not be seen as referential, but rather as ‘relational’ (see Gundel 1988, also §2.2.2.1.1), entailing “a syntactically coded relation between an entity/proposition, or syntactic Theme, and a clausal (complex) predication, or Rheme, which derives from the linear quality of language” (GómezGonzález 2001: 137). Such an interpretation is certainly not the most obvious reading of phrases such as ‘what the message is about’, but clearly if this is indeed Halliday’s intention, then it radically alters the relationship between Theme and topic. This matter will be taken up again in §2.5, when I compare SFG with FG and RRG in relation to information structuring in the clause. We have seen that one particularly important basis for Matthiessen & Martin’s criticisms of Huddleston is the role of Theme/Rheme structure in the organisation of texts. Likewise, Hasan & Fries state:



 Structure and Function

. . . the semantic description of Theme as the ‘point of departure’ can be understood only in the context of textual organization, for it is this aspect of language use to which the patterns of thematic selection bear some non-random relation . . . (Hasan & Fries 1995b: xix)

Let us, then, now pass on to consider work by textually-oriented linguists which has shed further light on the meaning and importance of Theme, and on its relationship with aboutness.56 The comments on the role of Theme in text development made by Matthiessen & Martin (1991) and by Martin (1992b) are based largely on work by Fries dating back as far as 1981. In a seminal paper, Fries (1981/1983)57 investigates the relationships between the content and progression of Themes in texts and the nature of the text, including its structure and the ways in which the points in the text are developed. He begins (1981/1983: 116–119) by distinguishing between the ‘combining’ approach towards Theme and given information taken by Prague School linguists such as Mathesius and, later, Firbas, and the ‘separating’ approach espoused by Halliday, in which Theme and Given are, as we have already seen, regarded as separate though related categories. Fries then investigates the nature of sentence-level themes in argumentative or expository prose texts. He takes the sentence-level Theme to be the first constituent of a simple clause (so that the Themes he examines include certain clause-level Themes), but in a hypotactic clause complex in which the subordinate clause comes first, that subordinate clause is itself regarded as the Theme of the sentence as a whole. Fries (1981/1983: 121–124) first reports on work showing that choices of Theme in his texts, and in particular the patterns of thematic progression from one sentence to the next,58 correlate strongly with the outlines of paragraphs from the text provided by an informant. He then goes on to show that the content of the Themes of a text correlates with the method of development of the text, in cases where a single method of development can be discerned. For instance, in texts describing objects or scenes, the method of development might be through the relative location of the parts of the object or scene, and in such cases, information on location tended to be thematic. If the text is then rewritten so that references to relative location occur in the Rhemes rather than the Themes of the text sentences, and the Themes refer to the component parts of the complex object or scene, then location is no longer the method of development, but rather becomes the point of the paragraph. Furthermore, if a text is rewritten in such a way that any pattern of thematic content is systematically destroyed, readers comment that the text appears disorganised, whereas they do not perceive the original text in this way. Fries (1981/1983: 136–142) then goes on to demonstrate that the choice of Theme is independent of the choice of given or new information – that is, he offers textual evidence in support of Halliday’s separating approach. Taking punctuation and plausible . For further brief comments on theme and text connectivity, see McGregor (1997: 302–305). . All page references are to the 1983 reprinted version. . For an account of the patterns of thematic progression referred to by Fries, see Daneš (1974).

Chapter 2


readings of the text to indicate the distribution of tone groups, he concludes that some of the Themes in his texts are presented by the writer as new information, even though in one sense the referents of these Themes are familiar to the addressees of the text. As a final step in his argument, Fries (1981/1983: 143–144) shows that the Theme/ Rheme distinction within clauses and sentences can be placed within a larger discourse frame, in the sense that just as the Theme establishes a ground on which the Rheme can be interpreted, so one sentence can set up the discourse ground on which further sentences can elaborate. This foreshadows, for example, the work of Martin (1992a: 437) on higher order Themes in texts. Fries’ later work (see especially Fries 1992, 1993, 1994, 1997, 2002a) on written texts provides evidence that (sentence-level) Theme orients the reader towards the message about to be processed, while what he calls ‘N-Rheme’ (for New Rheme, so called because of the unmarked, though not obligatory, association between Rheme and new information), which is the last sentence constituent, contains material which is ‘newsworthy’, and to which the reader is therefore expected to give particular attention.59 For instance, in his analysis of a fund-raising text (Fries 1994), he demonstrates that the Themes contain most of the references to the organisation concerned, but that the N-Rhemes regularly contain the evaluative terms. Even when Themes and N-Rhemes contain semantically similar information, the function of this information is different: in Themes the function is one of providing an orientation to the coming content, in N-Rhemes it is to give salient information related to the goals of the text. In Fries (1995a), he expands on the reasons for the choice of particular material for thematic status: the orientation function of Theme may consist in the provision of information required to interpret the main message, the cancellation of an assumption established in a previous context, the prevention of misinterpretation of temporal or locational references, or the highlighting of the point of elaboration. Before we leave this brief summary of Fries’ work, it is worth noting that his concept of Theme as an ‘orienting’ device is very different from that of Theme as carrying ‘aboutness’. Indeed, Fries wishes to dissociate Topic from Theme, and even states that he regards Halliday’s position as consistent with this view (see Fries 1993: 338). Unfortunately, however, the notion of Topic is assumed rather than explicitly defined, and this makes it difficult to see exactly how Fries sees his work as relating to that of other linguists who make use of the category of Topic.60 It is perhaps significant that in the ‘personal view of Theme’ which is offered in Fries (1995b), he raises, as an important issue, the question of how Theme interacts with other functions such as Subject, Topic, Given and New, and later goes on to . One may then wonder about the functions of that part of the clause which comes between Theme and N-Rheme. Hartnett (1995), on the basis of an analysis of a sample of non-fictional English prose, discusses the structure and functions of what she labels the ‘Pit’, in view of the fact that it has the lowest information value in the clause. The Pit begins with anything coming after the Subject and not closely tied to it, and represents the beginning of the progression leading to the N-Rheme. . I am indebted to Angela Downing for discussion on this point.



 Structure and Function

discuss briefly the dissociation of Theme/Rheme from Given/New, but does not mention Theme/Topic relations. Fries (1995b) is, however, a particularly useful and succinct summary of Fries’ views on Theme, in the course of which he reviews and evaluates the available evidence in relation to hypotheses concerned with correlations of thematic content and progression with various properties of texts.61 He concludes that the hypothesis that thematic progression varies with genre is only weakly supported;62 that there is partial support for the idea that the experiential content of Themes correlates with method of development; that there is variation, according to the range of genres used, in the results of work designed to test the hypothesis that the experiential content of Themes correlates with genre; and that little work has yet been done to evaluate the hypothesis that the experiential content of Themes correlates with the macrostructural elements of texts, though some evidence for this hypothesis is available. Certainly, types of thematic content and progression do not occur randomly in texts, as Fries’ own work consistently shows (see also Fries 1995c).63 Clearly, however, as Fries himself comments, much more analytical work is needed in this area. A further angle on the meaning of Theme, which can perhaps be seen as a further refinement of Fries’ work, is that suggested by Matthiessen (1995b), who focuses on its role in ‘logogenesis’, defined as “the creation of meaning through instantiation of the system in text” (1995b: 22). The textual metafunction is seen as constructing ideational and interpersonal meanings as the text unfolds, through the provision of resources for guiding meaning exchanges in the text.64 Through the analysis of monologic texts, Matthiessen demonstrates that within this general scenario, the role of Theme with respect to ideational meanings is to indicate points of expansion: for instance, if at a particular point an informational node in the text is being expanded in terms of temporal enhancement, then the Theme will probably be a temporal expression. Matthiessen also comments briefly on the role of Theme in constructing interpersonal meanings in certain types of text. Also very much concerned with the relationship between Theme and topic, and the role of each in text structure and interpretation, is the work of Downing. She notes that discussion of this area has been made more complicated by the widening of scope from the study of clauses and sentences to that of text, and by confusion in the area of relationships between initial elements, topic and Subject (Downing 1991: 119). Downing’s own defini. For a more detailed review of this evidence, see Fries (1995c). . Ghadessy (1998b), on the other hand, reports that thematic development does show clustering when tested on five of the text types isolated by Biber & Finegan (1986), and that the groups so obtained differ from those given by Biber & Finegan’s set of criteria, which Ghadessy claims derive largely from ideational meaning, with some contribution from the interpersonal. Nwogu & Bloor (1991) report differences in thematic progression between professional and popular types of medical text. . See also Gómez-González (1994, 1995) for further SFG-based work on thematic progression in written and spoken English text. . See also Lavid López (2000: 364), who actually defines Theme in terms of guiding the addressee through the information flow of a text: “Theme is that element that informs the listener as discourse unfolds how to relate the incoming information to what is already known”.

Information structure 

Chapter 2

tion of topic is “a narrative or discourse category which describes what a text, or part of a text (including a clause) is about” (1991: 120). She recognises that although the topic of a clause, as so defined, typically coincides with the Subject, there are cases where this is not so, as with Huddleston’s Nothing will satisfy you kind of example. She nevertheless finds it useful to identify a ‘main participant’ which represents the topic of a certain span of a discourse, though not necessarily the whole of it, and which coincides with Subject in most instances. While readily accepting the usefulness of the Hallidayan concept of Theme, Downing wishes to dissociate it from topic as defined above. She points out that the starting point, or point of departure, of a message is not always identifiable with what the message is about. Crucially, she remarks: Even Halliday’s identification of a ‘topical Theme’ as the first ideational element does not solve the problem, as can be seen by examining the various realizations of the thematic element. (1991: 122)

For instance, Downing quotes the following example from a book review about Freud: (190) (= Downing’s (7), 1991: 125) 1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7.

topical structural topical structural topical modal topical

Towards the end of his life, (1) Freud concluded that (2) he (3) was not a great man, but (4) he (5) had discovered great things. Arguably (6), the reverse (7) might be true.

Here, Downing has analysed the Themes as in Halliday’s model. She observes that the identification of the first ideational element as topical Theme forces us to recognise towards the end of his life as the topical Theme of the first clause, while he must be the topical Theme of the second and third clauses. As she points out, it would be more satisfying to treat Freud as the topical Theme, or at least the topic, of the first clause. Downing observes that Enkvist’s proposal to treat everything up to and including the Subject of the main clause as Theme (see (iii) in Berry’s list of proposals for the extent of ThemeE/F ) would allow a more systematic treatment of topical Theme, and that Halliday has moved some way in this direction by including the Subject of polar interrogatives in the Theme, and also by his mention, in connection with a textual analysis (Halliday 1985a: 67, repeated in 1994a: 66) of ‘displaced Theme’ for Robert in the example Apart from a need to create his own identity, Robert felt . . . , where, if the initial circumstantial Adjunct were rephrased as a subordinate clause, Robert would be the unmarked Theme. Downing, however, sees this as an unnecessary complication, preferring to adopt an analysis in which no Adjunct can be a topical Theme. Clearly, in the Freud example above, the topical element is not that which refers to the end of Freud’s life, but that referring to Freud himself. Downing adduces three further pieces of evidence for her position. Firstly, Adjuncts represent circumstances, not participants, and so are not inherent in the mean-

 Structure and Function

ing or the form of the clause: in a congruent representation of the clause, they can never be topics in the sense defined by Downing, and so cannot be identified as ‘what the clause is about’. Secondly, she claims that the fronting of Adjuncts “does not affect the predictability of which way the clause is going” (1991: 126). Thirdly, and most crucially for Downing’s own proposals, fronted circumstantial elements do perform an important function in the clause, but it is not that of announcing the topic, but rather that of providing a framework of some kind for the interpretation of the message. Problems also arise with fronted Attributes, as in Furious they were, or the following, from H. G. Wells’ A Short History of the World, the text from which Downing takes much of her exemplification: (191) (= Downing’s (9), p. 127) Chief among these young men was Plato. Such initial fronted Attributes can hardly be considered as topics. Furthermore, as Downing points out, even the Enkvist proposal would run into difficulties with examples of the kind shown in (191), involving Subject-verb inversion, since, if we are to include everything up to and including the Subject, the whole clause would be thematic. Downing, like Fries, therefore dissociates Theme from topic as categories: the two may coincide in the same clause element, but need not do so. She reanalyses the Freud example as follows: (192) (= Downing’s (10), 1991: 127–128) 1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7. 8.

ideational ideational (+ topic) structural ideational (+ topic) structural ideational (+ topic) modal ideational (+ topic)

Towards the end of his life, (1) Freud (2) concluded that (3) he (4) was not a great man, but (5) he (6) had discovered great things. Arguably (7), the reverse (8)65 might be true.

Building on the work of Chafe (1976) and Lowe (1987), Downing proposes three types of initial element, setting up different types of framework: 1. 2. 3.

participant Themes, which set up individual frameworks. spatial, temporal and situational Themes, which set up circumstantial frameworks. discourse Themes, which set up subjective and logical frameworks. (Downing 1991: 128)

Only the first type of element can have a referent which is ‘what the message is about’. The third category, discourse Themes, is intended to cover continuative, structural, conjunc. Downing does not actually mark arguably with the numeration (8), but this is clearly just an omission, since the element in bold type is picked up as (8) in the analysis to the left.

Chapter 2


tive, vocative, modal and relational points of departure. On the basis of her discussion, Downing (1991: 129) sets out six functions of initial elements. Two of these are claimed to operate in almost all clauses and clause complexes: signalling the mood angle from which the message is to be projected, and setting up an experiential semantic framework (spatial, temporal, individual or situational) which will hold for at least the current clause/clause complex. The other four functions are realised in some clauses and clause complexes, but not all: indication of links and logical progression by means of conjunctions and conjuncts; indication of speaker attitude by means of modal disjuncts; linking the content of the message to the addressee by means of a vocative, or to something outside the message by means of a relational disjunct such as from a medical point of view or legally;66 and indicating a change of speaker or a change of point within the same speaker’s contribution to the discourse. Downing discusses the three types of semantic framework in some detail, with appropriate exemplification and an account of their importance in text structure.67 Individual frameworks (1991: 129–132) are those set up by initial elements referring to a participant in the situation, and are realised by Subject nominal groups (unmarked) or fronted Objects and Complements (marked), or by elements with specific topic indicators such as as for/regards. Downing claims that such frameworks are normally operative over a span consisting of the clause or clause complex. Temporal frameworks indicate a point or period of time. Temporal expressions (which can be adverbial or nominal groups, prepositional phrases or subordinate clauses) in initial position have the function of marking “a temporal discourse span which holds until a new span is introduced” (1991: 132). This span may be just one clause, but is often longer. Clause-medial temporal elements have a smaller span of operation than initial ones, and clause-final ones do not set up any span at all. Spatial expressions (1991: 134) can also occur initially, medially or finally, and can be used together with temporal expressions to set up a complex spatio-temporal starting point for the message.68 Under the heading of situational frameworks (1991: 135–141) come various initial elements which do not represent participants, processes, or spatial or temporal circumstances, but which still provide a point of departure. Downing considers, in this category, certain kinds of initial non-finite clauses, either participial or infinitival, also expressions of condition and other types of contingency. . Relational disjuncts are also discussed in Downing & Locke (1992 [2002]: 232–233). Downing (personal communication) has pointed out to me that they do not figure among the type of element which Halliday (1985a, 1994a) lists as typically thematic, and that since they are ideational they would have to be regarded, in Halliday’s scheme, as topical Themes. This, as Downing observes, is highly problematic in terms of ‘aboutness’. . The contribution to text structure as such is not focused on here, as we are primarily concerned with the clause. . McCabe & Alonso Belmonte (2000), who adopt a cognitively-oriented approach to Theme, discuss spatial and temporal frameworks in terms of their role in transmitting to the addressee the speaker’s perception of reality, and present data suggesting that these frameworks are used in similar ways in English and Spanish guidebooks.



 Structure and Function

Downing (1990: 123–124) also demonstrates that the dissociation of Theme and topic allows a much more intuitively satisfying account of information distribution in clauses with non-referential Subjects, such as Nothing will satisfy you or You could buy a bar of chocolate like this for 6d before the War discussed in Huddleston’s (1988) review of IFG. Downing would treat nothing and you here as unmarked Themes, in the sense of unmarked points of departure for the message, but not as topical Themes, since the topic is expressed by you and a bar of chocolate like this. Similarly, the presentative there of existential clauses such as Huddleston’s example There’s a fallacy in your argument can still be regarded as Theme qua point of departure, but the function of such constructions is to present a topic, normally new information encoded as an indefinite nominal group, late in the clause (Downing 1990: 126). Downing rejects the analysis of there as an ‘empty’ element and the presented nominal group as representing the topical Theme, since this would destroy the parallel between an explicit there-presentative and the variant with an initial locative expression but no presentative there, as in Downing’s example (18) Beneath the window is a bilingual rubbish bin with a spelling mistake, which would, under Halliday’s analysis, have beneath the window as topical Theme. For Downing, this variant would have a bilingual rubbish bin with a spelling mistake as the topic expression just as Huddleston’s original example has a fallacy as topic. Where both an initial Adjunct and presentative there are present, as in Beneath the window there is a bilingual rubbish bin (Downing’s example (19)), Downing postulates the existence of two ideational thematic elements, the first marked and the second unmarked. Note that this is similar to the situation in the first clause of the Freud example (192) as analysed according to Downing’s model. Let us now turn again to Berry’s (1996) work, which was introduced in §2.4.1.7.1 in connection with the identification of ThemeE/F . Berry suggests possible ways in which answers to the questions about Theme raised by Huddleston (see §2.4.1.7) might be sought. As was pointed out earlier, Berry’s concerns as a text linguist predispose her to an emphasis on meaning, so that she is concerned particularly with questions relating to the meaning of Theme, i.e. with what she calls ‘discourse ThemeM ’ and ‘clause ThemeM ’, while also considering the relationship between Theme as meaning and Theme as form. She illustrates her discussion throughout by reference to three texts concerned with courses which may be taken by third year students of English at a particular British university, the first taken from the university prospectus, the second from a booklet written by members of the Department of English Studies, and the third from the university’s handbook of regulations. In discussing the question ‘What does it mean to say of some “x” that “x” is ThemeM ?’, Berry (1996: 19) points out that although discourse ThemeM and clause ThemeM may be ideational in nature, they need not be: indeed, she illustrates, from one of her texts, that the writer’s main concerns can be primarily interpersonal, involving the establishment of friendly relations with the reader. Her preliminary answer to the question under discussion is that if something is ThemeM , then it is a priority meaning for the speaker or writer, echoing concerns relevant to the (section of) text, individual clause or both. In discussing how we might determine ThemeM , Berry (1996: 20) distinguishes between the determination of discourse and clause ThemeM , and within the first, between

Chapter 2

Information structure 

determination of the speaker/writer’s main concerns, and determination, on the basis of these concerns, of the general types of meaning to be prioritised. In order to determine speaker/writers’ main concerns, she conducts interviews, discussions and more formal tests with the producers of the texts. On the basis of the information obtained, hypotheses about the meanings one might expect to be prioritised are then set up and tested: those meanings which do appear to be prioritised (essentially on the basis of frequency in the text) are then taken to be the discourse ThemeM s for the texts. In order to relate discourse ThemeM to clause ThemeM and indirectly to ThemeF (Berry’s equivalent of Huddleston’s ThemeE ), Berry (1996: 26) suggests that we seek systematic correlations between the prioritised meanings and particular formal features, such as position in the clause or special particles. If such a correlation is established, the formal feature isolated is taken to be ThemeF . ThemeF is thus “a grammatical means of prioritizing the meanings of discourse ThemeM s” (1996: 29). The final step is to hypothesise that the systematic association of ThemeF with meanings prioritised in the discourse confers a special status on ThemeF , resulting in a situation where the addressee will interpret whatever is in ThemeF as having local importance, even if it is not clearly associated with discourse ThemeM . Berry applies these procedures to the three texts on student courses, with full recognition that this is mainly a feasibility exercise and that any conclusions must be very tentative indeed, given the small data base used. Having obtained some indication that the text written by members of the department prioritises interactional meanings, while the handbook of regulations prioritises meanings concerned with obligation and prohibition (though with less success in demonstrating the prioritisation of textual, signposting meanings in texts other than the regulations), Berry goes on to test whether the kinds of meaning provisionally identified as prioritised in a particular text are associated with particular grammatical features of that text. She tests in turn each of the hypotheses about the extent of ThemeF in English which were listed in §2.4.1.7.1, and comes to the tentative conclusion that the hypothesis which best matches the data is the one in which ThemeF extends up to and including the lexical verb (1996: 46). Berry’s data suggest that the speaker/writer’s main communicational concerns, involving most of the interpersonal and textual prioritised meanings, are concentrated in the ThemeF , while the RhemeF contains the bulk of the ideational meaning. She points out that if this is the case, it is not surprising if ThemeF and RhemeF turn out to intersect near the main verb, consistent with Ravelli’s overlap hypothesis.69 In attempting to answer Huddleston’s question about the constituent structure of a clause with multiple ThemeE/F , Berry again highlights the difference in concerns between the syntactician and the SFG text linguist: Berry’s interest in constituency is concerned with “which bits of clauses are the location for the realizations of contrasting meanings (i.e. meaning choices)” (1996: 49, emphasis in original). She points out, however, that there is already some suggestive evidence of correlation between the tentative conclusions of her analysis and the isolation, on syntactic grounds, of a constituent running from the lexical . This is reminiscent of Firbas’ (1992: 69) claim about the “mediatory role of the verb” in thematic structures. I am grateful to Angela Downing for this observation.

 Structure and Function

verb to the end of the clause (see Quirk et al. 1985: 81): assuming that the lexical verb is the overlap between ThemeF and RhemeF , the rhematic element, which is claimed to carry the main burden of the ideational meaning, would coincide with such a constituent.70 Berry (1996: 50–58) discusses, in relation to her proposals, the kinds of realisation claimed by Halliday for each of the metafunctional strands of meaning. Her strategy here is to tabulate the meanings in the texts in relation to the positions in the clause identified in the various approaches to the extent of ThemeF , and then to see whether these map on to the type of realisation suggested by Halliday for each metafunction. Berry finds that the prioritised interpersonal meanings in her texts (e.g. use of items referring directly or indirectly to the reader, or items indicating obligation or prohibition) are mapped mainly on to one constituent arising from the experiential part of the ideational metafunction (e.g. the first participant), but also with repercussions affecting a second segment (e.g. that realising the process), so giving some evidence for Halliday’s claim that interpersonal meanings are realised prosodically in the clause. The first constituent in the clause contains not only experientially-derived circumstances, but also items which Halliday would regard as textual Themes. Berry points out, however, that while it certainly makes sense to argue, as Halliday does, that ideational and interpersonal meanings can be given prominence through the enabling function of the textual component of the grammar, this is not the function of ‘textual Themes’, which seem to have a meaning of their own, rather than being enabling in any way. Berry (1996: 55–56) tentatively suggests that ‘textual Themes’ might be more profitably regarded as realising logical meanings: certainly they can be realised through recursive structures, which are said to characterise the logical component. As first order logical meanings, they could then be given particular degrees of prominence through the enabling function of the textual component. Berry goes on to explore the possibility that enabling textual meanings are not just realised culminatively, at the beginnings and ends of units, as Halliday suggests, but rather through unusual positioning of material from the experiential, logical and interpersonal components. For instance, she is able to manipulate the order of elements at or near the beginning of clauses in her texts in such a way as to alter the intuitively perceived degree of prominence, and to relate the results to the following hypothesis: . . . that the usual position for a constituent that realizes experiential circumstance meaning and that has interpersonal meaning mapped onto it will be in the region of the constituents that have mood marking functions; that the usual position for a constituent that realizes a ‘logical’ meaning, with or without experiential circumstance meaning, will be at the beginning of the clause; when the combination circumstance + interpersonal is to receive special prominence, it will be moved into the position normally occupied by ‘logical’ meaning; when ‘logical’ meaning is to receive special prominence, it will be moved into the position normally occupied by circumstance + interpersonal meaning. (1996: 57) . Note also, in this connection, the comment by Hasan & Fries (1995b: xxxvii), that in view of Halliday’s claim that textual structures are periodic rather than segmental or particulate, the question of the boundary between Theme and Rheme may be an artefact of analytical representation.

Chapter 2


In sum, then, Berry’s answer to Huddleston’s question about the constituency of clauses with ‘multiple ThemeE/F ’ is firstly that there is just one such Theme, so that the use of ‘multiple’ is questionable (see also earlier, for Matthiessen & Martin’s claim about Halliday’s intentions in this area), and secondly that the constituent structure is that determined by the ideational metafunction in both its subfunctions, experiential and logical. Finally, in this section on the meaning of Theme, we should note the view of Hasan & Fries (1995b: xxix) that a great deal remains to be done to achieve greater clarity in SFG discussions of Theme (as indeed in other approaches to information structuring). It is also worth noting some of the unanswered questions these authors raise about the meaning of Theme: The rich results claimed by the scholars researching Theme inevitably raise the question: are all of these indicative of the semantic value of Theme? If so, how might we conceptualize and formulate that value so that it accurately reflects these varied findings? At present, at least, it is not easy to see how the rather varied functions of Theme selection in the economy of the text may be logically related to a Theme’s being the point of departure for what the speaker is going to say [. . . ] or its being a resource for setting up the local context of each clause in a text [. . . ] (1995b: xxix)

And on the various types of Theme such as marked/unmarked, interpersonal/textual/ logical/experiential, equative, predicated, simple/multiple: . . . it seems reasonable to ask whether the semantic value of all these various categories of theme is the same so far as their function in the economy of textual organisation is concerned? (1995b: xxxii)

On multiple Themes: Again, one might ask if multiple theme selection is systematically different in its textual function from simple theme selection? For example, is there a textually significant location where the choice of multiple Theme is at risk? (1995b: xxxiii)

And on thematic organisation in the clause complex rather than the simplex clause: . . . does Theme at the clause complex rank show the systemic contrast of [marked] versus [unmarked]? And again is it the case that at this rank, the distinction between textual, interpersonal, and topical is neutralized? If not, how are these distinctions realised? And if the distinction is neutralised, what arguments support the postulate of this neutralisation? (1995b: xxxviii)

.... The encoding of Given and New information. We saw in §2.4.1.3 that Halliday proposes, as the unmarked position for the realisation of the function New, the last content element in the tone group. In the unmarked situation, this will fall within the Rheme of a clause. Furthermore, we saw in §2.4.1.7.2 that Fries has demonstrated the importance of the ‘N-Rheme’ of clauses in written English, in expressing newsworthy information, to which the reader is supposed to give particular attention. Gussenhoven (1986), in his study of transcriptions of a British television comedy series, describes a range of circumstances in which postnuclear ‘tails’ containing either focal



 Structure and Function

or non-focal71 material, occur. For [+focus] tails, he regards the basic type as being allNew72 statements such as in (193) and (194), where the tonic accent is most likely to fall on phone(’s) and parents, dancing or both, respectively. (193) The phone’s ringing, she said. (BNC G12 1770) (194) My dancing partner and her parents turned up, a little bit embarrassing for me . . . (BNC A61 2311) The unmarked pattern in such clauses, with Subject + intransitive verb, is to put the tonic on the participant rather than the process (Gussenhoven 1986: 88). Gussenhoven also recognises a set of typically non-focus expressions which often occur in tails, and include time and space markers, cohesion markers (e.g. of course, for a change, etc.), hearer-appeal markers (e.g. you know) and approximatives (e.g. or something). As pointed out by Gómez-González (1998b: 73), Halliday does in fact recognise that examples such as (193) and (194) above form an exception to the general rule, though in order to find this we have to go back to his early work. In Halliday (1967a: 38) we find a brief discussion of the examples my head aches and the door’s locked, in which the unmarked position for the tonic is on head and door respectively. These are characterised as being “high frequency collocations”, found especially in intransitive clauses, as noted above. Halliday also notes that if the final lexical item in the tone group is of high frequency, it will often not receive the tonic accent: the example given is the doctor’s coming. It is not clear, however, that this differs in any significant way from the other examples given.73 Clearly, more research needs to be done to establish whether the information distribution in such clauses is indeed sensitive to frequency (either of individual words or of collocations), or whether other factors are involved. In particular, we need to know whether all the types isolated by Gussenhoven can be accounted for in terms of Halliday’s criteria. Related criticisms have been voiced by Fronek (1983), but as his work is highly relevant to a comparison of SFG with other approaches, I shall postpone discussion until §2.5.1.2.1. On the encoding of given information in written text, see Cummings (2000), who concludes that in many texts, almost all the given information is encoded only by lexical repetition and pronominal substitution, but that in some texts a considerable proportion of the information is given only because it can be inferred from previously introduced information.

. Gussenhoven (1986: 85) states that his ‘focal’ material is equivalent to Halliday’s New, while ‘non-focal’ material is equivalent to Given information. His article is not, however, specifically a critique of Halliday’s account. . Also sometimes referred to as ‘thetic’: see §2.2.2.1.1. . Cruttenden (1986: 83) refers to such sentences as ‘event sentences’. They typically involve an intransitive verb denoting (dis)appearance or misfortune.

Chapter 2

Information structure 

... Theme and informational salience in languages other than English Matthiessen makes some brief comments about the typological characteristics of thematic systems (1995a: 586–590), pointing out the lack of detailed information about textual systems across a wide range of languages. He observes that languages differ in the ways in which they map the textual metafunction on to the interpersonal and ideational metafunctions. For instance, while English gives thematic prominence to those elements which are important for signalling mood (Subject, Finite), Japanese does not, but rather signals interrogative status by means of a clause-final particle ka, and leaves wh-interrogative words in their normal pattern position. Matthiessen also makes a very important comment which casts doubt on the universality of the category of Theme: It is important not to assume that a given language has a theme system for assigning an element the status of Theme. The more cautious assumption is that a given language will have strategies for guiding the addressee in his/her interpretation of a clause as a message by relating it to the method for developing text. (1995a: 587)

Although Matthiessen comments that many languages (e.g. Chinese, French, German, Japanese and Tagalog), do have a category of Theme, the implicit claim is that some (unspecified) languages do not. Martin (1983a) discusses participant identification in English, the Philippine language Tagalog and the Papua New Guinean language Kâte; for Tagalog, this also involves an analysis of Theme systems. In English, participants are identified through what Halliday & Hasan (1976: Chapter 2) call reference.74 Martin (1983a: 50) presents an early version of the networks in Martin (1992a: Chapter 3), reviewed briefly in §7.2.3.5.2 of Part 1). From the point of view of comparison with Tagalog and Kâte, the important point about the English participant identification system is that every time a nominal group realises a referent, the speaker or writer must decide whether the referent is to be treated as non-recoverable by the addressee, motivating the use of presenting reference (coded by indefinite deixis) or recoverable, in which case presuming reference will be used (coded by definite deixis). In Tagalog, on the other hand, participant identification is closely related both to the so-called ‘focus’ system of Philippine languages75 and to matters concerned with Theme. The ‘focus’ system allows the marking of complements with a range of transitivity functions as Topic, through affixes on both the complement itself and the verb. As . Halliday & Hasan’s (and hence Martin’s) use of the term ‘reference’ is somewhat unusual: it is applied to items which “instead of being interpreted semantically in their own right, [. . . ] make reference to something else for their interpretation. In English these items are personals, demonstratives and comparatives” (Halliday & Hasan 1976: 31). Halliday & Hasan’s work on cohesion will be discussed in Chapter 4. . It is not at all clear that this use of the term ‘focus’ has any clear relationship to the uses I have made of it in this chapter so far. The examples, differing in ‘focus’, given by Martin (1983a: 52) are parallel to those treated as differing in voice in FG (see §2.2.3). Gregory (1988: 306, 311) also uses the term ‘focus’ to mean ‘message starting point’, and Cummings (1995: 301) takes up this terminology within a systemic framework despite acknowledging the potential for confusion with Halliday’s use of the term.

 Structure and Function

Martin points out, there is disagreement among Philippinists about the requirements for definiteness or indefiniteness in Topic and non-Topic complements. Martin shows that these uncertainties can be explained in terms of the hypothesis that the ‘focus’ system of Tagalog has two discourse functions, one concerned with participant identification, the other with Theme and its use in the development of the text. These two functions can lead in opposing directions as far as definiteness is concerned, so accounting for the disagreements in this area.76 Unmarked Themes are regarded by Martin as realised through Topics, after at least part of the predicate, and marked Themes through a process which places Topics before the predicate and links them to it by the particle ay. Through a detailed analysis of a Tagalog narrative text, Martin demonstrates the importance of the Themes to the way in which the narrative develops. He also shows how considerations concerned with the thematic function of focus can override the participant identifying function, and how this can lead to a breakdown of the normal principle that Topic expressions in Tagalog are definite. Fang, McDonald & Cheng (1995) describe a study of Theme in Chinese. They state: The Theme normally comes first in the clause, and may be marked off from the Rheme by a pause and/or a textual particle such as a, ba, me, ne [. . . ] The Rheme normally follows the Theme, and may itself be followed by an experiential (aspectual) particle and/or an interpersonal (modal) particle. The Rheme may precede the Theme only if the Theme is put in as an afterthought [. . . ], with the aspectual/modal particles still following the Rheme. (Fang, McDonald & Cheng 1995: 244)

This statement and the ensuing analyses suggest that Theme is being defined topically for Chinese: there is not a single clear instance of an interpersonal or textual Theme, though one possible candidate for interpersonal Theme might be tian na in the last section of the authentic text analysed, translated as my God in a context where this is clearly some kind of expletive, and is followed immediately by an ideational Theme. The authors make no comment on whether the lack of non-ideational Themes is general for Chinese, or is an artefact of the choice of text for analysis.77 Cummings (1995) reports on a study of Theme in Old English texts, suggesting that the model proposed by Halliday for modern English is also valid, in general, for Old English, and that there is an important difference between narrative and non-narrative texts in the frequency of marked topical Themes. Some details differ: for example, statistical evidence shows that after an initial temporal or locative conjunctive Adjunct, the Predicator is usually the next element, so that this positioning can hardly be regarded as emphatic in any way; Cummings (1995: 305) nevertheless regards it as marked because its presence is correlated with the register of the text. Here, then, we appear to have a contextual criterion determining what is regarded as marked within the clause. Furthermore, it is . The general methodological point which Martin is making in this paper is that it may be more fruitful to start with discourse function (e.g. participant identification, thematic development) than with categories (e.g. Subject, Topic, definiteness), in contrastive analysis. . For further work on Theme in Chinese see Fang & Ai (1995).

Chapter 2

Information structure 

common for subordinate clauses, coming before the associated main clauses, to be preceded by elements, including coordinators, temporal conjunctive Adjuncts and vocatives, which would normally be regarded as thematic in the main clause, and this again complicates the thematic relationships involved. Here, Cummings makes suggestions which echo differences of approach with other accounts, and will be taken up again in §2.5: . . . the question previously raised about the relationship of a preposed subordinate clause to preceding thematic elements possibly belonging to the main clause in fact casts doubt on the situating of some textual and interpersonal themes within the structure of the clause unit. One alternative theory would be to view most such items as elements in sentence structure, along with the preposed subordinate clause and the main clause proper. Another approach would be to treat the thematic preposed subordinate clause as filling an element of clause structure (such as Adjunct or Complement) of the dominant clause. (1995: 289–290)

Vasconcellos (1992) reports on Theme in written and spoken Portuguese, distinguishing between what she calls ‘major’ Themes (represented by the Subject, Object/Complement or Predicator of the clause) and ‘minor’ Themes, represented by Adjuncts or conjunctions. Major Themes are obligatory and are always ‘cognitive’, in that they refer to something outside the discourse; minor Themes, on the other hand, are optional and need not be cognitive, but are able to express all manner of relationships not related to the speaker’s thoughts concerning experience outside the discourse. Stacking of Themes is possible in Portuguese, as it is in English: for Portuguese the unmarked ordering is conjunction > Adjunct > Major Theme, this last element always being the one immediately preceding the Rheme. The idea of Theme as a cognitive category is also taken up in the work of McCabe & Alonso Belmonte (2000), referred to briefly earlier, which compares thematic choices in guidebooks and history textbooks in Spanish and English. These two languages are also the subject of an article by Munday (2000), concerned with Theme in relation to translation. It should also be noted that the work of Caffarel (1995) on French, briefly summarised in §1.4.2 in relation to speech function and mood, also contains useful information on Theme, which is developed in Caffarel (2000), where it is suggested that the French clause may have multiple topical Themes, with two layers of thematic organisation, such that when a marked Theme is selected in a declarative clause, the Subject constituent still has thematic prominence, though to a smaller extent than the marked Theme. Steiner & Ramm (1995) give an account of Theme in German, pointing out areas of constraint arising from interactions between Theme and Mood, diathesis and transitivity. Matthiessen & Bateman (1991: 126–144) discuss mechanisms for the realisation of informational salience in Japanese, in the context of a systemically-based approach to natural language generation by computer. Hori (1997), while agreeing with the general thrust of Matthiessen & Bateman’s account, casts doubt on the acceptability, and even grammaticality, of some of their examples, and suggests that certain modifications to their scheme are required. Further work on Japanese is reported by Maynard (1994), who analyses staging in narrative discourse achieved through thematisation patterns, the thematic prop-

 Structure and Function

erties of the nominal predicate n(o) da, and the poetic effect of certain uses of thematic interrogative clauses.

.. Information structure in the Cardiff grammar ... Theme and voice I shall begin, as usual, with Fawcett’s early account (1980), since this often contains the most extensive discussion of particular points. Fawcett (1980: 31–32, 157) rejects Halliday’s lumping together of thematic and informational78 choices into one functional component labelled ‘textual’, for three reasons: the two system networks involved are independent of one another; they call on different aspects of ‘knowledge of the universe’; and all the functional strands of meaning contribute to the textuality of a text (e.g. in the logical connections between propositions, the lexical cohesion which results from choices in the experiential component, and so on79 ). Fawcett immediately recognises the inherent difficulty of Halliday’s concept of theme: It is in fact particularly hard to pin down in precise terms (1) how we select an element to be the theme, and (2) what it means to be the theme. (1980: 157)

His own angle on theme is that it is speaker/writer based, whereas informational meaning, in the sense of processing as a chunk of information through the intonation system, is hearer oriented: this is, of course, also the position espoused by Halliday in IFG (see §2.4.1.4). Fawcett points out that thematic (and also illocutionary) options are concerned with expressing meaning though the placement of elements of clause structure earlier in the structure than would otherwise be the case. This is easily handled through the concept of starting structures which are fundamental to the approach in Fawcett’s 1980s model. The starting structure for the clause in this model has an unmarked place for each clause element, and marked thematic choices can be realised by putting elements in an earlier place. Indeed, as Fawcett observes, this mechanism can also deal naturally with situations in which an element (e.g. an adjunct), although not placed initially, is in a medial rather than a final position. An example is seen in the following set of clauses: (195) And most diets are not flexible enough for you to indulge yourself occasionally. (BNC AD0 601) (196) She would occasionally come to church with her sons. (BNC AHF 259) (197) Occasionally the train would swing near the coast . . . (BNC ABS 983) . Note that Fawcett, like Halliday, is using ‘informational’ as a label specifically for that part of the linguistic system which is concerned with assessing the amount of information to be communicated, and what is to be regarded as given and what as new. I shall continue to use the term in the wider sense explained at the beginning of this chapter. . Since the time at which Fawcett wrote his book, the concept of the textual component as acting upon choices made in other components has been expanded and expounded in greater detail.

Chapter 2


Fawcett’s partial system network (1980: 161) for ‘simple’ themes (i.e. excluding predicated themes and theme identification) allows for parallel choices of both Subject ‘unmarked’ theme and marked themes, the latter being derived from the various strands of meaning. In this way, examples dealt with by Halliday in terms of multiple theme can be handled. Note that the Subject theme options are not relevant only to declaratives as might be thought: if the mood is imperative, for example, it is still necessary to decide which inherent role would have been realised as Subject if there had been one, in order to be able to generate passive imperatives with an overt agent, such as the first clause in (198) (cf. They were entertained by the King’s Troupe). (198) Be entertained by the King’s Troupe and enjoy medieval merriment at a Medieval Banquet at the Sheriff ’s Lodge. (BNC EEG 116) In the network for Subject theme, there is a choice of [first inherent role] or [other] for thematisation. The choice of [other] leads to simultaneous systems, one distinguishing between [second inherent role] and [third inherent role] for processes which can have three, such as give, and the other leading to the voice system distinguishing between the normal be-passive and the get-passive. The marked theme network offers simultaneous choices for various types of marked theme. Fawcett explicitly includes experiential circumstantial themes of manner here, and divides them into [unmarked] (realised by final placement of the manner adverbial, [manner thematised] (realised by initial placement) and [integrative] (realised by medial placement); he also recognises that there are many other systems which need to be worked out in the area of experiential circumstantial marked themes. The other systems are: time specification (from the experiential strand); negativity, divided into [unmarked] (leading to medial placement of adverbs such as never) and [negativity thematised] (leading to initial placement); logical relationships, dealing with the placement of adverbs such as however; interactional, with two possibilities for placement of the politeness formula please, [unmarked] leading to final placement, [politeness formula thematised] leading to initial placement; modality, concerned with placement of modal adverbs such as maybe; and [affective], dealing with placement of adverbs such as unfortunately. Fawcett (1980: 163) writes that it is the complexity of possible co-thematisations which makes it necessary to allow for as many as five places in the starting structure to the left of the Subject; he also admits thematisation of two experiential meanings, one of time and one of place, in the same clause. Note that the postulation of parallel Subject theme and marked theme choices allows for the thematicity of the Subject not only in examples such as (199), but also those such as (200), where in Halliday’s account the Subject would not be thematic at all because of the initial ideational Adjunct here. (199) But luckily, we found out that the council were giving grants for home improvements to old properties. (BNC G35 1835) (200) But here, luckily, you will be spared the difficulty that can arise . . . (BNC FF0 415)






More recent work in the Cardiff framework still postulates that clauses often have several kinds of theme, more than one of which can be experiential in nature. However, theme is not regarded as a unified concept in the present-day version of the Cardiff grammar, but is taken to express quite a wide spectrum of meanings, which are different according to what it is that is thematised, and arise at various points within the grammar, so that no useful general definition for theme can be postulated. We can see this approach in the partial system networks given by Fawcett, Tucker & Lin (1993), in their illustration of how their computationally-implemented grammar works in the generation of structure for a complete clause. For instance, the system [overt location unthematised]/[overt location thematised] is a terminal system in the transitivity subnetwork concerned with the kind of relational process which involves [simple carrier location]. The two possibilities are illustrated in the clauses in bold in (201) ([overt location unthematised]) and in (202) ([overt location thematised]). (201) Constable Perkins is here, Mrs Clancy said. (BNC A0D 1049) (202) Here he is! she said at last. (BNC AC5 2944) As in the earlier model, the Subject is treated as having thematic status not only in (201), but also in (202), so that the latter has two thematic constituents, here and the ‘Subject theme’ he. In Fawcett’s model, Subject theme is present whenever Subject is conflated with a participant role, and there are therefore other areas of the grammar where Subject themes are generated. The various sets of choices leading to Subject theme are brought together by means of a ‘gate’, a system with only one output but two or more inputs, leading to the choice of Subject theme type: [outsider Subject theme] (realised by having a 3rd person Subject) versus [interactant Subject theme] (with 1st or 2nd person Subject), with further more delicate choices differentiating types of 1st and 2nd person Subject. It should be noted that in the latest work on Theme (Fawcett, personal communication), the Cardiff grammarians do not treat examples such as (202) as having marked theme, this term being reserved for cases in which a Participant Role which is a Complement is thematised. Finally, let us look briefly at work by the Cardiff group (Fawcett & Huang 1995; Huang & Fawcett 1996; Huang 1996) on the ‘enhanced theme construction’ and the ‘object-asrole-in-event construction’ in English and Chinese, these being their labels for clefts (or what Halliday calls predicated Themes) and pseudoclefts (Halliday’s thematic equatives) respectively. The terms ‘cleft’ and ‘pseudocleft’ are rejected because they suggest that there is some prior clause which is cut into parts, an analysis which, while involved in accounts based on transposition (the idea that ‘it + that-clause’ form a discontinuous Subject in a cleft construction) and intercalation (treatment of it + be + that as semantically empty and intercalated into the simple clause), is not consonant with a functionalist view. The Cardiff analysis of the enhanced theme construction in (203) is shown in (204) (cf. Fawcett & Huang 1995: 123: their abbreviated labels for elements have been replaced with their full form for ease of comprehension).

Chapter 2


(203) The concept of the company does not interest me – it’s the businesses that are important. (BNC A1E 26) Ó

(204)

Clause Empty Subject

It

Operator/ Main verb

’s

Complement/ Attribute/Enhanced Theme

Complement/Carrier Clause

Subject/ Carrier

Main verb

Complement/ Attribute

that

are

important

the businesses

Note that it is assumed here that businesses receives the tonic stress, marking it as new information; this is certainly implied by the contrast between company and businesses in (203). The analysis of the ‘object-as-role-in-event construction’ in (205) is shown in (206) (cf. Fawcett & Huang 1995: 125). (205) What is important is the function, . . . (BNC B72 1857) Ó

(206)

Clause Subject/Carrier

Operator/ Main verb


Clause Subject/ Carrier

Main verb


What

is

important

is

the function

In justifying the at first rather strange claim that the that-clause of an enhanced theme construction is the Carrier of the matrix clause, Fawcett & Huang point out that the two types of structure have in common a matrix sentence with a relational Process of being, and that such Processes take the participant roles Carrier and Attribute. They also claim that in each case, the Carrier in the matrix sentence represents, at the highest level of all (which they refer to as ‘logical form’) an object: this is perhaps easiest to see in (206), where the ‘object’ they are referring to is ‘what (= that which) is important’;80 presumably, we are intended to extrapolate this interpretation to the less obvious case in (204). In other words, . Hence the label ‘object-as-role-in-event’, with ‘event’ presumably meant to cover the whole range of Process types, including relational states, as in our examples.



 Structure and Function

Fawcett & Huang (1995: 126) assume “a higher level of planning and understanding” (their emphasis) at which there is a common ‘logical form’ for the two types of sentence, roughly ‘What is important is the function/businesses’. In motivating further their analysis of the enhanced theme construction, Fawcett & Huang point to the differences between this and the object-as-role-in-event construction. The presence of an experientially empty Subject can throw the Carrier to the end of the clause, so conforming to the end-weight principle. The authors claim, however, that this is a by-product of “a more powerful principle, namely the ‘enhanced theme’ principle” (1995: 129), which they suggest also applies to constructions normally referred to as extrapositions, and to certain existential constructions. The idea, which is not fully explained, appears to be that extraction of an element for treatment as an enhanced theme confers on it, in each case, some particular functional property which explains its use. The two constructions also differ in the presence in the enhanced theme construction of it + be. Fawcett & Huang consider that these words are not semantically empty, but provide what they call ‘thematic build-up’, signalling the expectation of an enhanced theme. Finally, the two constructions have different information distributions, in terms of the placement of the tonic syllable in the spoken language. In (205)/(206), for example, the tonic is on the last lexical item in the tone group, signalling that at least the function is New, though more could be. In (203)/(204), on the other hand, the tonic is on an item earlier in the tone group, and signals that the businesses is contrastively New. Following Prince (1978), but with their rather different orientation, Fawcett & Huang (1995: 133–136) also differentiate between two basic semantic types of enhanced theme construction, one in which the enhanced theme itself is contrastively new (as in (203)/(204) above), and a second in which the enhanced theme itself is never contrastively new, though it can be new without being contrastive, as illustrated in (207) below. (207) Another two moved on shortly afterwards and it was then that the intimidation began. (BNC A0F 1031) Here, then is not being contrasted with any other time, though it can be new, if stressed. Fawcett & Huang (1995: 136–141) also distinguish variants of the two main types, depending on the information status of material in the embedded clause. For the first type, this can be given, new or contrastively new; for the second type, it is always new, but can be contrastive or not. Huang (1996) presents a more detailed critique of the Prince classification and provides greater detail on the semantic types of enhanced theme construction. He also presents a classification of the discourse functions of these constructions (Huang 1996: 92– 107). The primary distinction is between a repair function, consisting of the correction of a statement which is considered to be incorrect (see Delin 1991), and a set of discourse development functions, divided into initiation, continuation and concluding types. The initiating function is of three subtypes: scene-setting (e.g. it was + time expression + that), topic-setting (where the enhanced material introduces a discourse topic), and what Huang calls ‘ritual genre marking’ (e.g. it is with great pleasure that . . . ). The continuing function includes picking out some entity from a set, reactivating some previously mentioned ref-

Chapter 2


erent, and the highlighting of some rhetorical relationship such as reason (e.g. it is because of this that) or purpose. The concluding function, manifested towards the end of a stretch of discourse, can serve as a climax to that section, or as a summary. For further discussion of the Cardiff work on enhanced theme, and for examples of the various semantic types and discourse functions, the original articles should be consulted.

... Processing chunks of information I have, of course, already strayed into the territory of information chunking in talking about the Cardiff approach to enhanced theme. In this section I shall deal with this aspect in greater detail. Fawcett’s (1980: 164–172) account of his ‘informational component’ essentially follows Halliday’s contemporary treatment of the information unit. His partial ‘information distribution’ network (1980: 166) has ‘referent situation regarded as a “chunk of information”’ as its entry point. It first distinguishes between situations in which the speaker chooses not to include a new information point (e.g. when the referent situation is embedded inside another one, as may happen with embedded clauses) and those in which a new information point is indeed chosen. If [new information point] is selected, two things happen: firstly, there is the choice of re-entering the information distribution network so that a further information point may or may not be selected, and secondly the ‘information focus’ system presents a choice between [unmarked focus] and [marked focus]. In the case of [unmarked focus] there is a further distinction between [no restriction] (with the information focus on the last experiential item of the tone group with inherent stress, which in the two-participant material process clause used as an example is the Affected participant) and [on first inherent role] (leading to passive voice and, in the example given, focus on the Agent in a by-passive). Two specific kinds of [marked focus] are listed (on the element marking the polarity of the clause, and on the first inherent role of a two-participant process), but it is recognised that other possibilities exist. Some examples are given below, with the original transcription of the London-Lund Corpus followed by a Hallidayan rendering. (208) îf we !think of [dhi] :sacrifice which was :made by !Chr\ist# - - - êven though he didn’t :w\ant it# - - - (LLC 12 1c 773–774) (209) //if we /think of [dhi] /sacrifice which was /made by /Christ// even though he didn’t /want it// Here, the first tone group has unmarked focus but with the focus on the first inherent role (Christ), achieved by the passive voice, whereas in the second tone group there is ordinary unmarked focus. Now consider (210)/(211): (210) but I ^think it’s ´just because he ´doesn’t ˝l\/ike/ ´sentences like _that# (LLC 9 1i 625) (211) //^ but I /think it’s /just because he /doesn’t /like /sentences like that//



 Structure and Function

Here we have marked focus, with the focus on the process (presumably one of the ‘other’ options Fawcett omits from his network), marking doesn’t like as the new information, the material following it (sentences like that) being given information. Fawcett also discusses what he calls ‘redundancy balance’, concerned with “striking the appropriate balance between giving too little and too much information” (1980: 169). His network offers the choice between making none of the experiential meaning redundant, or making some of it redundant by means of either substitution of all but the Subject by so or zero, or by making all of it redundant by, for example, using just Yes as the answer to a question rather than repeating the relevant experiential information. As further discussion of this area would involve us in examining intersentential relationships, I shall say no more about it here. Fawcett (1990: 168ff.) offers a more detailed treatment of information focus, based on the development of Halliday’s work by Tench (1987; see also Tench 1992, 1996). Marked tonicity is associated with contrastively new information. There is a system [no element marked as contrastively new] vs. [element marked as contrastively new], and two types of contrastive newness are provided for in the grammar up to that time: on polarity or on the process. Contrastive newness is realised by the conflation of a contrastive tonic with the structural element concerned (typically the operator for polarity newness, the main verb for process newness). Unmarked tonicity is generated as the default, in the absence of contrastively new information. Fawcett’s networks also provide for various situations in which more than one tone group is associated with a single clause, for instance where we have a group or embedded clause81 acting as an Adjunct of time or other circumstance, in a thematised position. In the case of position in time, there would be a choice between [unthematised time position] and [thematised time position], and if the latter, then [time position as separate information unit] vs. [time position as part of main information unit], then if as a separate unit, [highlighted thematised time position] vs. [neutral thematised time position]. These features act as conditional features on realisation rules for the units generated, ensuring the appropriate placement of tone group boundaries, and the correct selection of tones (e.g. a rising tone for neutral thematised time position, and a falling-rising tone for the highlighted version, both in a separate tone group). The main distinctions made in the 1990 paper are repeated in Fawcett, Tucker & Lin (1993).

.

Comparison of approaches In this final section, I shall attempt to make some comparisons between the accounts summarised in previous parts of the chapter. The main discussion will be in two parts: first I shall look at the three approaches in terms of topicality, focality and their expression in languages. I shall then examine the same material from a rather different, though related,

. Remember that in the Cardiff grammar, unlike the Sydney grammar, subordinate clauses of time, etc. are regarded as embedded in the matrix clause.

Chapter 2


perspective: that of position in the clause, looking particularly at the importance of initial and final positions. The chapter finishes with a brief comparison of the treatment of voice in the three theories.

..

Topicality and focality ... Topicality .... What is a topic? In FG, the way in which topicality is described is extremely general: it characterises “the things we talk about” (Dik 1997a: 310). Topics in this sense can be recognised for different sizes of unit within a whole text: for example, for a book, we may be able to say what the topics are for the book as a whole, for each chapter, for sections within each chapter, for paragraphs within a section, and for individual sentences and/or clauses within a paragraph. However, only when ‘what we are talking about’ at the clause level receives some formal marking is it seen as having the pragmatic function Topic. In RRG, which takes its version of information distribution from Lambrecht’s (1994) work, topic is part of a more general concept, the pragmatic presupposition, or “the set of assumptions evoked by the utterance that make up the context necessary for understanding the utterance” (Van Valin & LaPolla 1997: 202). Within the pragmatically presupposed part of an utterance, there may be an expression which has the properties of topic, in that its referent is what the proposition is expressing information about, and is regarded by the speaker/writer as a centre of interest which will have some role in the proposition, presumably that of being the background against which new or focal information is presented.82 As pointed out by Fumero Pérez (2001: 182–183), important differences between the FG and Lambrechtian treatments of topic emerge from a consideration of the type of sentence discussed briefly in §2.2.2.1.1 and further exemplified by (212) below, which is structurally parallel to one of Lambrecht’s examples (1994: 129, his example 4.5): (212) Once upon a time there was a stocky little ice skater who fell in love with her tall, fair-haired partner. (BNC HAE 3404) For Dik, a stocky little ice skater would be the (New) Topic of the main clause here, but who would not be treated as the Topic of the relative clause, since it is only if no constituent specific to P1 (an interrogative, subordinator or relative pronoun) is present in this position that P1 can be used for a constituent with Topic or Focus function. Indeed, as Fumero Perez (2001: 183) observes, Dik (1997a: 424) explicitly comments on such cases, stating clearly that the presence of a P1 constituent in subordinate clauses blocks placement of Topic or Focus in P1. On the other hand, under the Lambrecht (1994: 129) account adopted in RRG, both a stocky little ice skater and who would have topical status in the general sense of having, as their referent, an entity which is what this part of the

. It is worth noting here one potential problem with the RRG account of both topic and focus: at different points in the discussion in Van Valin & LaPolla (1997: 201ff.), these pragmatic elements are associated with the sentence, the clause and the utterance, in what appears to be free variation.






discourse is about. However, a stocky little ice skater is not the Topic of its clause, since the clause is not itself about the referent of this nominal, but rather introduces it into the discourse. Furthermore, who is indeed the Topic (more accurately, topic expression) of the relative clause, since this relative pronoun enters into an aboutness relation with a proposition. In this respect the Lambrecht position seems preferable to the Dik account. Fumero Pérez (2001: 195) also points out that while Lambrecht’s account of Topic depends crucially on the activation status of referents in the minds of communicating participants, Dik, although situating his theory of pragmatic function within an overall framework based on the concept of pragmatic information and its relationship with beliefs and knowledge, retreats from this position when discussing the assignment of pragmatic functions, which relies very strongly on information deducible from the linguistic context itself, at the expense of knowledge derived from the communicative situation and from more general sources. One problem with the standard accounts in both FG and RRG is that topic, although clearly a matter of how speakers and writers view the information they are presenting as a text unfolds, is exemplified using adjacency pairs of utterances at best. This is, of course, one of the criticisms voiced by Mackenzie & Keizer (1991), and it will be remembered that their own analysis of a whole text reinforces the conclusion, arrived at through a detailed critical examination of Dik’s proposals, that the Topic function should be abandoned for English. Against this, we have Hannay’s (1991, 1993) proposals for incorporating English Topic into a scheme of ‘modes of message management’. Clearly a substantial amount of further work on authentic texts is needed in order to assess properly the merits of these two proposals. Within SFG, Halliday himself does not make use of the concept of topic as such: indeed, he remarks (Halliday 1994a: 38) that the term tends to be used to include the concepts of both Theme and Given. He does, however, say that “a participant in thematic function corresponds fairly closely to what is called the ‘topic’ in a topic-comment analysis” (1994a: 52) and that this is what motivates his label ‘topical Theme’ for this particular type of Theme. It would seem, then, that it is possible to make some connection between topic and Theme in this way. We should remember, though, the arguments concerning ‘aboutness’ reviewed in §2.4.1.7.2: not all items which Halliday would label topical Themes correspond to referents about which the clause says something, in the normal referential sense of aboutness. Those who wish to claim that arguments about Theme should be based on phenomena observable only in whole texts, such as thematic progression, method of development, and the like, or who interpret aboutness in a relational rather than a referential sense, are moving away from the identification of even topical Theme with topic as conceived in other approaches. We have seen that Fries, one of the foremost exponents of this approach, although making use of the concept of topic, leaves it undefined. A second link between topic in its wider sense, as used in FG, and the descriptions available in SFG is through the concept of hierarchical topicality. SFG is certainly interested in what whole texts and parts of texts are about, though it tends to call these ‘topics’ by other names: see, for example, Berry’s (1996) ‘discourse Theme’ and Martin’s (1992a: 437) ‘hyper-Theme’ (a (set of) sentence(s) predicting a pattern of lexical and the-

Chapter 2


matic patterns in the following sentences) and ‘macro-Theme’ (a (set of) sentence(s) predicting a set of hyper-Themes). There is also a further way in which we can connect aspects of systemic functional description with the concept of topic. This involves the different types of topic postulated in FG, to which I turn in the next section.

.... Types of clausal topic and their realisation. We have seen that Dik recognises four types of Topic (i.e. four types of expression which are marked in some way in the language to indicate that their referents have different types of status as topics about which something is being said at the clause level). New Topic expressions are those whose referents are being introduced into the discourse for the first time; Given Topics are those whose referents are already assumed to be available to the addressee through their presence in the discourse (or, in Mackenzie & Keizer’s revision of Dik’s account, situationally or generally available, even if not present in the preceding text); Sub-Topics are those for which the referent, although not mentioned explicitly in the text, can be inferred from a referent which has indeed already been presented; and Resumed Topics are those Given Topics which have not been used for a while in the text, and need ‘reactivating’. As Siewierska (1991: 160) observes, there are clear correlations between these four types of Topic in FG and the cognitive statuses which she arrives at on the basis of the work of Chafe, Prince, Lambrecht and others, though we cannot postulate a one-to-one relationship because of the FG requirement that a Topic be singled out for special treatment. GivTops are associated with active referents, SubTops with semi-active referents inferable from GivTops, and ResTops with the change from active to semi-active though lack of recent use in the discourse. NewTops, as we have seen, are not only brand new (or possibly a semi-active inferable), but also non-identifiable, thus bringing into question their status as Topics and linking them rather to Focus.83 The different types of Topic are linked to different types of realisation. NewTops, according to Dik (1997a: 315–318), are normally indefinite, though they can be definite if the speaker thinks the addressee can recover the referent; they also characteristically come late in the clause, often in second argument position, or if first arguments, then with an existential type of construction which throws them to a later position. NewTops also generally have the main accent of the expression of which they form part (1997a: 456). GivTops are typically marked through anaphoric reference of some kind, and have no accentual prominence unless there is a contrast with another GivTop (1997a: 457). ResTops are realised by a stronger form of anaphoric reference than used for their previous mention as GivTops, and normally have some degree of accentual prominence. SubTops usually have some degree of accent, because they have something new and contrastive about them (1997a: 457). Siewierska links the grammatical realisations to Lambrecht’s scale of topic acceptability, which is also taken over into RRG. . A very similar set of parallels is proposed by Fumero Pérez (2001: 176).



 Structure and Function

It is at this point that we can make a partial link with SFG. We saw in §7.2.3.5.2 of Part 1 that Martin (1992a) and Matthiessen (1995a) have presented SFG networks for types of reference. For instance, in Martin’s account, presuming reference is used where the speaker is assuming that the referent is recoverable by the addressee, whereas presenting reference implies that the speaker does not consider (or does not choose to consider) the referent as recoverable. It is clear that a nominal group with presuming reference refers to something which is a ‘better’ topic, in the sense of Lambrecht’s scale, than one which has presenting reference.

... Focality .... What is focus? There are clear similarities in the ways in which focus is defined in the three theories under discussion, though there are also important differences, chief among which is the nature of the unit within which focus is to be defined. We have seen that for Dik (1997a: 326), focal information is defined in terms of its saliency in the given communicative setting, as judged by the speaker’s assessment of the need for the addressee to integrate the information into his/her pragmatic information. This information can either be an addition to the addressee’s existing information, or may be intended to replace part of this. Focal information need not be new, in the sense of ‘not hitherto mentioned in the discourse’: it is possible for the speaker to present already available information as focal. For the function Focus to be assigned to a constituent, focality must be indicated by special treatment of that constituent in the grammar. RRG, following Lambrecht, opposes the focal part of an utterance to the pragmatic presupposition (which, as we have seen, may contain a topical element): the focus is “[t]he semantic component of a pragmatically structured proposition whereby the assertion differs from the presupposition” (Lambrecht 1994: 213, cited in Van Valin & LaPolla 1997: 202). Van Valin & LaPolla (1997: 202) stress that the ‘newness’ of the focal information does not relate directly to any referent, but resides in its relationship to the pragmatic presupposition. This relational approach is much less visible in the FG account of focus, though the definition of the latter in terms of greatest degree of salience implies that focus is relative to the rest of the information coded in the expression. For every language, RRG postulates a potential focus domain within which the focus must fall: in English, this is the whole clause, in some other languages (e.g. Italian) only the verb plus postverbal elements. The treatment of focus in SFG is predictably rather different from that in the other two theories, and has so far centred very largely on English, and has been concerned mainly with prosodic realisations. We have seen that a major difference from other approaches is that information focus is related not directly to the clause, but to a proposed information unit, which is realised though the phonological unit of tone group, and, in the unmarked case only, corresponds to a clause in the grammatical hierarchy. The information unit consists of a New element, with an optional Given element, and the information focus is the central element in the New constituent of the informational strand of structure. ‘New’ information, in the context of Halliday’s model, is not information which is not recoverable by the addressee, but rather information which is presented by the speaker as being non-recoverable, for whatever reason: because it genuinely cannot be expected

Chapter 2


to be recovered, or because, although recoverable, it is regarded by the speaker as being newsworthy in some way (Halliday 1994a: 298).84 This is also essentially the point made by Dik and mentioned above. Furthermore, Halliday comes very close to Lambrecht and Van Valin & LaPolla when he comments that “[i]t is the interplay of new and not new that generates information in the linguistic sense” (1994a: 296). Halliday’s early account of information focus is criticised by Fronek (1983), whose arguments remain largely unanswered in Halliday’s later accounts. Fronek’s principal claim is that the organisation of information in discourse, rather than being specifiable in terms of units of intonation as Halliday claims, is a property of predicational units, i.e. clause and sentence. Thus Fronek’s criticisms are directed against the very claim which makes the SFG approach so different from that of FG and RRG. Fronek seeks to demonstrate that Halliday’s approach leads to a number of problems and inconsistencies. Firstly, Fronek (1983: 313ff.) points out that Halliday’s view of what constitutes given and new information differs from that of most other scholars working in this area, for whom given information is that which is objectively derivable from the discourse through anaphora or implicature, inferable from components of the situation, or from knowledge shared between interactants, and new information is any which cannot be derived in this way. For Halliday, on the other hand, newness is bound up with focality, as indicated intonationally: for instance, anaphoric items such as personal pronouns are new if focal, given if not focal, it being up to the speaker to decide whether to present such items as new or not, this criterion taking precedence over the actual recoverability of the referent. Fronek finds this unconvincing: It seems to me [. . . ] that Halliday’s criterion of recoverability by anaphora or situationally is meaningless and that his distinction ‘given-new’ can be of theoretical value only if it means something like ‘an identified entity’ vs. ‘ascription of a value to that entity’. (1983: 315)

Fronek (1983: 316ff.) also claims that an analysis of information in terms of segmentation of the discourse into tone groups leads to an overgeneralisation of the functions of tone groups. What Fronek refers to as ‘the nuclear tone’, by which he appears to mean the primary intonation movement of a clause or sentence, is said to indicate which elements of the clause/sentence are identified, and so is a marker of which part of that unit bears the main information. Fronek claims that such nuclear tones are usually, though not always, marked as Tone 1 (falling) by Halliday. Tone groups with Tone 4 (falling-rising), on the other hand, appear to Fronek to indicate a different type of opposition, appearing mainly

. Note the importance here of the speaker and his or her assessment of the state of information of the addressee. McGregor (1997: 275) takes this as part of his evidence that the assignment of information focus by the speaker is an interpersonal matter rather than a textual one as Halliday would have it. However, as pointed out in §2.2.2.2.1 in connection with Hannay’s modes of message management, this view rests on a rather different interpretation of what constitutes interpersonal meaning.



 Structure and Function

where an Adjunct or Object is initial, or where there is an alternation of parallel topics,85 cases in which he claims the intonation marks the structural property of dislocation rather than informational prominence: it is a signal that the first element in such structures is not to be decoded as Subject, but is set off from the Subject by a boundary. In support of this claim, Fronek points out that assignment of a separate tone group with Tone 4 is always optional in such cases, and varies with the accent of English being studied. Furthermore, emphasis on initial Adjuncts does not usually occur in inflectional languages, such as German and Czech, where initial placement is common, in order to keep the verb close to its arguments. Fronek’s account of initial placement of Adjuncts and Objects tends to minimise differences in communicative function in ways which Halliday would probably not accept. For instance, the following are regarded as “communicatively (and therefore informationally) synonymous variants” despite the admission that “[t]he shifts play, naturally, some roles in maintaining the desired patterns of cohesion in discourse”: (213) (= Fronek’s (12), 1983: 318) This product we developed in our plant. (214) (= Fronek’s (13), 1983: 318) This product was developed in our plant. Furthermore, it should be remembered that Halliday himself writes at some length about the structural functions of tone group allocation (see especially Halliday 1967a: 33ff.) More convincing are Fronek’s arguments in relation to markedness. Firstly, he points out that there are problems with Halliday’s use of diagnostic questions to decide whether there is marked focus, the general principle being that only for information units with marked focus is it possible to derive specific questions to which the utterance is an answer. For instance, to take two of Halliday’s own examples (Halliday 1967b: 208), (215) implies ‘When did John paint the shed?’, but (216) could simply imply ‘What happened?’, in the case where the tone group contains only new information. (215) // John painted the shed yesterday // (216) // John painted the shed yesterday // But, as Fronek (1983: 324) observes, in an example such as (217) (from Halliday 1967b: 202), we cannot formulate a question which will account for both tonics. (217) // Mary // always goes to town on Saturdays // Fronek takes this as an indication that what is really at issue is the information structure of the clause, the tone group not being an informationally independent unit. A further problem concerned with markedness is that for Halliday, any element which has a marked tonic is contrastive, and this, Fronek (1983: 324) claims, leads to the postulation of contrastiveness where arguably none is present, and at the same time fails to . Fronek (1983: 317) actually uses the label ‘theme’ here, but he makes it clear (p. 312) that he is using this term in the sense of topic.

Information structure 

Chapter 2

distinguish real contrasts of information value. Fronek cites an example from Halliday (1967a: 42) given as (218) below: (218) // I saw John on the train// in which John, not being the final lexical item in the tone group, has marked focus. And yet, as Fronek points out, this does not necessarily involve contrast, and could be used discourse-initially. Similarly, even tonic pronouns are sometimes not contrastive: (219) (= Fronek’s (41), 1983: 325) I failed because of her. This is no more contrastive than the equivalent sentence with a full NP such as my wife, although there are indeed situations in which such pronouns are contrastive, as in (220): (220) (= Fronek’s (42), 1983: 325) I do not like her, I like you. Fronek therefore claims that it is misguided to relate informational status to position. Rather: Information is related to communicative acts and the marking can therefore be best explained in terms of the respective communicative tasks involved. (1983: 325)

His overall conclusion is that informational contrasts are best handled in terms of the relationship between communicative function and the syntactico-semantic properties of clauses and sentences. Finally, we should note the definition of focus proposed by Lavid López, who, in an interesting discussion of functional linguistic and computational approaches to the area of information structuring, emphasises the role of focal material in the inferential processes involved in understanding the message: Focus is the locus, within each message, of principal inferential effort. It is that/those concept(s) most relevant for processing on which the speaker wants the hearer to spend the most thought. (Lavid López 2000: 363)

Clearly, such a dynamic, discourse-oriented conception of focus still needs to be related to the ways in which focality is signalled morphosyntactically and intonationally.

.... Types of focus. FG offers a quite detailed classification of focus types. It will be remembered from §2.2.1.3 that Dik (1997a: 330–335) offers a dual classification. The first kind concentrates on the type of element on which focus falls: operator, predicate or part of it, or term (and within this, Subject or non-Subject). The second is concerned with communicative point, and distinguishes first between information gap and contrastive types of focus. Information gap focus is subdivided into questioning and completive types, contrastive focus into parallel and counter-presuppositional types. Counterpresuppositional focus can be rejecting, replacing, expanding, restricting or selecting. Both classifications are seen as typologically relevant. Mackenzie & Keizer (1991) propose to replace Dik’s classifications by one in which focus has +/– values on four features: completive, presentative, emphatic and contrastive.

 Structure and Function

The RRG classification offered by Van Valin & LaPolla (1997: 206–210), based on the work of Lambrecht (1994), is rather different. The primary distinction is between narrow and broad focus: in the former there is just one constituent in the actual focus domain; in the latter, more than one constituent. Narrow focus can be unmarked or marked: for English, the unmarked focus position is the last position in the core, which is not necessarily the final position in the clause. Broad focus divides into predicate and sentence types. Predicate focus is the classic topic-comment structure, and is the unmarked variant; in sentence focus, the whole sentence is in focus, so there is no pragmatic presupposition component, and hence no topic. SFG, like RRG, recognises unmarked or marked focus. The unmarked focus position for English is the last lexical element in the tone group (except for any inherently given elements such as deictics); any other position is marked (Halliday 1994a: 297–298). However, it is important to remember that the SFG account of information focus as such deals only with information realised prosodically in spoken English, though we have seen that Matthiessen’s ‘culmination’ systems attempt to do something similar for written English, in terms of the informational significance of final position in the clause. Further comparison of these three accounts of focus types requires discussion of the mechanisms for their expression, to which I now turn.

.... Ways of realising focus. The discussion in earlier sections shows that FG, RRG and SFG all recognise three main mechanisms for the expression of focus: prosodic prominence, grammatical construction types and particles. I shall discuss each of these in turn, though there will be overlap, since some types of focus realisation involve both prosody and construction. ..... Prosodic prominence. Let us look again at some of the spoken English examples used in §2.2.1.3 to illustrate Dik’s classification of focus types. We begin with example (11), repeated below as (221). (221) Mrs Skitt did not ask us to witness her signature (LLC 11 1 839–841) This was presented earlier as an example of focus on an operator, in this case that for negation. In terms of Dik’s communicative point classification, it is of the rejecting counterpresuppositional kind. In the RRG account, the focus on not would be an example of marked narrow focus (since it is not on the last element of the core). But this example immediately illustrates the kind of complication which arises when we use authentic rather than constructed examples: there are no fewer than three intonation nuclei superimposed on a single clause, and this highlights a problem with approaches, such as those in FG and RRG, in which focus, even when realised prosodically, is seen as a property of a grammatical unit.86 In SFG, on the other hand, in which focus is associated with an information . There are examples in Dik’s presentation of focus which have two intonation nuclei in one clause, but here the two foci are semantically linked in a parallel structure (see further discussion below); this is not the case for examples such as (221).

Chapter 2


unit which is coextensive with the tone group, this particular problem is avoided. The original transcription in the London-Lund Corpus for (221) and its environment is shown in (222), and this is translated into the notation of SFG in (223).87 (222) ((you)) see the ^\answer# - ^signed by :\Mrs K/ay# is ^Mrs. Sk/itt# did ˝^n\ot ásk us# to ^witness her !s\ignature# (223) //^ you see the /answer //signed by Mrs Kay // ^ is /Mrs /Skitt did // not /ask us to //witness her / signature// Since we have three tone groups in the part shown in (221), we have three information units: the first has unmarked focus (since Skitt is the last element with lexical function); the second, on which I have concentrated above, has marked focus on not; and the third, with the tonic on the last lexical element, has unmarked focus. The problem for SFG, of course, is to link the structure of the information unit(s) to that of the clause, since they are of different kinds, and need not be co-extensive, as shown by the above example. A further example of multiple tone groups over a single clause is A’s contribution in (19), repeated below as (224). (224) A. any . sort of metropolitan town by half past eight the traffic is just jamming up nicely B. no only a manufacturing town (LLC 4 2 680–685) I can see two possible approaches to this kind of example in FG and RRG. One would be to allow multiple focus assignment in the clause, but this then causes difficulties for definitions in terms of maximum saliency or simple divisions into presupposition and focus. The other approach would be to say that there is just one major information point (and thus only one focus), the others being subsidiary: this would obviously necessitate justification of which is to be regarded as the major information point. Let us now look again at example (12), repeated as (225). The full context for this is shown, with just the intonational nuclei indicated, in (226). (225) I didn’t reply to it (LLC 1 4 62) (226) A. did you get a letter from Leslie about this B. yes ((unintelligible syllables )) I didn’t reply to it A. neither did I The example was included earlier to demonstrate focus on the predicate, in the FG classification. In terms of communicative point, however, the situation is less obvious. The second part of B’s utterance appears to be a simple informative statement, with the new information being coded in didn’t reply. This situation, though not unusual, does not seem to correspond to any of those in Dik’s list. Mackenzie & Keizer (1991: 210), however, equate ‘completive’ with ‘contextually New’, in which case we can regard the clause in question . Note that since there is no pause between us and to, the latter is regarded, in the Hallidayan treatment, as belonging to the previous tone group. Mrs Kay constitutes a complex fall + rise tone group (tone 13).



 Structure and Function

as having completive Focus. The RRG account would presumably treat (225) as a predicate focus construction, since it follows the topic-comment pattern if we regard I as topic. The main reason for re-examining this example, however, is that it illustrates clearly the difficulties involved in deciding what the pragmatic presuppositions of the clause actually are, and hence what the focus represents. It would seem that the letter (coded as it) is at least as good a candidate for topichood as the speaker (I), and although on the surface of things we might expect B’s utterance to have the presupposition ‘I did something to/with it’, there is in fact no implication that the speaker did anything at all with the letter. In SFG, the single tone group involved would have unmarked focus, since the elements after the tonic syllable are grammatical rather than lexical. Example (14), repeated as (227), was introduced in order to exemplify focus on a non-Subject term in the FG system. (227) I may go up at the end of April again but won’t be going up in May (LLC 7 3f 762–764) This example also illustrates parallel focus, indicating a contrast between April and May. However, notice that although there is also a clear contrast in the meaning between may and won’t, this is not fully reflected in the intonation, in that while may has intonational prominence, won’t does not. Note also that we have more than one intonational nucleus associated with a single clause here, but in this case there is no problem, since only a single meaning is involved, that of contrast between two elements. This case is thus different from that in examples like (221), where a number of different aspects of the clause meaning would seem to be under focus. Although Van Valin & LaPolla do not discuss parallel structures of this kind, Lambrecht, on whose model their work is based, does analyse an example with parallel focus, shown in (228) (capitals indicate words containing intonational nuclei): (228) (= Lambrecht’s 5.90, 1994: 332) Q. What are you going to do with the DOG and the CAT while you’re away? A. I’ll leave the DOG with my PARENTS and the CAT can stay OUTSIDE. According to Lambrecht, in the answer to the question dog and cat are Topic expressions, parents and outside being focal. Such an analysis would not, however, be possible for (227), since may (and indeed won’t) cannot be Topics. In order to discuss the SFG analysis, we again need more detail on the intonational structure, as shown in (229) and (230).88 (229) *^so* I !m\ay go úp# at the ênd of :\April ag/ain# but – ^won’t . be going úp . in :M\/ay# (230) // ^ so I / may go / up at the / end of / April again but // ^ /won’t be going / up in / May // . April again constitutes a complex fall + rise tone group (tone 13).

Chapter 2

Information structure 

The first tone group has marked focus on the modal (since there is a later lexical element, go up), the second and third have unmarked focus. Note that although it is perfectly possible to talk about the effects of these choices of focus on the text meanings, there is (as in RRG) nothing in the SFG account which specifically classifies such structures as parallel. Turning now to (231), originally presented in (15) as an example of questioning and then completive focus in FG, we see that in both parts the focus is on a term. (231) A. Who is it? B. Pope Innocent the Fourth (LLC 1 4 610–611) Notice, however, that (231) has intonational prominence on the wh-word, a marked variant (which could be interpreted as an echo question) compared with Who is it? (interpreted as an identification-seeking question). As far as I can see, there is nothing in Dik’s account which would differentiate these two possibilities, since who would be in focus in both. The same can be said of RRG: (231) has narrow focus on who, whether this element bears intonational prominence or not, since ‘it is someone’ is the pragmatic presupposition and the wh-word asks for information which will fill in the specifics of that ‘someone’. In SFG, since is would be regarded as the lexical verb, we have marked focus on who, which precedes that lexical element. As for B’s reply, it consists only of a single noun phrase, which must be in focus in all three accounts. Hopefully, the few illustrations in this section will be enough to show that much more work needs to be done on the relationship between prosodic patterns and focus assignment, in all three theories.

..... Grammatical constructions. Here, I shall concentrate on grammatical constructions which are specialised for focus, especially clefts and pseudoclefts. The placement of focal constituents in initial position in the clause will be discussed when we consider the importance of position in the realisation of information distribution patterns. As an example of a cleft with focus on a noun phrase, let us take (232); as a cleft with focus on an adpositional phrase (233); and as a pseudocleft (234). (232) It’s Larry who’s doing this. (BNC CA3 755) (233) . . . it was with him that we went to Loch Lomond. (BNC BN6 1316) (234) What you need is rest and good food. (BNC A7J 2080) I shall start this time with RRG, in order to highlight certain similarities between the FG and SFG accounts later. The RRG account of both (232) and (234) would be in terms of a marked constituent order (the cleft construction) combined with narrow focus (on Larry and him respectively). Although pseudoclefts are not specifically discussed in Van Valin & LaPolla (1997), it is reasonable to suppose that (234) would be analysed as a predicate focus construction, with what you need as the topical expression and rest and good food as focal information. In FG, as we saw in §2.2.1.4.4, pseudoclefts such as (234) are seen as the basic type, and are analysed as identifying constructions. Specifically, in (234), the term rest and good

 Structure and Function

food is converted from a term to a term predicate, and then used as a predicate over the term what you need, to give the underlying structure shown very schematically in (235). (235) {(dxi : rest and good food)}Foc (d1xj : what you need)ØGivTop According to Dik’s account, this pseudocleft would not be totally prototypical, since the identifying expression rest and good food is not definite. It is, however, the Focus, with what you need as Given Topic. This topical expression, as expected, is a free relative clause, and could have been re-expressed using a general noun (the thing that you need). In (234), the GivTop is in P1, but there is a variant with the Focus in P1, as shown in (236). (236) Rest and good food is/are what you need. In (234), what is taken to be a fused pronominal head and relative pronoun, equivalent to that which. In the cleft construction in (232), on the other hand, we have a headless realisation; otherwise, however, the structures are basically the same, as shown in the skeletal structure in (237). (237) {(d1xi: Larry)}Foc (who’s doing this)ØGivTop For (233), however, it will be remembered that Dik would postulate a different structure, since there is no question of identifying with him and that we went to Loch Lomond. Indeed, he argues that that in such constructions is not a relative pronoun, such as occurs in true clefts, but the general subordinator. (233) is thus not a true cleft, but a structure in which we have property assignment: the property of ‘being with him’ is assigned to the State of Affairs ‘we went to Loch Lomond’, as shown in outline in (238). (238) {(he)Company} (we went to Loch Lomond)Ø Turning now to the SFG account, we can discern some similarities with what has just been said for FG, but also some differences. In SFG, too, we could regard pseudoclefts (Halliday’s ‘thematic equatives’) as more basic than clefts, since they have a simpler structure. Again, this structure is an identifying one, and both unmarked and marked orderings are recognised. The Sydney grammar structure for (234) (assuming that it would be read with the tonic syllable on food) is shown in (239). (239)

What you need Identified Theme

is Process

rest and good food Identifier Rheme

Given

New

For the reversed structure shown in (236) above (again with the tonic syllable on food in the spoken form), the structure is as in (240).

Information structure 

Chapter 2

(240)

Rest and good food Identifier

is/are Process

what you need. Identified

Theme

Rheme

New

Given

Halliday’s observation that such clauses give a meaning of exclusiveness (‘what you need is (exclusively) rest and good food’) is not matched in the FG account. The structure of (234) in the Cardiff grammar (treated as ‘object as role in event’) is as in (241).89 Ó

(241)

Clause Operator Main verb

Subject/Carrier


Clause Complement/ Possessed

Subject/ Carrier

Main verb/ Process

you

need

What

is

rest and good food

As we saw in §8.3.2.3 of Part 1, Fawcett believes that the complex account given by Halliday for identifying relational processes can be insightfully simplified if, for such clauses, we postulate an Attribute class with just one member. Passing now to the cleft structure in (232), which Halliday would treat in terms of ‘predicated Theme’, we have two superimposed structures, as shown in (242). (242)

It Theme

’s

Larry Rheme

Theme

who Theme

’s

doing this. Rheme

Rheme

In the top analysis, each clause has its own Theme, while in the bottom analysis, the predicating structure it’s Larry is treated as the Theme of the whole construction, with who’s doing this as Rheme. This dual structure is very different from that for a thematic equative, whereas, as we saw above, the semantic structures for clefts and pseudoclefts proposed by Dik are very similar. This difference between the two approaches arises from the fact that Dik’s underlying structure is semantic and abstract, itself bearing no information regarding the final shape of the clause, whereas Halliday interprets clefts in terms of the realisation of lexicogrammatical options in Theme, these realisations, in English, being tied to positional properties in linguistic expressions. The Cardiff analysis of (232) is as in (243). . I am assuming here that need would be treated as a possessive relational process.

 Structure and Function

Ó

(243)

Clause Empty Subject

Operator/ Main verb

Complement/ Attribute/Enhanced Theme

Complement/Carrier Clause

Subject/ Agent It

’s

Larry

who

Operator/ Auxiliary ’s

Main Complement/ verb Affected doing

this

Now let us look at (233). The Sydney SFG analysis of this would still be in terms of predicated Theme, but this time with a prepositional rather than a nominal group within the predicated construction, as shown in (244). (244)

It Theme

was

with him Rheme

Theme

that

we

went

Theme

to Loch Lomond. Rheme

Rheme

Similarly, the structure proposed in the Cardiff grammar would be on the same lines as that for (232). Where the analyses of (232) and (233) would differ in SFG, however, is in the transitivity structure rather than the thematic structure. As pointed out by Dik, that, in examples such as (233), is clearly not a relative pronoun but a subordinating conjunction (and this is reflected in the analysis of Theme given above, where we have a textual Theme that followed by an experiential Theme we). In other words, whereas who in (232) plays a part in the transitivity structure of the second clause, that in (233) does not. Before we leave the area of special construction types for focus, it should be made clear that clefts and pseudoclefts are not the only possible types. For instance, as pointed out by Van Valin & LaPolla (1997: 211), variations of word order are used to indicate focus structure in languages such as Italian, in which focused material cannot occur in preverbal positions. Inversion of basic SVO order is also frequent in Spanish, in order to throw the focused material into a late position in the clause, as shown in the first clause of (245), where the focus is on mi tío. (245) Y lo hizo mi tío. Puso el cassette and it do-simple.past.3sg my uncle put-simple.past.3sg the cassette sin que nos enteráramos. (HCM 21) without refl find-out-past.subjunc.1pl ‘And my uncle did it. He put on the cassette without us knowing.’

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..... Morphemes marking informational status. We have seen that morphemes indicating informational status are mentioned by Dik, Van Valin & LaPolla and Halliday, though only briefly. More detailed studies are available in de Vries (1985) for Wambon and Watters (1979) for Aghem within a FG framework, by Han (1999) for Korean in a RRG framework, and Matthiessen & Bateman (1991) for Japanese within SFG. .. An alternative perspective: The importance of position in the clause as an indicator of informational status ... Initial position FG, RRG and SFG all consider initial position as an important factor in indicating informational status, and this is consistent with psychological and psycholinguistic evidence for the cognitive importance of the beginnings of linguistic units of various sizes (see Gernsbacher 1990). I shall discuss this area under two headings: what counts as ‘initial position’, and what kinds of meanings are seen as occurring there. .... What counts as initial position? An important prior question is ‘Initial in what?’, since SFG differs strongly from FG and RRG in what it includes within the unit of clause. Consider the following example: (246) On Wednesday, the Duke of Kent will open a major new research and development centre at West Malling in Kent, . . . (BNC AHV 90) For SFG, all the material in (246) is within a single clause, so that the clause-initial position is occupied by on Wednesday. For FG and RRG, however, this position is outside the clause itself, though within the boundaries of the sentence in which the clause occurs: in FG, on Wednesday is an extraclausal constituent, in what is sometimes labelled the P2 position, with the pragmatic function of Setting; while in RRG, it is in the left-detached position (LDP), again outside the clause itself. The first position in the clause is thus occupied by the Duke of Kent in both FG and RRG. Proponents of FG and RRG have provided similar kinds of evidence for the distinction between clausal and extraclausal elements: the latter are separated from the clause by an intonation break or punctuation, are always optional and are not sensitive to, and do not influence, the grammatical rules operating within the clause itself. For instance, Van Valin & LaPolla (1997: 36) observe that in English, if the element in the left-detached position is a semantic argument in the clause proper, then a resumptive pronoun must occur in the clause. Consider the clause in bold in (247), taken from a conversational text: (247) A. . . . we’re getting the near the end of that tape. B. This one, it’s got one with Donna on that side. A. That’s that stupid tape done! (BNC KSV 3771) Omitting it in the clause itself leads to ungrammaticality, as does omission of the comma indicating an intonation break, if we keep the resumptive pronoun:



 Structure and Function

(248) *This one, got one with Donna on that side. (249) *This one it’s got one with Donna on that side. This behaviour is also shown in the West African (Mande) language Toura, and Van Valin & LaPolla (1997: 214) appear to suggest that this property, together with demarcation by intonation or punctuation, characterises the LDP in all languages in which it occurs. There is, however, an important difference between RRG and FG in terms of the units within which initial position is important. Consider (250), presented earlier as (119): (250) In women, what is he looking for, mother, daughter, sister, wife? (BNC FYV 2622) This, like (246), has an element, in women, as Setting in P2 (FG), or in the left-detached position (RRG). But RRG also makes a distinction within the clause, between core and non-core elements. Part of this distinction, that between core and periphery, corresponds to that made in FG between predicate-plus-arguments and satellites. There is, however, a second distinction which has no parallel in FG, that between the core and the pre-core (or in some languages post-core) slot. In RRG, wh-elements, also fronted complements and adjuncts, go into the pre-core slot, so that in (250) what is in the pre-core slot and only he is, strictly speaking, a core argument of look for. Some rules in RRG need to refer to the core, others to the whole clause: for instance, as we saw above, there is a restriction on preverbal focal material in Italian, and strictly this applies only to the core, since focal material can occur in the pre-core slot; in Sesotho, however, the restriction is on the whole clause, since focal material cannot occur in the pre-core slot in this language (Van Valin & LaPolla 1997: 213). Clearly, what is initial in the core is not always initial in the clause, since the clause-initial element may well be something filling the pre-core slot, as in (250). On the other hand, in FG, only the clause-initial element (P1) is recognised, and for English at least, items which must go into P1 include those which would be in the pre-core slot in RRG (wh-items and relative pronouns90 ), but there are also items which can go into P1 (such as the Subject in English) which would be core-initial elements in RRG. Van Valin & LaPolla (1997: 38–39) provide evidence for the distinction between the LDP and the pre-core slot from Icelandic, where the finite verb must almost always be in second position in the clause. Constituents in the first position in the clause itself which are not Subjects, but fronted complements or adjuncts, and are thus in the pre-core slot, cause inversion of Subject and verb in order to maintain the right position for the latter; however, items in left-detached position do not cause this inversion. Further evidence for the distinction between elements in the LDP and the pre-core slot comes from their coreference properties in English: an NP in the LDP can be coreferential with the Subject NP in the clause, but it is claimed that an NP in the pre-core slot is always non-coreferential with this Subject NP (Van Valin & LaPolla 1997: 228–229). For details and examples, the original account should be consulted. . But not subordinating conjunctions, which are treated in RRG as predicative prepositions taking a clausal argument (see Van Valin & LaPolla 1997: 464).

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If proponents of SFG are to maintain the stance that there is no principled difference between elements which occur initially in their version of the clause, with or without an intonation or punctuation break, then it is hard to see how they can explain the kinds of observation just discussed. Furthermore, we saw in §2.4.1.8 that Cummings (1995), as a result of his work on Theme in Old English, suggests that some of the elements standardly regarded as within the clause in SFG might more profitably be seen as outside the clause and within the sentence, a position which strongly echoes that in FG and RRG. On the other hand, we saw in §2.2.2.1.3 that the distinction between P2 (external) and P1 (internal) positions in FG is by no means as straightforward as it might first seem. Criteria for the necessary separation of P2 from the clause are somewhat vague for the spoken language, and punctuation is notoriously variable. Discussion is often hampered by a lack of strict separation between position (P2, P1) and function (e.g. Theme, Topic). Elements with the same function as classic Themes can occur within clauses in some languages, while elements with topical function, normally considered intraclausal, can sometimes be separated off by means of intonation or punctuation, so occurring in the position reserved for Themes. It has, as we have seen, even been suggested that Theme, Tail and Topic should be regarded as a single pragmatic function with different positional realisations. Hannay (forthcoming) notes that his latest proposals for orientational elements at the beginning of the English sentence (see §2.2.2.1.1) have the merit that functionally distinct P1 and P2 elements are no longer postulated. Clearly, much more work is required in this area. Nevertheless, there do exist prototypical cases of Themes (in the FG sense)/left-detached elements which can be demonstrated to have different properties from elements postulated to be within the clause, and the challenge to account for these facts remains for SFG. We also saw in the discussion of the Sydney version of SFG that there is considerable controversy about what should count as clause-initial position as the realisation of Theme (in the SFG sense) in English. It will be remembered that Halliday himself advocates treating everything up to and including the first ideational element as Theme, and that in the variety of proposals from the literature listed by Berry (1996), what goes into the Theme, and hence the interpretation of ‘initial’, can stretch to embrace everything up to and including the lexical verb, possibly even overlapping with the Rheme in this region of the clause. This is clearly a very different way of looking at ‘initial’ elements, bound up with their status as Theme in SFG, and motivated largely by considerations of the role of Theme in texts. Despite these many differences, there are some parallels which can be drawn. There are cases in which the FG category of P1, the RRG core-initial position and Halliday’s own category of Theme do coincide. These are absolutely straightforward, simple clauses with unmarked constituent order such as that shown in (251), where he corresponds to all these categories. (251) He hit the lake at the foot of the quarry. (BNC AMU 2331) In other cases P1 and Halliday’s Theme correspond to the RRG pre-core slot, as with this in (252).



 Structure and Function

(252) This I endured for several months, . . . (BNC AMC 1415) In still others, Halliday’s Theme corresponds to an FG orientational device in P2, and to the RRG left-detached position, as with on Thursday in (253). (253) On Thursday, the Pope spoke forcibly to an audience of Ukrainian Catholic bishops, . . . (BNC A3D 112)

.... What meanings are associated with placement in ‘initial’ positions? We saw in §2.2.1.4.2 that P1, the first position in the clause itself, is claimed by Dik (1997a: 408) to be a universally relevant position, used for particular purposes, including the placement of the pragmatic functions Topic and Focus. However, these functions can be placed in P1 only if there is no item which must occupy that position: in English and Dutch, for example, question words, subordinators and relative pronouns must, if present, go into P1. Since it is claimed that there can be only one constituent in P1, it follows that the Topic and/or Focus must go into some other position if an obligatorily P1 item is present. As Mackenzie & Keizer (1991) have observed, and as is evident from the criticisms of Fumero Pérez (2001) noted earlier, this weakens the association between P1 and pragmatic function. This weakness is compounded by the fact that in some languages, positions other than P1 are specialised for Topic and/or Focus. Furthermore, as we have seen, there is evidence for multiple filling of P1 in some languages, and even, in some circumstances, for English. Mackenzie & Keizer also point to the problem of deciding whether Topic or Focus occupies P1, when both are present. Their solution to the dilemma is to abandon Topic for English, postulating that the Subject is the unmarked occupant of P1. Hannay’s (1991, 1993) solution is rather different: according to him, the placement of Topic or Focus in P1 is determined by the choice made by speakers and writers from among a set of ‘modes of message management’, reflecting different priorities in information presentation. Whatever the position adopted, it is clear that FG does not postulate any single, over-arching meaning for P1, and even the extent to which this position can be correlated with the placement of pragmatic functions is in some doubt. The position is no better for the pre-clausal position P2, for which, as we saw in §2.2.1.5, Dik (1997b) postulates a function of addressee orientation with respect to what follows in the clause itself. Three types of orientation extraclausal constituent are proposed: Theme, Condition and Setting. However, we have seen that work on Dutch has shown that P2 has no unitary pragmatic function, and indeed need not carry a special pragmatic function at all. It should be obvious, then, that much more work needs to be done in FG on the meanings carried by position, that this needs to be done in the context of meanings carried by intonation, and that the clear dissociation of position and function is a prerequisite for progress in this important area. Turning now to RRG, it is interesting to compare the statements of Van Valin & LaPolla regarding the meanings carried by elements in left-detached position with those claimed in FG for orientational pre-clausal elements. For English, Van Valin & LaPolla

Chapter 2


(1997: 228) state that elements in the LDP are always topical. Furthermore, they can contain either semantic arguments or non-arguments (1997: 60). The clearest similarities are between those with semantic arguments in the LDP in RRG and Dik’s Theme category, since the latter “specifies an ensemble of entities with respect to which the following clause is going to present some relevant information” (Dik 1997b: 389). Dik’s Setting category corresponds closely to examples in RRG where a prepositional or adverbial phrase of spatial or temporal location is assigned to the LDP. Dik’s Condition category could correspond to a type of LDP element if phrasal, but presumably if clausal, RRG would treat it as simply an instance of clause combination. Now let us turn to the relationships between initial positions and meaning in the Sydney version of SFG, as compared with FG and RRG. We have seen that Halliday’s version of SFG takes a wider view of the term ‘initial position in the clause’, which, for English, embraces not only the orientational pre-clausal constituents of FG and the LDP of RRG, together with the P1 of FG and the pre-core slot of RRG, but any material which occurs up to and including the first ideational element in the clause, locating all of this material in the Theme constituent of the clause. We have also seen that Halliday attempts to find a single overall meaning for this thematic material, characterised in terms of ‘what the message is about’ and ‘the starting point for the message’. I have reviewed the considerable problems which such an analysis presents, and suggested that the most persuasive evidence for something akin to Halliday’s view is to be found, not in what most linguists (indeed, most functionalists) would consider to be the grammatical aspects of initial positioning, but in explaining how texts are constructed and interpreted. Nevertheless, as with the identification of ‘initial’ position, there are some parallels we can discern in the relationships between position and meaning in the three approaches. Firstly, note that the notion of ‘aboutness’ comes into Dik’s definition of both the intraclausal function of Topic (a formally marked constituent representing an entity about which information is to be provided) and the pre-clausal constituent Theme (presenting something about which the clause itself will present relevant information) and that this is reminiscent, not only of Lambrecht’s/Van Valin & LaPolla’s topicality, but also of Halliday’s definition of Theme in SFG. Furthermore, as pointed out by Fumero Pérez (2001: 413), all types of FG Topic except NewTop are claimed to be formally characterised by appearance in the initial, P1 position in the clause, again reminding us of Halliday’s analysis of thematic constituents in English.91 For Dik, however, the extraclausal Theme must present one or more entities which will enter into the clause, and Topic constituents must also refer to entities, while for Halliday, the Theme of a clause is not restricted to the expression of entities.92 The parallel is somewhat closer if we restrict ourselves to Halliday’s ‘topical Theme’, but even this can represent a circumstantial meaning rather than an entity meaning. Nevertheless, as Hannay . With regard to the exception here, NewTop, we have seen that Mackenzie & Keizer (1991) and Hannay (1985, 1991) have suggested that it is better classified as a type of Focus rather than a kind of Topic. . We have seen, however, that this stipulation has been criticised as over-restrictive by some FG scholars.



 Structure and Function

(1994a: 109–110) has pointed out, there is a clearly discernible similarity between the textual and interpersonal Themes of SFG and the extraclausal constituents of FG. He notes that Bolkestein (1992a: 398) has pointed to a normal ordering of satellites (those relating to the text tending to occur before those connected with the nature of the utterance, which in turn precede those commenting on the utterance content) which is the same as Halliday’s default ordering for multiple Themes. Furthermore, Hannay (1994a: 111) observes that there is a clear parallel between the choice of marked/unmarked Theme in SFG and the choice, within his ‘Grounding mode’ of message management (see §2.2.2.1.1), between assigning a Topic, Setting or Stager pragmatic function to P1 (parallel to marked Theme), or not assigning any pragmatic function, in which case the Subject goes into P1 (parallel to unmarked Theme for a declarative clause). There is also a relationship between Dik’s Themes and Downing’s (1991) ‘individual frameworks’, set up within a modified SFG model, and between her ‘spatial and temporal frameworks’ and his Setting category. Hannay (1994a: 114) suggests, on the basis of a brief discussion of the P1/P2 distinction in FG and Downing’s circumstantial frameworks, that “the intraclausal-extraclausal distinction may be of functional value for SFG in determining the scope of the theme”. We have seen that all three theories recognise, for English, that certain items (whwords, relative pronouns) are normally constrained to be in one of the initial positions they propose (P1, pre-core slot, thematic position). The analysis of the associated meanings, however, highlights important differences between FG and RRG, on the one hand, and SFG, on the other. Let us consider wh-question words. These are seen as focal in FG, since they represent the most salient information in the question; they are also focal in RRG, since in a question such as that in (254), the presupposition is ‘X governs Britain’ and the focal information is the relationship between this and ‘X = ?’. (254) . . . Who governs Britain? (BNC AHX 327) In SFG, however, they are thematic, since they occur initially, but do not (in the unmarked case) constitute what Halliday regards as the information focus, because this is linked exclusively to intonational structure in the spoken language, and the unmarked situation in a wh-question is to have the intonational prominence on the last lexical item in the tone group (in the above case, Britain). Prominence on the wh-word is, of course, possible, as a marked variant, but this does not affect the fact that the wh-item is always focus in FG and RRG, but not in SFG. Halliday does recognise something which is quite close to the FG and RRG concept of focus when he writes (1994a: 46) that the natural element to put in first position is the one by which the very nature of a question is expressed; the difference is that for FG and RRG this is a matter of focus, but for SFG a matter of Theme. This difference is not merely a terminological one either, since Theme is, in English, tied to initial position (in the extended sense of this term used in Halliday’s writings), while information focus, in all three theories, is not. In other words, FG and RRG interpret the function of wh-words in a way which links it to other, non-initial realisations of salience, while SFG separates the positional properties from salience as realised by the specific device of intonational

Information structure 

Chapter 2

prominence. This has unfortunate consequences if we expand our consideration of whquestions to include their replies, as in (255), transcribed in Halliday’s notation in (256). (255) A. ^where did you !l\eave the ´file# B. it’s ôn ´top of the t\ype´writer# or *^b\y the ´typewriter#* (LLC 7 3h 996–998) (256) A. // where did you / leave the / file// B. //^ it’s / on / top of the / typewriter or // by the / typewriter // As we saw in §2.4.1.7.2, Huddleston (1988) observes, in the context of a discussion on Halliday’s ‘aboutness’ criterion for Theme, that we have a change of Theme in such question-answer pairs (where as Theme in A’s contribution, but it in B’s reply), although both parts are surely about the file. But we might also add, in the context of our present discussion, that there is no way in which the concept of information focus helps us to achieve any kind of unity either, since leave is the (marked) information focus of A’s part, and on top of the typewriter the (unmarked) information focus of the first part of B’s reply. In contrast to the FG and RRG accounts, then, we have no single category which shows the essential unity of the information structure in examples such as the above.93 The most we can say is that, as Matthiessen & Martin (1991) point out, Halliday’s account of Theme in such constructions makes sense of certain types of thematic progression in text, where the Rheme of one clause (the file in the above example) is taken up in the Theme (it) of the next.94 Halliday does, of course, claim that a wh-question has the meaning of asking for information about a person, place, thing, etc., and that a canonical reply will provide this information. But as Huddleston points out, this meaning attaches to the whole clause, not to the wh-word – and not, we might add, to the intonationally realised information structure either. Finally, let us look briefly at how the three theories handle the meanings of variations in the ordering of Subject, Complement and Adjunct elements in the clause; again, I shall concentrate on English. In FG, we have seen that if there is no constituent which must go into P1, then Topic or Focus can be placed there, and since there is an unmarked association between Topic and Subject, we very often find the Subject in P1. It is, however, possible to place Complements or Adjuncts in that position, and such elements can be Topic or Focus, or neither. Consider (257), which gives some context for the clause examined as (111) earlier. (257) A. B. A. B.

Oh I hate these silly men. Mm. This one I swapped with Christopher. Yeah.

. Louis Goossens (personal communication) points out that if A’s utterance is seen as concerned with ‘the whereness of your leaving X’, then a link can be made with B’s reply. This, however, does not affect the argument about thematisation and information focus as such. . This is one of the patterns discussed in Daneš (1974).

 Structure and Function

A. B. A. B.

And this one I swapped with Christopher. Yeah. And this one I swapped with Christopher. Yeah. (BNC KCT 7425–7432)

It seems likely that A, who is a child of ten years, is pointing out figures of men, for example on cigarette cards, which have been swapped with a friend. It is clear that although the first occurrence of This one I swapped with Christopher, with an initial complement, could have separate intonational prominence on this one as well as on Christopher, it would be possible to say it with no such initial prominence, with this one as GivTop. In the second and third occurrences, however, this one would normally have the sole prosodic prominence, acting as Focus. One problem which appears to be unresolved at the present time is the difference between pairs such as (258) and (259). (258) and evidently she must have talked to her mother about them you see (LLC 5 10 702–703) (259) and evidently I didn’t look an angry young man (LLC 5 10 714) In (258), the Adjunct evidently has a separate intonation unit, and so would be expected to qualify as an extraclausal constituent, while in (259) it is part of the same intonation unit as the rest of the utterance, and so might be considered to be in P1. One problem here is that there is no meaning-based category of extraclausal constituent in Dik’s account to which interpersonal Adjuncts such as that in (258) might be assimilated. Furthermore the difference in meaning between the two types is minimal: indeed, it would be possible to change the patterns of the two examples around with no obvious difference in meaning. In both cases, the Adjunct is clearly outside the scope of the illocution operator. This, of course, is just one example of the general problem of distinguishing between the P2 and P1 positions in FG, and the meanings carried by elements in these positions. As for RRG, Van Valin & LaPolla (1997: 166) show an example with evidently followed by a comma, which they assign to the left-detached position; nevertheless, in the operator projection evidently is seen as an evidential operator acting at the level of the clause. The problem of distinguishing between Adjuncts in the LDP and in the pre-core slot is sidestepped in Van Valin & LaPolla’s account, since all examples which have nonargument constituents in first position are written with a separating comma. RRG does, of course, permit non-wh NPs or PPs to occur in the pre-core slot, the examples given being instances of ‘fronted’ non-Subject constituents representing semantic arguments (Van Valin & LaPolla 1997: 36). In SFG, we have seen that in a declarative clause any ideational element which is not the Subject is treated as a marked Theme, and that this is interpreted in terms of the choice of a particular starting point for the message, in the context of the surrounding discourse.

Chapter 2

Information structure 

... Final position Final (or at least late) position in the clause has been recognised by many linguists as the preferred site for ‘heavy’ constituents, and this has been linked with processing considerations. As with initial position, we shall first consider what counts as final position, and then look at what meanings can be realised by location in this position. .... What counts as final position? As with initial position, we first need to ask what is the nature of the unit(s) in which final position is said to be important. The same kinds of issues arise as for initial position, though there seems to have been less discussion of what happens at and after the ends of clauses. We have seen that in FG there is a position, labelled P3, outside and after the clause, marked off by intonation or punctuation, where an extraclausal constituent with Tail function may be placed. Tails in FG correspond to the right-detached position of RRG, also outside the clause itself. In Sydney SFG, these elements are regarded as ‘substitute Themes’ of the clause. In FG, it has been claimed that there is a special pragmatically-relevant final position within the clause in certain Slavic languages (see the references cited in Dik 1997a: 426). In RRG, we need to distinguish between clause and core as units within which position may be important. Just as there may be a pre-core slot within the clause, so in certain languages, such as Japanese, there is a post-core slot, outside and after the core, but within the clause, which is like the pre-core slot in not being set off by an intonation or punctuation break. In standard Hallidayan SFG, final position is an important consideration in the information unit, realised by a tone group, rather than in the clause itself, though the two are coterminous in the unmarked case. Fries and Matthiessen, however, have also suggested important functions for the ends of clauses in written English. .... What meanings are associated with placement in ‘final’ positions? Tails in FG are said to provide additional information about the clause as a whole, or about some constituent of it. The clause-final position in certain Slavic languages mentioned above is specialised for Focus function, though it is not used for question words, except in echo questions. It will also be remembered that the Language-Independent Preferred Order of Constituents (LIPOC) postulates that long, heavy constituents such as embedded clauses will prefer late positions in the clause. The post-core slot in Japanese normally contains non-focal items, but can be a secondary focus in the sentence (Van Valin & LaPolla 1997: 334). As we have seen, the final lexical element of the tone group is claimed by Halliday to be the unmarked position for information focus in English, though grammatical and inherently given items can follow. The work of Fries, however, has shown that clause-final position in the written language is the most usual site for the placement of newsworthy information, and Matthiessen has suggested systems of ‘culmination’ for the written clause, which take this importance into account.

 Structure and Function

.. Information distribution and the structure of texts It will be clear from the discussion in this chapter that theorising about the information structuring of the simplex clause has been approached in FG and RRG largely through the analysis of isolated utterances or utterance pairs, often constructed by the linguist. Notable exceptions include the work of Mackenzie/Keizer and Downing on English, and Downing and Martínez Caro on Spanish. In SFG, on the other hand, the strongest evidence for the importance of first position as thematic in English, and of final position as a site for newsworthy information, comes from the detailed study of (often rather short) texts.

.. Information structure and layering We have seen that in Halliday’s SFG the packaging of information is allocated to the textual metafunction, and that in Dik’s version of FG it is handled by means of pragmatic function assignment. However, in recent accounts of FG based on Hengeveld’s Functional Discourse Grammar, pragmatic function assignment belongs to a more broadly-interpreted type of interpersonal level, embracing a wider range of aspects of speaker-addressee relations than those included by Halliday (see §3.7.1 and §3.8.4 of Part 1). Such a view is also implied by Hannay’s treatment of his modes of message management as subtypes of illocution. Information packaging also belongs to the interpersonal semiotic in McGregor’s Semiotic Grammar.

.. Voice As with other areas of information structuring, there are clear points of similarity, but also major differences, in the ways in which FG, RRG and SFG handle voice phenomena. All three approaches see voice in terms of mappings between two different types of role or function. In FG, the mapping is between the syntactic function Subject and semantic functions such as Agent, Goal, etc. In RRG, in which the concept of Subject is not used except for comparison with other approaches, voice involves the selection of a particular semantic macrorole (Actor or Undergoer) to act as the Privileged Syntactic Argument (PSA) of the construction (which, for English and many other languages, corresponds to what in other models would be the Subject). In both cases, we are concerned with the mapping between a syntactic function and a semantic one. In the Sydney version of SFG, the choice of voice depends on which transitivity function is conflated with the mood function Subject, both being at the same (lexicogrammatical) level of language, though associated with different metafunctions (transitivity functions with the experiential part of the ideational metafunction, and the Subject with the interpersonal). All three approaches recognise the possibility of ‘agentless passives’ (in RRG, this is within the area of ‘argument modulation’). Examples are given below, with analyses of voice in terms of FG, RRG and Hallidayan SFG (for which only the ‘transitive’ type of analysis is provided).

Chapter 2


(260)

Then a money crisis hit the BBC . . . (BNC A8M 177) Subject/Force Object/Goal [FG] PSA/Actor Undergoer [RRG] Subject/Actor Complement/Goal [SFG]

(261)

Lincoln was hit by a tax bill for $4.5 million . . . (BNC A6W 1442) Subject/Goal Force [FG] PSA/Undergoer Actor [RRG] Subject/Goal Adjunct/Actor [SFG]

(262)

The brewery . . . was hit hard when a German land mine damaged the brewery stables . . . (BNC A14 442) Subject/Goal [FG] PSA/Undergoer [RRG] Subject/Goal [SFG]

FG and SFG both represent voice explicitly as a device for selecting a particular perspective for the clause. In FG, as we saw in §3.2.2.5 of Part 1, such perspectivisation is not available in all languages: recognition of the category of Subject in a language is actually dependent on the occurrence of voice alternations in that language; for Subject assignment to be possible, there must be at least one passive construction which has the same content as the active, and which contains a non-first argument sharing coding and behavioural properties with the first argument of the active. In SFG the Subject is seen as having ‘modal responsibility’, responsibility, that is, for carrying forward the clause as an interactive event (Halliday 1994a: 76, see also §1.4.1.1). Presumably, on this view, there must be some device in every language with this function. Matthiessen comments as follows: Since this kind of functional approach within the interpersonal domain has rarely been taken in work on particular languages and never really in typological investigations, the extent to which languages single out an element to give it a special interpersonal status in the clause as a move is very much an open question. (Matthiessen 1995a: 466)

He criticises the frequent formulation in linguistics of questions concerned with whether a particular language has a Subject, how we might recognise it, and what the universal properties of the Subject might be, on the grounds that this approach . . . reifies a grammatical phenomenon in terms of a theoretical or descriptive category of Subject and then takes this reification as the point of departure rather than grammars operating in dialogue. (1995a: 466)

If, however, the possibility remains open that some languages do not have a category which can be seen as a near equivalent to Subject in English and many other languages, then it also remains to be seen what, if anything, might constitute a voice opposition in those languages.



 Structure and Function

In this, as in other areas, FG and RRG are much more concerned than SFG with the syntactic aspects of voice, across a wide range of language types, while SFG gives greater weight to the semantic correlates and their importance in texts.

Chapter 3

Complex sentences

.

Introduction In the previous two chapters, I considered aspects of the clause which are particularly relevant to the role of the clause in discourse. In the current chapter, we move beyond the simplex clause to discuss the approaches of Functional Grammar, Role and Reference Grammar and Systemic Functional Grammar to the structure and meaning of complex sentences, still within the scope of the grammar itself. I shall therefore be discussing the phenomena traditionally known as coordination, clause embedding and subordination,1 though we shall see that we need to need to add further categories to account for the complexity of combination actually found in the world’s languages.

.

Complex sentences in Functional Grammar

..

Introduction: The semantic basis of complex sentence formation Dik’s account of complex sentences is cast in terms of the underlying semantics involved, though always with due reference to expression forms. Coordination (Dik 1997b: Chapter 9) is discussed in terms of the possibilities for combining full clauses,2 propositions, predications, terms, predicates, restrictors, operators and functions. Embedding involves the creation of terms which contain a predication, proposition or clause: a predication can be embedded as a verbal restrictor (i.e. a unit which restricts the reference of a first-order term, and is organised around a verbal predicate (Dik 1997b: 24)), giving rise to relative clauses and other related constructions; or we may create a complex term, referring not

. Quirk et al. (1985: 44) treat subordination as a type of embedding, but we shall see that this is not a view shared by all the functional approaches to be discussed here. . It should be remembered that Dik uses the term ‘clause’ in a semantic sense, as the highest unit in the hierarchy of semantic units: predicate/term, predication, proposition, clause. We shall see later that he also discusses the coordination of ‘sentences’, which are defined as clauses plus their associated extraclausal constituents.

 Structure and Function

to first-order entities of type ‘x’, but to higher-order entities of types ‘e’, ‘X’ or ‘E’ (i.e. to predications, propositions or clauses).

.. Coordination in FG ... Definition and types of coordination Let us begin by reminding ourselves of the definition of coordination given by Dik, and presented in Chapter 7 of Part 1 in the context of coordination in term structures. A coordination is a construction consisting of two or more members which are functionally equivalent, bound together at the same level of structure by means of a linking device. (Dik 1997b: 189)

It will be remembered that the linking device in a coordinate structure may be covert (in the case of juxtaposed members) or overt (using one or more coordinators). Examples from noun phrase coordination were given in Chapter 7 of Part 1, where we also saw that Dik adopts a ‘direct’ approach to coordination, in which the relevant rules apply locally, at a number of places and levels of underlying structure, so avoiding structural transformations or deletions. Furthermore, Dik demonstrates that non-constituents can be coordinated. Consider (1) below: (1) Carolyn cleared the table, washed up, dried up, took everything out of the cutlery drawer and cleaned and tidied it, cleaned the cooker and swept the floor. (BNC H8N 332) Such examples are considered in, for example transformational grammar approaches as providing evidence for a VP constituent. Cases such as (2), however, complicate the issue:3 (2) Carolyn cleaned and Martin tidied the cutlery drawer. Here, we have coordination of Subject + predicate, rather than predicate + Object, and as Dik observes, we cannot postulate both of these combinations as constituents. Transformational analyses of sentences such as (2) involve the reduction principle, and so are rejected in FG in favour of allowing the coordination, not only of single constituents (‘simple’ coordination), but also of pairs and larger groupings (‘simultaneous’ coordination). In the discussion which follows, all page references are to Dik (1997b).

. No single pattern or simple combination of patterns will isolate such examples from a corpus, so the example given is based on the corpus example in (1). A search for the pattern *ed and * *ed in the British National Corpus (corresponding to hypothetical strings such as he washed and she dried the dishes) turned up no examples at all, suggesting that such this construction is probably not very frequent in English.

Chapter 3

Complex sentences

... Simple coordination In order to account for attested patterns of coordination, Dik (p. 197) proposes a distinction between clauses and sentences, the latter consisting of a clause plus any associated extraclausal constituents. The distinction is necessary because, as we saw in §3.3 of Part 1, extraclausal constituents in initial position do not embed easily along with the clause proper. (3) Well frankly half of them don’t have exercise books. (BNC J8D 2353) (4) *She said that well frankly half of them didn’t have exercise books. Dik (p. 198) therefore proposes that sentences enter into coordinations (as in (5)) but are difficult to embed, and so are not coordinated in embedded positions, while clauses can be coordinated whether they are independent (as in (6)) or embedded under a verbal predicate (as in (7)). (5) Well, I remember perfectly, and frankly, Dr Grant, I feel nothing but pity for someone who holds such archaic, chauvinistic views in this day and age. (BNC JXW 677) (6) I’m a divorced forty year old woman with two grown up children and I am in a terrible situation. (BNC KSN 1360) (7) But a minister said that politics did not work that way, and that the influence of the East Anglian connection was greatly exaggerated. (BNC K5D 8937) Dik (p. 198) notes that coordinated clauses usually have the same illocution, but that it is possible to coordinate an interrogative with a preceding declarative, as in (8). (8) . . . modern apprenticeships are going to help that process even further and why aren’t modern apprenticeships being welcomed? (BNC JSH 179) There are also coordinations of imperative and declarative clauses, in which the imperative idiomatically has a conditional meaning: (9) Do that and you’re guaranteed 20-plus goals. (BNC CBG 1065) Here, the imperative clause has the pragmatic meaning ‘if you do that’. Dik (p. 199) also shows that coordinated sentences or clauses in English must carry the same type of Focus or have the same sort of internal Focus distribution. Examples (10) and (11) demonstrate this constraint.4 (10) Hywel is silent and now Elizabeth is silent too. (BNC G0X 19) (11) *Hywel is silent and now Elizabeth is silent too. . The British National Corpus is not marked up for intonation focus; however, the pattern assigned here is clearly the most natural for this example. Any possible separate intonation unit for too is irrelevant to our present concerns.



 Structure and Function

Dik (p. 200) demonstrates that coordination can apply not only to full clauses and sentences, but also to propositional or predicational terms acting as second arguments of verbs such as think (example 12) and compel (13) respectively. (12) . . . everybody thinks that it is too difficult and that therefore there must be a different remedy. (BNC A69 772) (13) . . . the conquered enemies under the name of socii were compelled to supply troops and to follow Rome into war, . . . (BNC H0K 668) It is not, however, possible to coordinate a propositional and a predicational term, as can be seen in the case of predicates which have two senses, one taking each of the two types of complement, as is the case with the verb observe: (14) No doubt he had observed her talking to the Shergolds . . . (BNC HNJ 230) (15) . . . at one point he observed that she wasn’t making much headway with it. (BNC JYF 2046) In (14), we have a predicational complement, since what is observed is the SoA in which some female person is talking to the Shergolds; in (15), on the other hand, we have a propositional complement which designates the possible fact of her not making headway. (16) demonstrates the infelicity of any attempt to cross the two types in coordination. (16) *He had observed her talking to the Shergolds and that she wasn’t making much headway with it.

... ‘VP’ coordination Examples such as (17) would be handled in some approaches in terms of coordination of a Verb Phrase constituent consisting of the verb and its complement. (17) The father dashed around his vehicle and came out with a camera. (BNC KA2 412) This solution is not, however, available in FG, which does not recognise the category of VP. Neither is it possible to make use here of the concept of multiple coordination which Dik postulates for items such as those in bold face in (18) and (19) below: (18) she and I chased down the line and out to the fields every ten minutes or so. (BNC CDC 1625) (19) . . . she and I had to spend only evenings and weekends together. (BNC C8E 2377) Instead, Dik (p. 210) postulates clause coordination, with zero anaphora in the first argument position of the second clause. This mechanism can also be used for cases where an intransitive predicate is coordinated with a transitive predicate plus its non-first argument(s), as in (20). (20) Blanche waited and watched him intently, . . . (BNC G15 98)

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Chapter 3

There are cases, however, where two predicates appear to form a single complex predicate, the first being drawn from a restricted set of verbs of movement, verbs of position, try, be certain, etc., the second designating a non-state and with no potential for negation, and with no possibility of independent tense choice for the two predicates. (21) . . . he went and shut the gates, . . . (BNC KDM 11944) In such cases, Dik (p. 211) postulates a structure of the form shown in (41). (22) Past ei : (fi : go [V] and shut [V]) (he)Ag (the gates)Go Dik notes that this kind of construction may give rise to semi-grammaticalised expressions for aspect, as in the case of Danish, where a sentence meaning literally ‘John sits and writes a letter’ can be used to mean ‘John sits writing a letter’.

... Simultaneous coordination Simultaneous coordination is illustrated by examples such as (23). (23) . . . she played a schoolgirl and he a teacher. (BNC BNT 212) Dik rejects the possibility of an analysis in terms of zero anaphoric reference, in the second conjunct, to the predicate of the first. Anaphoric reference to predicates is a marked phenomenon, and would be doubly marked in languages with SOV order, in which the equivalent of (23) would be of the form ‘she a schoolgirl and he a teacher played’, since such structures also involve cataphora, again a marked phenomenon. Instead, Dik (p. 213) opts for a solution in which n-tuples of slots can be multiplied at the same time, as shown in (24). (24) play [V] {(x1 :)Ag (x2 )Go } & {(x1 *:)Ag (x2 *)Go } This indicates that for the verb play, used in the sense relevant to (23), we can coordinate a pair of elements, one a human Agent and the other a Goal, provided that (as indicated by the asterisks) each of the Agents, and also each of the Goals, is different. Such an analysis explains why the number of members coordinated in each slot must be equal, and can account for both ‘forward gapping’ and ‘backward gapping’ according to the word order rules of the language concerned.

.. Embedding in FG: (i) Verbal restrictors ... The nature and function of verbal restrictors As we saw in §3.2.1, verbal restrictors (VRs) are restrictors which are organised around a verbal predicate. Examples are the elements in bold below: (25) . . . I’ve talked to the man who made the video, . . . (BNC KS7 588)

 Structure and Function

(26) The man hoping to become Britain’s first black Tory MP faces more opposition tonight from his own side. (BNC K1C 2502) The function of such restrictors is seen as helping the addressee to identify the referent of a term, through a specification of some State of Affairs in which that referent is a participant (Dik 1997b: 24).5 Thus in (25), the man is identified as the one who made the video, and in (26) as the one who is hoping to become Britain’s first black Tory MP. Note that a VR can also arise from a non-verbal predicate which has effectively been made into a verbal one through copula support, as in (27). (27) I am concerned that the man who is here today is not the same as the man who was here yesterday. (BNC J10 3394) Dik (pp. 27–28) distinguishes three types of VRs, which will be discussed in more detail in §3.2.3.2: relative clauses, defined as a VR whose predicate is realised as a finite verb; participial restrictors, in which the predicate is in participial form; and nominalised restrictors, with the predicate realised as a nominalised verb. Dik (pp. 28–30) claims that VRs are extended predications6 with an open slot in the frame of the predicate, at which a term variable operates. The structures of the VRs in (25) and (26) above can be represented, in a simplified form, as in (28) and (29). (28) Past e: [make [V] (Axi )Ag (the video)Go ] (29) Pres e: [hope [V] (Axi )Ø (become Britain’s first black Tory MP)Ref ] In each case, there is a variable, xi , in one of the term positions of the predicate frame (it happens to be the first position in both examples), and this variable is further specified as being anaphoric, through the introduction of the anaphoric operator A. Dik’s claim that VRs are extended predications rests on the assertion that they cannot contain subjective attitudinal operators or satellites, at Level 3. Dik’s examples are given below. (30) (= Dik’s (15), 1997b: 28) a. *I’m looking for a person who can probably help me. b. *I’m looking for a person who can allegedly help me. c. *I’m looking for a person who, I believe, can help me. However, it is easy to demonstrate that this is not a restriction on VRs as such. Consider the following, derived from (25) above: (31) a.

I’ve talked to the man who probably made the video.

. Again, all page references to Dik throughout the discussion of embedding refer to Dik (1997b). . Though they do not necessarily have all the elements specifiable within an extended predication: for instance, participial and nominalised VRs, unlike relative clauses, do not normally allow tense specification, though they do show aspect (Dik 1997b: 28–29).

Complex sentences 

Chapter 3

b. I’ve talked to the man who allegedly made the video. c. I’ve talked to the man who, I believe, made the video. Attested examples are given in (32) and (33). (32) This is the man who allegedly raped a 38 year old woman. (BNC K1Y 496) (33) Another outsider who probably arrived in the area under Gloucester’s aegis was Ralph Willoughby, . . . (BNC HWK 799) These are surely impeccable, and suggest that the restriction claimed by Dik is one on the particular type of construction he chose for illustration, and that relative clauses, at least, can be propositional in nature. Any selection restrictions on the predicate in the VR must be compatible with the semantics of the head noun (Dik, p. 31). (34) Supporters who bought tickets for the Latvia game at our office could register. (BNC K2U 182) (35) *Stones which bought tickets . . . The VR consisting of the embedded item ‘X bought tickets . . . ’ is compatible with the head supporters in (34), since buy is restricted to human Agents and supporters are human; on the other hand, stones are not, so blocking (35). This type of phenomenon gives evidence for a dynamic view of term construction, in which it is the term as constructed up to a particular point which can constrain further choices. Not only the head noun, but also other restrictors, can determine the appropriateness or otherwise of an added VR: (36) . . . those women who become pregnant have no option. (BNC KA1 766) (37) *those men who become pregnant have no option. (38) . . . an ordinary teenage brat who gets pregnant. (BNC KS8 1017) (39) . . . an ordinary female teenage brat who gets pregnant. (40) *a pregnant teenage brat who is female (41) *an ordinary male teenage brat who gets pregnant (36) and (37) illustrate the need, already demonstrated above, for compatibility between head and embedded predicate with respect to selection restrictions. (38)–(41) (analogous to Dik’s examples (27a–d), p. 32) show that having specified the ‘brat’ as female in (39), we can then use a VR with get pregnant; but we cannot, as in (40), first specify that the referent is pregnant and then that the referent is female, since the latter is redundant, being part of the meaning of pregnant. In (41), the restrictor male blocks any VR based on the predicate be/get pregnant.

... Stacking of verbal restrictors The stacking of VRs on to one another is illustrated in (42).

 Structure and Function

(42) A speeding motor-cyclist who knocked down and killed a 73-year-old man . . . (BNC K5D 3948) The potential referent here is first restricted by being characterised as a motor cyclist, then by having been speeding (first VR) and then by having knocked down and killed a 73 year old man (second VR involving coordination). Dik (pp. 32–38) offers evidence from English, Luganda and French to show that although stacking of VRs is possible, there are heavy constraints on the stacking of relative clauses. Such constraints can be handled in terms of the dynamic model of term construction mentioned earlier.

... Non-restrictive modifiers Compare the following: (43) She also does two afternoons’ voluntary work at the school which her children attend. (BNC K4V 2499) (44) The school, which has taken part in the festival since 1968, was conducted by Mr. Kinnock when he visited in March on his party’s election trail. (BNC K4W 8956) In (43), the relative clause is restrictive, serving to identify which school is intended as the referent; we thus have a VR of the kind we have been dealing with up to now. In (44), however, the relative clause is non-restrictive, serving not to define which school is intended (this has already been established in the previous discourse), but rather adding information about that school. Dik (p. 39) refers to such elements as non-restrictors. Other types of VR, such as participial clauses, can also be used as either restrictors or non-restrictors, as shown by (45) (restrictive) and (46) (non-restrictive) below. (45) For the committee chaired by Lord Robbins, there was an essential link between higher education and culture. (BNC G0R 7) (46) The committee, chaired by the Leader in the Lords, Lord Wakeham, has decided on a package that includes relaxation of rules that prevent benefit claimants from taking further education courses which occupy more than 21 hours a week. (BNC K5D 968) Dik (pp. 39ff.) notes a number of differences between restrictors and non-restrictors. Restrictors are usually prosodically integrated into the term structure, while non-restrictors are normally set off by punctuation or by allocation to a separate intonation unit. Semantically, as we have seen, restrictors add identifying information, while non-restrictors add non-essential information, with the corollary that they can be omitted without changing the potential referent, and that they can be added to terms for which the referent has already been determined. Restrictive and non-restrictive relative clauses also often show differences in syntactic and/or morphological behaviour: for instance, in English, non-restrictive relatives are commonly supposed to take only the relative pronoun (who/which/whose) and not the

Chapter 3

Complex sentences

general subordinator that. In fact, the restriction is relative rather than absolute: it is not difficult to find counter-examples, of which just one is given below. (47) Participating in a traditional bloody ritual called the grynd, that dates back over the centuries, Faroe Islanders each year herd large schools of pilot whales into shallow waters . . . (BNC ABC 784) A detailed corpus-based study of the two types of relative clause in the Spanish spoken in Madrid (Butler 1992a) revealed a complex picture indicating probabilistic rather than absolute differences in the nature and syntactic function of the subordinator used, the correlation with type of antecedent (noun, pronoun, demonstrative, etc.), and the possibility of the subjunctive mood in the relative clause. In that article, tentative suggestions are made about how the findings could be formalised within the FG framework. Dik (pp. 41–42) observes that non-restrictors can contain propositional and even illocutionary operators and satellites, and so are clausal in terms of the FG hierarchy of levels, rather than predicational, as he believes restrictors to be. We have seen, however, that corpus evidence suggests the latter claim is highly dubious. It is nevertheless clearly the case that non-restrictors are semantically more independent of the term they modify than are restrictors, and this is reflected in the relationships, often commented on in the literature, between non-restrictive relatives and conjoined clauses. The principles of FG, however, would disallow derivation of non-restrictors from conjunction constructions, even if this were a viable analysis on other grounds. Instead, Dik (p. 44), following work by Rijksbaron (1981) and de Groot & Limburg (1986), proposes to analyse non-restrictors as parenthetically adjoined open clauses, attached to complete terms. The structure of (48) is given in (49), where =(. . . )= indicates the parenthetical clause. (48) The dog, who lives in Langton Walk, Darlington, had escaped . . . (BNC K52 1024) (49) Decl E: X: Past Perf e: escape [V] ((d1xi : dog [N]) =(Decl E: X: Pres e: live [V] (Axi )Po (d1xj : Langton Walk, Darlington [N])Loc )=)Ag An alternative account of non-restrictive clauses has been given by Hannay & Vester (1987), who point out that the two parts of the expression in a term such as the above are of different kinds (one a term, the other a predication), and so in principle not combinable, and furthermore that the type of relationship between the two remains unspecified. They also point out that such an account would present the whole combination as bearing functions such as Subject whereas, in their view, a non-restrictive relative clause is not part of the Subject. Hannay & Vester’s own analysis is based on the combining of a core and a non-core predication, the latter having the pragmatic function of either Orientation or Elaboration. For (48), they would propose a structure of the kind given in (50), in which R is a relativisation operator. (50) Decl E: X: Past Perf e: escape [V] (d1xi : dog [N])Ag (Decl E: X: Pres e: live [V] (Rxi )Ø (d1xj : Langton Walk, Darlington [N])Loc )ØElab



 Structure and Function

Van der Auwera (1990: 93–95) proposes a version of the Rijksbaron scheme which circumvents the function assignment problem raised by Hannay & Vester by means of a structure of the following kind for the relative clause, only the head noun being given functional labels: (51) ((d1xi: dog (xi ))PoSubj , Pres [live in Langton Walk, Darlington (Rxi )]) In Hannay’s recent work (see Hannay, forthcoming, also §2.2.2.1.1) it is proposed, on the basis of work by Duurkoop (2001), that non-restrictive modifiers coming after the Subject in written English sentences act as a type of orientation device, providing background information aimed at giving the reader a fuller understanding of some component of the message, or indeed the whole of it.

... Classification and typology of verbal restrictors .... The (non)-universality of verbal restrictors. Dik (p. 72) claims that although most languages do have VRs, a few do not. Languages without VRs, such as Hixkaryana, adopt other strategies for participant identification, such as simple paratactic combination. Dik also comments that most Australian languages, although they have adnominal participial VRs, do not have full relative clauses, but rather make use of adjoined subordinate clauses occurring clause-initially or finally, though not medially. We can illustrate this situation from Gooniyandi. McGregor (1990: 435)7 states that Gooniyandi has no embedded relative clauses, and that even non-finite clauses do not modify nominal constituents. It is, however, possible to use a finite clause to expand on a constituent of another clause, as shown in (52). (52) (= McGregor’s (5-410), 1990: 437) government -ngga ngangbindi jiginya gambayi ngaddanyoowa nangbani government erg he-gave-them little boy his-mother she-died ‘The government gave them a little boy whose mother had died’

.... Classes of verbal restrictors and their typological distribution. In terms of their formal and typological behaviour, it is useful to categorise VRs according to whether they are • •

constructed around a finite or non-finite verb prenominal or postnominal

As Dik (p. 45) observes, we might expect Prefield languages normally to have the order VR-N, and Postfield languages N-VR. Although there is a strong correlation of this kind, it is not complete, in that Prefield languages may have N-VR as well as VR-N. Dik (pp. 74– 76) explains this fact in terms of two of the principles outlined briefly in §3.2.3 of Part 1: these are repeated below: . McGregor’s own analysis is in terms of a model derived from Systemic Functional Grammar.

Complex sentences 

Chapter 3

• •

There is usually less complexity in the Prefield than in the Postfield, and this will lead to strategies, in Prefield languages, for reducing this complexity. Constituents will, ceteris paribus, prefer placement in order of increasing complexity. Clitics normally come before pronouns, and these before noun phrases, then adpositional phrases and finally subordinate clauses. This is referred to as the ‘LanguageIndependent Preferred Order of Constituents’ (LIPOC).

As VRs are complex constituents, we would expect them to prefer the Postfield. Dik also points out that a further consequence of these principles may be to push VRs to the end of the clause from an earlier expected position. This kind of pressure is illustrated by the following example from Dutch (parallel to Dik’s example (5), p. 74), in which the relative clause is at the end of the matrix clause, being separated from its antecedent by the past participle gekregen. (53) Het begrip ‘vrijheid van onderwijs’ heeft aldus een betekenis the notion ‘freedom of education’ have-pres.3sg thus a meaning gekregen die verder gaat dan de letterlijke acquire-past.part which further go-pres.3sg than the literal wettekst; . . . (DUT02G02.ECI) law-text ‘The notion “freedom of education” has thus acquired a meaning which goes beyond the literal legal text.’ Dik also discusses briefly why, in view of the above principles, languages have prenominal VRs at all. He points out that postnominal placing of a VR in a Prefield language is a violation of the principle of ‘field harmony’, that VR-N ordering may aid in distinguishing attributive from predicative constructions, that it minimises psychologically problematic centre-embedding of VRs, and that it helps to preserve the principle of head proximity.8

.... Postnominal verbal restrictors. Postnominal VRs normally contain a finite verb, and take the form of relative clauses. Dik (p. 48) recognises three kinds of explicit markers which can occur, singly or in combination, in postnominal relative clauses, and whose properties can be summarised as in Table 3.1. Invariable relativisation markers and relative pronouns always occupy P1 position in the relative clause, while pronominal expression of the relativised variable is usually in ‘pattern position’, that is the position which such a pronoun would take in a non-relative clause, although in some cases it may be attracted to a position just after the initial RM. Dik (p. 49) notes that relative pronouns and personal pronoun expression are mutually exclusive, a fact which can presumably be explained by the fact that information about the relativised variable is already available in the relative pronoun, so that this does not need to be repeated in a personal pronoun. . Again, see §3.2.3 of Part 1.

 Structure and Function

Table 3.1. Types of relativisation marker and their properties Type of marker

Example from English

Invariable relativisation that markers (RM) Personal pronouns he/him/his Relative pronouns who/whom/whose

Gives information about subordinate status?

Gives information about nature of relativised variable?

+

–

– +

+ +

We thus have the following array of possibilities (p. 48): initial RM alone, or with a personal pronoun in pattern position or immediately following the RM; personal pronoun alone, in pattern position; relative pronoun in initial position. There is also the possibility of no formal expression of relativisation at all, that is no marker in either P1 or pattern position. Consider the following examples from English. (54) This is the house that Jack bought. (BNC K6B 359) (55) Only the house which I bought when I suggested you should leave the community. (BNC EVC 2648) (56) I brought you up here because I wanted to show you the house I’ve bought in Oxfordshire. (BNC JY3 3496) These represent the three patterns which are grammatical for standard English: RM only (54), relative pronoun only (55), zero anaphora (56). Now consider the Spanish examples below. (57) . . . pero un chico que ahora tiene doce, trece but a boy that now have-pres.3sg twelve thirteen años, . . . (HCM 1, 21) years ‘. . . but a boy who is now twelve, thirteen years old, . . . ’ (58) Ahora ha aparecido Javier Ángel Preciado, que es un now have-pres.3sg appear-past.part Javier Ángel Preciado that is a compañero al que yo conozco desde hace ya friend whom I know-pres.1sg since do/make-pres.3sg already alguños años, . . . (Referencia BENT015C.ASC) some years ‘Now Javier Ángel Preciado has appeared, who is a friend whom I’ve known for some years now, . . . ’ In (57), the relativiser is the general subordinator que, which appears in other types of subordinate clause too. In (58), we first have this same subordinator in a non-restrictive relative clause, and then al que in a restrictive clause. This second relativiser is a true relative pronoun, which in this case conflates the preposition a, needed before personal Objects

Chapter 3

Complex sentences 

in Spanish, with the relative pronoun itself, el que.9 There is no possibility, in any Spanish relative clause, of zero anaphora, as in the English example in (56). In spoken Spanish, and occasionally in the written language, it is possible to find examples of the RM + personal pronoun strategy of relativisation, as in (59). (59) . . . y a lo mejor una cosa que no se vaya uno a and probably a thing that neg refl go-pres.subjunc.3sg one to utilizarla . . . (HCM 2, 24) use-it ‘. . . and probably a thing one isn’t going to use . . . ’ Dik (p. 52) makes the following observations about pronominal realisation of the relativised variable: • •

•

•

relativised variables with Subject function are rarely expressed pronominally; the less accessible the relativised variable is, with respect to some hierarchy such as that introduced by Keenan & Comrie (1977) for noun phrases, the more likely it is to be expressed pronominally; the hierarchy will behave implicationally with respect to pronominal realisation: that is, if a pronoun appears at a particular position in the hierarchy, it will appear at all lower positions, provided that the language allows relativisation at those positions; if there are positions on the hierarchy where pronouns are obligatory, and positions where they are excluded, there may be intermediate positions in which they are optional.

Furthermore, since the combination of relative pronoun and personal pronoun is claimed to be ungrammatical cross-linguistically, Dik’s account predicts that pronoun expression will be found with the generalised RM, but not with true relative pronouns. We can illustrate some of these points from Spanish. In the spoken Spanish data analysed in Butler (1992a), resumptive pronouns occurred only with the general subordinator que; there were no examples of such pronouns where the relativised variable was Subject; and the fact that the single example of an Indirect Object relativised variable had a resumptive pronoun lends support to Dik’s claim that the more inaccessible positions favour pronominal expression (Indirect Object is less accessible than Direct Object, which in turn is less accessible than Subject, according to Keenan & Comrie’s hierarchy). On the other hand, there was some evidence that accessibility was not confined to contiguous portions of the hierarchy, as predicted by Dik.10 . Although forms such as el que, la que, etc. are, on the surface of it, formed from a definite determiner and the general subordinator, they actually behave as single items, acting as relative pronouns. For further illustration and discussion of this and other relevant points, see Butler (1992a). . It should be noted, however, that the database analysed, consisting of just over 500 relative clauses, was too small to provide anything but suggestive evidence in rare cases such as the presence of resumptive pronouns.

 Structure and Function

Dik (p. 53) concludes that pronominal expression of the relativised variable serves to make relative clauses easier to process, since the pronoun acts as an explicit guide to the interpretation of the clause. Dik (p. 54) also notes a number of cross-linguistically attested properties of relative pronouns, some of which he later attempts to account for. Relative pronouns, which occur only in postnominal VRs, are commonly identical, or at least similar, to demonstratives or question words in the same language,11 and always appear in the initial, P1 position of the relative clause. Dik interprets these similarities in terms of two of the possible scenarios for the development of relative pronouns in a language. Firstly, it has been claimed that VRs with ‘demonstrative’ relative pronouns can be derived from paratactic clause sequences. Consider the Dutch sentence in (60). We could rephrase this as two sentences, as in (61). (60) In de meeste APVs12 staat nogal wat ‘dood hout’, dat best in the most APVs stand-pres.3sg rather some dead wood that best gesnoeid kan worden. (DUT02G02.ECI) prune-past.part can-pres.3sg become ‘In most APVs there is quite a lot of ‘dead wood’ which should (OR: can easily)13 be pruned.’ (61) In de meeste APVs staat nogal wat ‘dood hout’. Dat in the most APVs stand-pres.3sg rather some dead wood that kan best gesnoeid worden. can-pres.3sg best prune-past.part become ‘In most APVs there is quite a lot of ‘dead wood’. That should (OR: can easily) be pruned.’ This type of development would clearly explain the link with demonstratives. It would also favour initial position for the relative pronoun, as would development from an interrogative construction, which is another of Dik’s scenarios. Consider example (62): (62) So I don’t know who bought it. (BNC KCX 1668) Dik (p. 79), referring to the work of Keenan (1975), observes, in relation to the embedded question in such sentences, that there is little semantic difference between the following: (63) I don’t know the answer to the question: Who bought it? (64) I don’t know the person who is such that s/he bought it. . For instance, in the languages of Europe, we may observe these relationships in languages within various families: Germanic (e.g. in English, German, Dutch), Romance (e.g. in French, Spanish, Italian), FinnoUgric (e.g. in Finnish). . APV: Algemene Polizieverordening = general police regulations. . I am advised by a Dutch native speaker that the meaning is ambiguous between the readings ‘it would be advisable to prune it’ and ‘it can easily be pruned’, even in the context in which the sentence appeared in the text.

Complex sentences 

Chapter 3

Furthermore, information supplying the answer to the implied question in (62) could be provided as in (65), where we have, effectively ‘who bought it = X’: (65) It was X who bought it. But as Dik points out, the wh-clause here is close in interpretation to (66): (66) the one/person who bought it so that we may postulate a development from embedded questions such as that in (62), through a ‘free’ or headless VR such as that in (65), to headed relative clauses as in (66). Dik adduces evidence for such a relationship from Dutch, which has both demonstrativerelated and interrogative-related relative pronouns: only the latter, however, can occur in free relatives.14

.... Prenominal verbal restrictors. Prenominal VRs are almost always non-finite, and Dik poses, but does not explicitly answer, the question as to why this should be so. He recognises three types of prenominal VR: participial, nominalised and those which take the form of a closed predication. I shall look briefly at each in turn. Dik (p. 55) observes that participial VRs tend to be associated with prenominal position, though they can also occur postnominally. He points out that in German and Dutch, postnominal VRs tend to be finite relative clauses, while prenominal VRs tend to be participial, as in the Dutch example given in (67). (67) In Santiago, de hoofdstad van Chili, is onder groote in Santiago the capital of Chile be-pres.3sg amidst great belangstelling de in 1973 vermoorde president Salvador Allende interest the in 1973 murder-past.part president Salvador Allende herbegraven. (DUT02A01.ECI) bury-past.part ‘In Santiago, the capital of Chile, Salvador Allende, the president murdered in 1973, has been buried amidst great interest.’ Dik (p. 56) also notes that participial restrictors are normally used only when the head noun can be interpreted as the Subject of the participial verb. In (67), president can be seen as the Subject of the passive participle vermoorde. Nominalised restrictors are those of the type ‘an x characterised by [predication]’, e.g. a [John’s reading] paper, interpreted as ‘a paper characterised by John’s reading it’ (Dik’s example (34), p. 57). Such restrictors occur in, for example, Turkish. All the restrictors I have considered so far involve open predications, but as Dik (pp. 58–63) notes, some Prefield languages, such as Korean, Tamil, Japanese and Mari, can use closed predications as restrictors. In Tamil, for example, we can construct a noun phrase of the structure ‘car come-RM noise’, meaning ‘the sound of a car coming’ (Dik’s . For further discussion of free relative clauses in FG, see van der Auwera (1990: 151–165; 1992).

 Structure and Function

example (41), p. 59, taken originally from Asher 1982: 36–37). Dik also postulates that the type of structure which underlies such expressions also gives rise to English noun phrases of the type shown in (68). (68) We heard the noise of glass falling to the floor . . . (BNC K97 52) The structure of the noun phrase in bold type would be as in (69). (69) (xi : noise [N]: [Pres e: [fall [V] (glass)Proc ] (floor)Dir ]) The difference between English and, for example, Tamil would then reside in the form of expression for the same underlying structure type: English has a postnominal prepositional phrase with of, while Tamil has a prenominal closed predication VR treated in the same way as an open predication. Finally, Dik (pp. 63–64) mentions languages such as Basque, which can use appositional VRs in place of the more usual prenominal VR, if the VR is long. The example given (Dik’s (62c), p. 64) is glossed as a king, a person having seven sons and daughters.

.... Circumnominal verbal restrictors. In certain Prefield languages, such as Yuma, Imbabura Quechua, Murinypata and Usan, constructions exist in which the head noun appears inside the VR itself. Dik (p. 65) gives an example from Yuma which can be represented as below: (70) (= Dik’s (65), p. 65) (John threw a rock)-Subj hit the house. In other words, the complete clausal construction equivalent to ‘John threw a rock’ is treated as if it were the Subject of the matrix clause, though clearly it is the rock itself which hit the house. This type of pattern is seen also in the other languages which have circumnominal VRs. The important feature is that the whole clause in which the head noun is embedded behaves as if it were an argument (or sometimes a satellite) of the main verb. A possible explanation for the origin of such constructions is the existence, in these languages, of clauses with an extraclausal constituent with Orientation function (Dik, p. 85). In Usan, for example, we have constructions which can be glossed in the following ways (see Dik’s examples (34) and (35)): (71) Given that the man took the bow, I did not see the bow. (72) Given that the man took the bow I did not see (it/him). In the second construction, the second argument of ‘see’ is anaphoric, and in Usan this can include zero anaphora. In such a case, Dik (p. 86) argues that the main verb, which is ‘looking for’ a second argument, may interpret the orientation clause as if it were such an argument, so leading to the circumnominal type of construction. For further details of this area, readers are referred to Dik’s original discussion.

Complex sentences 

Chapter 3

.. Embedding in FG: (ii) Complex terms ... Types of complex terms and the types of predicate they occur with In Chapter 7 of Part 1, we saw that terms can refer not only to first order (spatial) entities, but also to higher order entities: States of Affairs, possible facts, or speech acts. Such entities can be referred to through simple terms: for example, meeting refers to a SoA, belief to a possible fact, and question to a speech act. However, as we saw in §7.2.1.7, we can also refer to higher order entities through the construction of terms containing embedded constructions. Dik (p. 94) refers to such terms as complex terms, and more specifically as predicational terms, propositional terms or clausal terms, depending on the nature of the embedded material. Examples are given below. (73) . . . he was enthralled when he watched the cutting of the Regent’s canal. (BNC GSY 1422) (74) For three years I’ve believed that Donald died instantly. (BNC K97 14610) (75) I wondered why you were sitting there. (BNC KCW 3587) In (73), we have a predicational term, referring to the SoA ‘cut the Regent’s canal’; in (74), there is a propositional term, referring to the possible fact of Donald dying instantly; in (75), we have a clausal term, referring to the question of why the addressee was sitting there. Dik (p. 95) makes it clear that his definition of embedded constructions, and hence of complex terms, includes structures embedded at any argument or satellite position in the frame of the matrix predicate – in other words, complement clauses and also adverbial clauses.

.... Predicates taking clausal terms. Matrix predicates such as say and ask require their second argument to refer to a speech act. Clausal complements of such predicates represent a spectrum of types ranging from direct to indirect speech. The FG treatment of direct and indirect speech was discussed in Chapter 1, in relation to its relationship with illocution and layering. I shall therefore not say anything further about this area here. .... Predicates taking propositional terms. Matrix predicates which take a propositional term as second argument are of four types (p. 106): propositional attitude (e.g. believe, hope in English), propositional manipulation (e.g. convince, persuade), acquisition or loss of knowledge (e.g. know, forget), and mental perception (e.g. see, hear). Some such predicates (e.g. believe) are non-factive, that is the speaker “is not committed to either the truth or the falsity of the embedded proposition” (p. 108). Others, such as know, are factive, the speaker committing himself or herself to the truth of the embedded proposition. Still others (e.g. pretend) are contra-factive, the speaker being committed to the falsity of the embedded material. Such constraints on the speaker’s attitude can be captured by the use of the attitudinal operators True and False, as in the following examples: (76) She knew that he was good, . . . (BNC H0R 1977)

 Structure and Function

(77) Decl E: Xi : Past ei : know [V] (she)ØExp 15 (True Xj : ej : good [A] (he)Ø )Ref (78) He was pretending that the errand was a nuisance, . . . (BNC CCW 16) (79) Decl E: Xi : Past ei : Progr pretend [V] (he)Po (False Xj : ej : {nuisance [N]} (errand [N])Ø )Go

.... Predicates taking predicational terms. Matrix predicates taking predicational terms as second argument are of various kinds (pp. 110–115). First let us note that Dik (pp. 110–111) treats directive predicates such as order, ask (someone to do something), request as taking predicational terms. These predicates clearly have a relationship with imperative illocutionary force. In §1.2.1 we saw that in FG it is argued that the imperative has no propositional content, but takes a predication directly. Dik’s analysis of directive predicates (p. 111) thus postulates an embedded construction containing the Imp illocutionary force operator (or, in the case of verbs such as request or requestive ask, a Request operator), as shown in (80)/(81) where Post is a relative tense operator specifying that the SoA of the embedded predication must occur after that of the matrix predication. (80) He’s asked me to go with him . . . (BNC JYE 1906) (81) Decl Ei : X: Pres Perf ei : ask [V] (xi : he)Ag (Req Ej : Post ej : go [V] (xj )Ag (xi/k : he)Company )Go (xj : I)Rec However, note that the second argument of ask here, although having no propositional layer, is presented as a clause, with its E variable and an illocutionary operator, so that Dik is surely inconsistent in treating directive predicates of this sort as taking a predicational term. Rather, it is the Req (or Imp) operator within the embedded clause which determines that what follows shall be a predicational rather than a propositional structure. On the other hand, predicates of practical manipulation, such as force, compel, cause, make (someone do something) are indeed clear cases of predicates which take predicational second arguments: they represent a situation in which someone is coerced into performing a particular SoA (p. 111). We therefore analyse (82) as in (83). (82) In the war the Germans had forced him to live in the village. (BNC G13 124) (83) Decl E: X: Past Perf ei : force [V] (xi : the Germans)Ag (xj : he)Go (Post ej : live [V] (xj )Po (xk : the village)Loc )Ref An exactly parallel analysis is appropriate for volitional predicates such as want. The following example illustrates a further type of predication-taking predicate, indicating achievement: . Dik (1997b: 109) treats the first argument of know as a Positioner. It is surely arguable, however, that knowing is [–control], and elsewhere Dik (1997a: 116) does indeed treat know as a State. The complement of know in (76) has accordingly also been reanalysed as Reference.

Complex sentences 

Chapter 3

(84) Dan managed to ring last night. (BNC KDV 3765) This is an example of an implicative predicate, defined as one which implies the actual realisation of the complement SoA. For this type of predicate, Dik (pp. 114–115) notes that the complement SoA in such cases cannot have its own specification of time or place: (85) *Dan managed to have rung last night. (86) *Last Thursday, Dan managed to ring last night. (87) *In Paris, Dan managed to ring in Prague. As Dik points out, a temporal or locative satellite affects the embedded as well as the matrix predication. Dik argues that this behaviour can be explained if the embedded element is analysed as a core rather than an extended predication, so that it has no independent slots for temporal or locative satellites of its own. The structure of (84) would thus be as shown in outline in (88). (88) Decl E: X: Past e: manage [V] (xi : Dan)Ag (ring [V] (xi )Ag )Go (last night)Temp He also notes that this correctly predicts the possible occurrence of Level 1 satellites in the embedded predicate (e.g. on his mobile phone16 /for Jean), and that the analysis he suggests presents the ‘managing’ and the ‘ringing’ as specifying a single SoA, so coming close to an alternative analysis with a single, complex predicate, manage to ring. Note that parallel to implicative predicates we have contra-implicative predicates, such as fail (to), which imply that the SoA of the complement clause was not realised. Yet other predicates (e.g. want) are non-implicative, carrying no implication about the realisation of the SoA in the embedded predication. Dik (pp. 113–114) recognises four further types of predication-taking predicate: phasal predicates such as begin (to), continue (to), start (V-ing), stop (V-ing), which have a similar analysis to the achievement type; commentative predicates (e.g. strange in it is strange that . . . ), which have a free choice of tense operator in their complements; objective modal predicates (e.g. possible in it is possible that . . . ) which again have free tense choice in the embedded predication; and predicates of direct perception. Since perception predicates are particularly complex as regards the types of complement they may take, I shall deal with them separately in the next section.

.... Perception predicates. Dik & Hengeveld (1991) distinguish four different readings of perception verbs, distinguishable in terms of the kind of entity referred to by the complement. An example of each type is given below. (89) I saw Johnny yesterday, . . . (BNC KB1 30) (90) Fernie saw him going into the house. (BNC GUD 2615) . I take it that on his mobile phone is an instrumental rather than a locative satellite here.

 Structure and Function

(91) . . . she lifted her head and saw that he was going towards the door. (BNC HGT 3169) (92) I hear you’ve finished the Westway job. (BNC AB9 10) In (89) we have an example of the immediate perception of an individual, while in (90) see represents the immediate perception of a State of Affairs by an individual. In (91), on the other hand, this verb represents the mental perception of propositional content. Finally, in (92) we have an example of what Dik & Hengeveld (1991: 238) call ‘reception of the propositional content of a speech act’. In such cases, see or hear represents the reception, by reading or hearing, of the propositional content of something written or said by a third party. Dik & Hengeveld (1991), building on material already available in the literature on complementation, discuss in some detail the differences between pairs of types, giving examples of languages which differentiate formally between the two types, and proposing FG representations which reflect these differences. Only a very brief summary can be given here. Firstly, there are differences in the behaviour of the ‘immediate perception of SoA’ (IPSoA) and ‘mental perception of propositional content’ (MP) categories. IPSoA constructions require the SoAs of the matrix and complement to be simultaneous, while MP constructions do not: evidence is provided by the ungrammaticality of sentences such as (93), and the grammaticality of (94). (93) *Fernie saw him having gone into the house. (94) She saw that he had been going towards the door. The complement SoA of an IPSoA construction must represent something which is perceivable, while that of an MP construction need not be: (95) The assistant saw that there was no point in arguing. (BNC H9P 2629) (96) *The assistant saw there being no point in arguing. Dik & Hengeveld note further restrictions on the IPSoA structure, concerned with semantically negative complement SoAs, which are perfectly acceptable in MP constructions. (97) As he came closer, I saw that he was not asking a question. (BNC B0U 215) (98) *As he came closer, I saw him not asking a question. Furthermore, IPSoA constructions are non-factive, while MP constructions are what Dik & Hengeveld call ‘semifactive’, by which they mean that the speaker presupposes that the complement is true. This is related to the fact that in the IPSoA type, see describes direct visual perception as such, while the MP type can describe not only ‘primary’ percpetion but also a ‘secondary’ sense which can be paraphrased as realise. It is not surprising, then, that in some languages MP constructions use the same kind of expressions which are found with other knowledge predicates.

Complex sentences 

Chapter 3

Dik & Hengeveld also demonstrate that the two types of construction take different expression forms in various languages, affecting the nature of the complementiser and/or the form of the predicate in the embedded construction. The authors propose underlying structures for IPSoA and MP constructions which reflect the need for the former to have fixed operators in the complement structure not only for simultaneity but also for positive polarity, and the claim that the complement of MP constructions must be marked as representing the speaker’s certain knowledge. The structures which Dik & Hengeveld would propose for (90) and (91) are shown in (99) and (100) respectively.17 (99) Decl E: X: Past ei : see [V] (Fernie)ProcExp (Sim Pos ej : Progr go [V] (he)Ag (the house)Dir )Go (100) Decl E: Xi : Past ei : see [V] (she)ProcExp (Cert Xj : Past ej : Progr go [V] (he)Ag (the door)Dir )Go There is, however, a complication here which is not discussed by Dik & Hengeveld. The fixed Cert operator in MP complements should block the presence of other Level 3 operators. Where the complement SoA is perceivable, it does indeed seem odd to add some expression of probability or possibility. If, however, the SoA is not perceivable, we can have expressions representing non-certainty in the structure, as shown by the clause in bold type in (101). (101) I saw that he probably encountered his own body as worthless and warped and that he identified his body as his self, but he was wrong. (BNC CA3 2835) If Cert is concerned with the reflection of speaker knowledge, then it is perfectly possible for this knowledge to include propositions which themselves are modified in terms of probability: I can know (and also see or realise) that it is probable that something is the case. This suggests that we should analyse probably in (101) as an objective (Level 2) rather than an epistemological (Level 3) modality, and we can then retain the Cert operator at Level 3, correctly reflecting the fact that the speaker views the propositional content itself as certain. The problem is, of course, that as we saw in §9.2.3.3 of Part 1, Hengeveld claims that modal adverbs always represent epistemological modalities. This adds further weight to Nuyts’ objections to Hengeveld’s account, which I summarised in Chapter 9 of Part 1. Dik & Hengeveld also account for the difference between examples such as (90) (repeated as (102) below) and (103) in terms of imperfective aspect in the complement SoA of the first, but perfective aspect in the second. (102) Fernie saw him going into the house. (BNC GUD 2615) (103) I saw him go up to the house. (BNC CKF 2632) . Dik & Hengeveld (1991) label the second argument of see simply as Proc. Dik (1997b: 112), however, uses ProcExp, in line with the discussion in §8.1.1 of Part 1, and this is reflected in the structures I have given here. I have also recast representations in the form used in Dik (1997b).

 Structure and Function

They go on to compare MP constructions with reception of the propositional content of a speech act (RP), pointing out that the latter involve perception of a linguistic entity, and can only occur with predicates of hearing and seeing, whereas MP can occur with any perception verb. There are a number of behavioural differences: we can specify the (heard or read) source of the propositional content in RP (e.g. in (92), we could add from John after hear), but in the MP we can specify only a source for inference of the propositional material (e.g. in (91) we could add from the reflection in the mirror); MP but not RP constructions can take a modal verb with the perception verb (we could have could see in (91), but not *can hear in (92)); MP constructions are semifactive, RP non-factive. Dik & Hengeveld show that some languages, such as German, code the MP/RP distinction in different complement types, and that some have different complementisers for the two types. The only difference postulated in the underlying structures of the MP and RP types is that, as we have seen, the former are claimed to have the Cert propositional operator in the complement proposition, whereas the latter have a free choice of propositional operator (including none). Below is given the structure for the RP construction in (92). (104) Decl E: Xi : Pres hear [V] (I)ProcExp (Xj : Pres Perf ej : finish [V] (you)Ag (the Westway job)Go)Go Finally, Dik & Hengeveld examine the differences between IPSoA and immediate perception of individual (IPI) constructions. In principle, IPI constructions have a simple term as Goal, as shown in the following representation for (89): (105) Decl E: X: Past e: see [V] (I)ProcExp (Johnny)Go (yesterday)Temp Complications arise, however, when the Goal term is modified, especially when the modifying element includes a verb. Compare (106), (107) and (108). (106) When he looked up and saw the charging buffalo, . . . (BNC FU8 1353) (107) But then I saw the keeper struggling. (BNC CH3 2688) (108) Athelstan saw the chicken struggling in Red Hand’s grip. (BNC K95 1447) In (106), it is clear that we are dealing with a term containing a participial verbal restrictor; the status of (107) and (108), however, is less clear. Note also that there are constructions which are like (107) except that an adjective replaces the participle, as in (109): (109) You’ve seen me naked before, . . . (BNC HA9 2353) The question, then, is whether we can assimilate these constructions to one of the other cases, or whether they constitute a separate type. Dik & Hengeveld argue that provided we assume that examples such as (107) and (109) entail ‘I saw the keeper’ and ‘you’ve seen me’ respectively, they are best dealt with in terms of predicative adjuncts encoding circumstantial satellites to the predication, as in (110) and (111), where irrelevant details have been omitted:

Chapter 3

Complex sentences 

(110) Decl: E: X: Past ei : see [V] (xi : I)ProcExp (xj : keeper)Go (Sim ej : Progr struggle [V] (xj )Ag )Circ (111) Decl: E: X: Pres Perf ei : see [V] (xi : you)ProcExp (xj : I)Go (Sim ej : naked [A] (xj )Ø )Circ In this way, the SoA in the predicative adjunct can not only be related to the matrix SoA, but also specified as a property of the Goal entity, through the referential index ‘xj ’. Examples such as (108) could be analysed as the IPSoA type, but also as IPI if interpreted in terms of the entity ‘a chicken struggling in Red Hand’s grasp’. Finally, Dik & Hengeveld discuss examples with an infinitival complement such as (112). (112) She heard him drive off. (BNC ABW 1436) Here it is not the case that she heard him, but rather that she heard the sound of his driving off, so necessitating the IPSoA interpretation.

.... Layering and complementation: Some problematic issues. Work by Bolkestein (1990, 1992a) on sentential complementation in Latin raises some important questions with regard to the pleasingly tidy patterns proposed by Dik and by Hengeveld. We saw in §1.2.2.3 that Bolkestein’s demonstration of the need for illocutionary operators in indirect speech complements has now been addressed by Dik’s later proposal that both direct and indirect speech complements are full clauses, but that the former are placed directly into the complement slot whereas the latter are embedded in a clausal term acting as complement. However, Bolkestein also discusses other behavioural properties of sentential complements which suggest that refinements of the basic Dik & Hengeveld scheme are needed. For instance, not all complements which appear to be propositional are equally able to take propositional operators and satellites. Furthermore, complements consisting of extended predications are of two types: either they may have independent temporal reference, in which case they are factive, or they may not be able to contain tensed verbs, in which case they are non-factive. Bolkestein (1990: 94) suggests that this distinction should be shown in the lexical entry for the matrix predicate. The difference between factive and non-factive types of predicational complement is accompanied by differences in pronominalisation and reflexivisation possibilities. Finally, Bolkestein (1990: 95) notes that tense operators and temporal satellites in Latin do not share the same distribution, and so may not characterise the same level in the hierarchical structure. ... Functional properties of complex terms Dik (1997b: 121–122) notes that embedded constructions can fill any term position which is compatible with their semantics, whether for an argument or a satellite. For an embedded construction in second argument position, it may be possible to assign the Subject syntactic function (p. 123), though such assignment is also complicated by pragmatic considerations, as we shall shortly see. Dik also asserts (p. 125) that embedded constructions can have any pragmatic function that can be carried by an ordinary term, and is cautious about accepting the claim, made by various scholars, that the information in subordinate

 Structure and Function

constructions tends to be backgrounded/presupposed, whereas that in main clauses is normally foregrounded/asserted. He points out that it is often the subordinate clause which carries the main burden of the communication. Some examples, similar to those provided by Dik, are given below. (113) I think you’ve got the wrong idea about your position here, . . . (BNC ANY 2797) (114) I believe he is still alive . . . (BNC ANL 3582) (115) . . . I am sorry to say that we will not be taking up your offer to publish. (BNC AP1 1196)

... Formal properties of complex terms Complex terms also differ in their formal properties, and although part of this variation is language-dependent, Dik (pp. 125–141) demonstrates that there are some general properties that are shared across languages of different types. Firstly, although we shall normally expect that the position of an embedded construction in the matrix clause will depend primarily on whether the language is of the Prefield or Postfield type, there are three further considerations which, according to Dik, also come into play. One is the complexity of the embedded material: we saw in §3.2.3 of Part 1 that the ‘Language-Independent Preferred Order of Constituents’ (LIPOC) states that constituents tend to be arranged in order of increasing complexity, with clitics at one end of the scale and subordinate clauses at the other. This means that subordinate clauses may occur in positions later in the matrix domain than their pattern position. Such a principle would explain, for instance, the fact that Subject nominal clauses, especially if long, tend to be extraposed in English, despite the fact that the normal constituent order is SVO. Compare the following: (116) That it came to this shows how involved Priestley was in the religious disputes and politics of his day. (BNC B71 1363) (117) It had never occurred to her that he came from the sort of background where servants were a matter of course and all one had to do in order to eat was pull a bell. (BNC JXU 535) In (116), we have a short Subject clause in initial position. In (117), however, we have a long embedded construction with conjunction, and extraposition is virtually obligatory, as witness the unacceptability of (118), or even perhaps the equivalent structure with just the first of the coordinated clauses: (118) *That he came from the sort of background where servants were a matter of course and all one had to do in order to eat was pull a bell had never occurred to her. Dik (p. 129) suggests that constructions such as that in (117), with an anticipatory dummy element, may arise historically from grammaticalisation of constructions in which the subordinate clause acts as a Tail to the clause itself.

Chapter 3

Complex sentences 

The fact that (fairly short) subordinate clauses can indeed appear initially in English is to be expected on the grounds that the clause-initial P1 position is claimed to be universally relevant for constituents with special pragmatic functions, and complex terms can, as we have seen, take any pragmatic function. There is thus competition between LIPOC and the tendency for constituents with particular pragmatic functions to occur in P1. The placement of the subordinate clause in P1 rather than the Subject position in examples such as (116) is suggested by the fact that we cannot add a further P1 constituent (Dik, p. 132): (119) *Does that it came to this show how involved Priestley was . . . ? (120) *Because that it came to this shows how involved Priestley was . . . LIPOC also predicts that languages which are basically of the Prefield type may sometimes put subordinate clauses into the Postfield, though we shall not expect Postfield languages to use the Prefield as a normal position for subordinate clauses. Dik (pp. 132–135) also suggests that semantic function is relevant to the position of embedded constructions in the matrix domain. What he has in mind is the effect of iconicity on the ordering of conditional, purpose and temporal clauses with respect to the main clause. As predicted by Greenberg (1966), conditional clauses are, in the unmarked case, placed first, reflecting the conceptual precedence of the condition over its conclusion. Similarly, purposes come conceptually after the state of affairs for which they are a purpose. Similar iconicity principles predict that events which occur before other events will be mentioned first, so that we predict the normal order ‘after X, Y’, but ‘X, before Y’. Such predictions are in conflict with other ordering principles: for instance, placing conditional clauses in the Prefield will go against not only LIPOC, but also the normal ordering in a Postfield language. A further positional issue is concerned with formal markers of subordination. Most languages have such markers, and the Relator principle mentioned briefly in §3.2.3 of Part 1 predicts that the subordinator will be placed between the two constituents that they relate. In general, then, we expect Postfield languages to have initial subordinators, and Prefield languages final subordinators (Dik, p. 136). English, as expected, has subordinators which are initial in their own clauses, and where the subordinate clause follows the main clause, this means that the Relator principle is adhered to. If, however, the subordinate clause precedes the main clause (as in the present sentence), clearly the subordinator is removed from the generally preferred position between the two clauses. Dik observes that in such cases, there may be an alternative version of the construction which does have a relator in the intermediate position. For instance, in a sentence with an initial if -clause, we may place then in initial position in the main clause. There are also generalisations to be made across languages in relation to the ordering of other constituents within the embedded construction. Dik (p. 138) states that subordinate clauses never have more freedom of word order than main clauses, citing the existence of languages in which the subordinate clause order must be SOV, although the main clause order can be quite free. He also points to languages, such as Dutch and German, in which

 Structure and Function

order in subordinate clauses differs systematically from that in main clauses. As shown by Genee (1994) in her work on verbal noun complements in Early Irish, pragmatic factors may influence ordering within embedded constructions. Dik also notes (pp. 138–140) that subordinate clauses in the Postfield tend to be finite, whereas embedded constructions in the Prefield are more usually non-finite. Partly this is explicable in terms of LIPOC, in that non-finite constructions often have the form of a complex NP or adpositional phrase, and these are less complex, in terms of LIPOC, than subordinate clauses. Another possible factor advanced by Dik is that a subordinate clause in the Prefield, in a characteristically Prefield language, runs the risk of being misinterpreted as a main clause, because the element indicating its subordinate status is not encountered until the very end of the clause. This may lead either to Postfield placement of subordinate clauses, or to the marking of embedded elements in the Prefield in such a way that they are clearly distinguished from main clauses, for instance by making them non-finite. Finally, Dik (pp. 140–141) observes that the mood characteristics of subordinate clauses may differ from those of main clauses. For instance, in Spanish, the subjunctive appears mainly in subordinate clauses, and the choice of indicative or subjunctive in such clauses depends on the matrix predicate and/or on the meaning. Compare the following: (121) Y yo creo que no he nacido para and I think-pres.1sg that neg have-pres.1sg be-born-past.part for eso. (HCM 2, 22) that ‘And I think I wasn’t born for that.’ (122) . . . yo no creo que hablemos como los de I neg think-pres.1sg that speak-pres.subjunc.1pl like those from Burgos . . . (HCM 10, 179) Burgos ‘. . . I don’t think we speak like people from Burgos . . . ’ The positive predicate in (121) triggers the indicative in the subordinate clause, while the negative predicate in (122) creates a non-factual context in which the subjunctive is required in the dependent clause. For a further example of the relationship between mood and the grammar of sentential complementation, see the work of Genee (1998, 2000) on Irish. More generally, this work describes systematic correlations between the pragmatics and semantics of complementation on the one hand and its syntax and morphology on the other. A set of parameters is postulated, which interact to account for the grammar of Irish sentential complementation. Diachronic developments from Old Irish, through Middle and to Early Modern Irish are analysed as shifts in the application of these parameters. Dik (pp. 143–168) also discusses a cross-linguistically relevant typology of embedded constructions, in which non-finite embedded constructions can be divided into those with nominal properties (nominalisations) and those without (infinitival and participial constructions). Nominalisations have already been dealt with at some length in §7.2.1.7 of

Chapter 3

Complex sentences 

Part 1. For more detail on the particular properties of infinitival and participial constructions, readers are referred to Dik’s own discussion.

... Adverbial clauses in FG Although Dik (1997b) does not discuss adverbial clauses in any detail, he assumes (p. 95) that the discussion of complex terms in argument positions will also apply to those in satellite positions. In Dik et al. (1990), adverbial clauses are discussed within the context of a typology of adverbial satellites in general, in relation to the hierarchical structure of the clause. Just as with the perception verb complements discussed earlier, Dik et al. show that subcategorisation according to the four layers of the hierarchical structure is not only motivated semantically, but also correlates with a number of coding and behavioural properties. Representational (predicate and predicational) satellites belong to the extended predication: together with the core predication, they form a single information unit; they fall under the scope of operators at Levels 1 and 2; and they are usually sensitive to other representational properties, such as those pertaining to the classification of SoAs, whereas interpersonal (Levels 3 and 4) satellites tend to be conditioned by other interpersonal properties (e.g. probably cannot occur within the scope of an interrogative speech act). Coding and behavioural differences between satellites at Levels 1 and 2, and between those at Levels 3 and 4, are also discussed, as is the behaviour of all types of satellite with respect to negation. The level at which a satellite is attached is referred to by Dik et al. as the external complexity of the satellite. Of particular relevance to our current concerns is the internal complexity of satellites, that is whether they themselves consist of a predicate, a term, a predication or a proposition. Clearly, the last two types can give rise to adverbial clauses. The authors claim (Dik et al. 1990: 62) that all combinations of internal and external complexity are possible, with the exception of predicate satellites consisting of a proposition. For the combination ‘predicate satellite consisting of a predication’, Dik et al. specify Force as a possible satellite function. However, this function does not appear in relation to satellites in either Dik et al. (1990) or Dik (1997a). Some examples of satellites consisting of predications or propositions are given below. (123) After closing the door, she stood leaning against it . . . (BNC AT7 1964) [predication satellite of Circumstance, with internal complexity of a predication] (124) . . . she assumed she would recover all of a sudden, because her illness had come on so suddenly. (BNC AS0 1146) [predicational satellite of Reason, with internal complexity of a predication] (125) . . . in case you hadn’t heard, I don’t wet my bed anymore. (BNC ALH 748) [illocutionary satellite of Condition, with internal complexity of a predication] (126) Such leaks were important, because they could allow radiation to escape. (BNC AN9 152) [predication satellite of Reason, with internal complexity of a proposition]

 Structure and Function

(127) And you must know that, because we are all here. (BNC A0N 696) [propositional satellite of Motivation, with internal complexity of a predication] (128) Anyway, since you ask, the rings were black and there were ten of them, all on her right hand. (BNC AR2 566) [illocutionary satellite of Motivation, with internal complexity of a predication] Dik et al. (1990) also distinguish between restrictive and non-restrictive satellites, claiming that predicate satellites are necessarily restrictive, as they contribute to the specification of the SoA, while predication satellites can be either restrictive or non-restrictive, and propositional and illocutionary satellites are necessarily non-restrictive. Hengeveld (Hengeveld 1996, 1998)18 has presented a detailed semantically-based classification of the internal complexity of adverbial clauses, taking into account previous work in FG, but also influenced by various other accounts, especially that of Noonan (1985). Hengeveld proposes four parameters for classification: entity type, time dependency, factuality and presupposedness. Entity type is concerned with the order of entity represented by the adverbial clause itself (the internal complexity of the clause, in terms of the account given in Dik et al. 1990).19 The earlier account of Dik et al. is expanded to allow Level 4 adverbial clauses giving an explanation for a speech act (e.g. a justification for a particular assertion). The parameter of time dependency, taken from Noonan (1985), is concerned with whether the time encoded in the SoA in the adverbial clause is dependent on that encoded in the main clause (e.g. in clauses of the type He did X while doing Y), or the two clauses are temporally independent. Factuality deals with whether the adverbial clause represents the SoA as real or unreal, while presupposedness is concerned with whether the adverbial clause offers pragmatically presupposed information or not. For each of the four parameters, Hengeveld proposes an implicational hierarchy which is hypothesised to be correlated with differences in the ways in which adverbial clauses are realised cross-linguistically: the proposal is that the higher the position of a particular semantic type in the hierarchy, the greater the chance of its being realised by a dependent verb form (one which is used in subordinate constructions only) rather than an independent verb form (one which can be used in main clauses, though this may not preclude it from being used in subordinate clauses too). For instance, differences in the . See also Pérez Quintero (2000) for a discussion of approaches to adverbial clauses in FG, including Hengeveld’s classification. . Hengeveld (1998: 345) proposes that adverbial clauses can represent zero, second, third or fourth order entities, first order entities being referred to only by NPs. It is pointed out that examples such as They escaped by sliding down a rope (Hengeveld’s example (12), p. 345), in which there is obligatory argument sharing between the main and subordinate clauses, represent single, complex events, and this is taken to indicate that the adverbial clause represents a zero order entity. This analysis is clearly incorrect: the semantic status of the non-finite adverbial clause here is that of a predication. Hengeveld (personal communication) has since revised his view on this, recognising that argument sharing represents a separate, though still typologically important, parameter. I shall therefore ignore any claim relating to the ‘zero order’ cases in the summary which follows.

Chapter 3

Complex sentences

behaviour of adverbial clauses of different entity types in English lead to the formulation of an entity type hierarchy in which the second order type comes above third order, and this above fourth order. Adverbial clauses expressing second order entities are coded using either dependent or independent forms, but third and fourth order only by independent forms. The hypothesis for cross-linguistic testing is thus that for each possible combination of the other factors (e.g. factual, non-presupposed, time dependent), if a language employs a dependent verb form to express an adverbial clause which designates an entity at some point on the hierarchy, it will use a dependent form for adverbial clauses at any point higher up on the hierarchy (i.e. of lower order), and vice versa for independent forms. Similar hypotheses are set up for the factuality hierarchy (factual > nonfactual) and the presupposedness hierarchy (presupposed > nonpresupposed). Data from a typologically diverse range of languages,20 selected according to the method of Rijkhoff et al. (1993), are examined for each hierarchy, and for each possible combination of the other three factors. The hypotheses are supported almost without exception. Further discussion of Hengeveld’s classifications is presented by Pérez Quintero (2002), who then proceeds to supplement Hengeveld’s cross-linguistic work through a detailed corpus-based analysis of adverbial clauses in written English, using a representative sample from the Lancaster-Oslo-Bergen (LOB) Corpus. A short account of some aspects of this work is also available in Hengeveld & Pérez Quintero (2001). The hypothesis is that inter-linguistic variation will be reflected in the intra-linguistic frequency distribution of the different types. It is found, for example, that adverbial clauses of means (still treated here as representing zero order entities: but see Note 19) are always expressed by means of the non-finite -ing form, and that the percentage of clauses expressed with independent verb forms then rises from second order (68%) to third and fourth order (100%) (Pérez Quintero 2002: 115). The results of this study are taken to confirm the validity of the parameters of entity type, time dependency, factuality and presupposition, not only individually, but also in combination. The type of adverbial clause which has attracted most attention in FG is the conditional clause (Cuvalay 1996; Dik 1990; Rijksbaron 1986; van der Auwera 1986; Wakker 1992, 1994, 1996).21 Rijksbaron (1986), analysing data from Dutch and Classical Greek, finds that both conditional and temporal clauses tend to occur in initial position in the sentence, so appearing to contradict the Language-Independent Preferred Order of Constituents (LIPOC) proposed by Dik, which predicts a late position for such clauses.22 Rijksbaron shows that these clauses have properties which allow their classification within FG as extraclausal Themes, so removing them from the clause proper, and from the scope of LIPOC. Assignment of Theme function is also shown to offer an explanation of differences in tense and mood between the main and subordinate predications. . 25 languages were studied in Hengeveld (1996), 45 in Hengeveld (1998). . See also Harder (1989, 1997: 443–465) on the specific issue of tense in conditionals. . See, however, Dik’s own later comments on this situation, summarised in §3.2.4.3.



 Structure and Function

Dik (1990) distinguishes between propositional and illocutionary conditionals: the latter type was illustrated in (125) above, and relates to the communicative relevance of the speech act expressed in the main clause; the propositional type is exemplified in (129) below. (129) If you know that you feel fit and well during the course of the day, then you are getting sufficient sleep for your own needs. (BNC AYK 299) The protasis of a condition (the conditional clause itself) may appear in the P1 or X (final) position of the clause, or in the extraclausal positions P2 (pre-clausal) and P3 (postclausal), but there is a strong preference, across languages, for placement in P1 or P2. Dik explains this in terms of the function of most (though probably not all) conditional clauses, which he claims is to set up a ‘hypothetical picture’ differing in particular ways from the speaker’s current picture, a ‘picture’ being a mental representation which consists of perceptual representations (‘images’) and conceptual representations coded as propositions in FG. Given this function, it is natural, as we saw in §3.2.4.3, that conditional clauses should preferentially occur in initial position. Dik goes on to classify propositional conditionals further into potentialis and irrealis types, depending on whether the protasis is considered by the speaker as uncertain or false, respectively. An example of a potentialis propositional condition is the one in (129) above; an irrealis example is given in (130). (130) If you hadn’t stopped to give me a lift this morning, I’d still be shuffling along the road to Tangiers. (BNC ARJ 2996) Dik also suggests further classifications within each of these subtypes, and interprets each of his types of conditional clause within the framework of Functional Grammar and Functional Logic.23 Wakker (1992) finds that although the distinction between propositional and illocutionary conditionals is justified if regarded as a semantic difference, the two types of conditional clause do not in fact share all the properties attributed to propositional and illocutionary satellites in Dik et al. (1990). Working with Ancient Greek conditionals, Wakker argues that propositional conditionals can, pace Dik et al. (1990), be either restrictive or non-restrictive. Restrictive conditionals are subject to the illocutionary operator of the main clause, while non-restrictives often are not, and, Wakker claims, should have their own illocutionary operator. This would give non-restrictive propositional conditionals the same underlying structure as illocutionary conditionals, apart from the specification of the semantic function of the conditional satellite as either propositional condition or illocutionary condition. In later work, Wakker (1994, 1996) shows that the problems she discusses in her 1992 paper can be solved if three, rather than two, groups of conditionals are postulated. This is in itself in accordance with Dik et al. (1990), in which conditional satellites can be attached at the predication, proposition or illocutionary levels. In Wakker’s view, however, . The concept of a Functional Logic was introduced in §3.6 of Part 1.

Chapter 3

Complex sentences 

the definitions of such satellites given by Dik et al. are confusing since, although they are concerned with what I earlier called the external complexity of the satellite, they bring in the internal complexity: for instance, a predication conditional satellite “specifies an SoA on the occurrence of which the occurrence of another SoA depends” (Dik et al. 1990: 34). And yet, as we have seen, the two types of complexity are considered by Dik et al. to be independent, cross-cutting dimensions. Wakker suggests a more consistent classification of conditionals, still into predicational, propositional and illocutionary types, but based solely on the level at which the satellite is attached in the hierarchical structure of the matrix clause. She also studies in more detail the differences between restrictive and non-restrictive conditionals, concluding that restrictive predicational conditionals in Ancient Greek can have their own tense and mood operators, so arguing against the FG claim that restrictive satellites are within the scope of the operators at the level where they are attached. Cuvalay (1996) also presents a detailed classification of conditional satellites, taking into account both the level at which they are attached (i.e. as predicate, predication, proposition or illocution satellites) and their internal complexity, and illustrating her classification from Classical and Modern Standard Arabic. Finally, we should note the work of Crevels (1994, 1998) on concessive clauses in Spanish, in which she distinguishes predicational, propositional and illocutionary concessives, corresponding to the various layers in the underlying structure of the clause, as well as ‘textual’ concessives which normally modify a set of propositions from the preceding discourse. She postulates a hierarchy of concessive types: predicational > propositional > illocutionary > textual, and goes on to hypothesise that expression by means of a finite clause, and by indicative rather than subjunctive verbs, will increase as we move from predicational to textual types. Both of these hypotheses are supported. Crevels also demonstrates that the probability that a concessive conjunction will be morphologically complex increases through the hierarchy, and that the categories of concessive clause which can be introduced by a given conjunction cover continuous parts of the hierarchy, in an implicational fashion: aunque (‘although’) can be used for all four levels of concessive clause, a pesar de (‘despite’) for predicational, propositional and illocutionary types, and aun + V-ndo (‘even’ + ‘-ing’) only for predicational and propositional types.

.. The semantics and syntax of complementation in the Functional Lexematic Model Before we leave the FG account of complex sentences, we should remind ourselves that, as pointed out in §3.5 of Part 1, recent work by Faber & Mairal Usón (1994, 1998a, 1998b, 1999) within the Functional Lexematic Model has made explicit links between the semantic hierarchies for lexical domains and the syntactic typology of each lexical subdomain, according to the Principle of Lexical Iconicity, which holds that the higher up the semantic hierarchy a lexeme is, the more extensive will be the range of complementation patterns it enters into.

 Structure and Function

.

Complex sentences in Role and Reference Grammar

..

Nexus, juncture and their relationships: A brief overview We saw briefly in §7.2.2.3 of Part 1 that RRG accounts for the structures of complex sentences in terms of three types of nexus relation (coordination, subordination, cosubordination), rather than just the two recognised in most theories (coordination and subordination). Coordinated units are independent and non-embedded, and subordinate units dependent and embedded, while cosubordinate units show grammatical dependence on the unit with which they are linked, but are not part of it, and so not embedded. Each of these nexus types applies to any of three levels24 of juncture (nuclear, core, clausal), giving nine logically possible combinations,25 all of which are attested in the languages of the world, with just a few languages, such as Korean, apparently having all nine types. Table 3.2 gives examples of all seven types of nexus/juncture combination found in English. Table 3.2. Types of nexus/juncture combination in English Nexus→ Juncture ↓

Coordination

Nuclear

He pushed open the door, . . . (BNC ASS 72) – . . . it made her cough. (BNC ATE 3140) . . . she must tell him to He must try not to faint . . . leave, . . . (BNC B20 2160) (BNC CKD 1234) . . . you can watch a One can sit leafing through glossy English magazines, . . . Seminole Indian wrestle an alligator . . . (BNC AHK 1788) (BNC AL3 1455) His face collapsed with . . . the landlord came up relief, and then he took again shouting abuse her arm again. through the door. (BNC AN7 3643) (BNC HH5 313) Bandeira walked to a chair and sat down in it. (BNC APY 2694)

Core

Clausal

Cosubordination

Subordination

– . . . she resented his breaking the mood. (BNC H8X 2405) That it came to this shows how involved Priestley was in the religious disputes and politics of his day. (BNC B71 1363) I persuaded him that we should go away together, . . . (BNC G2V 1459) The conditional bail had been granted after she had been arrested for shouting ‘scab’ at working miners. (BNC ASB 1677)

. There is also a fourth, minor juncture type involving relationships between sentences, as defined in RRG – see below. . The default is combination of units at the same level of juncture (Van Valin & LaPolla 1997: 442), though there is also one type of ‘mixed’ juncture, involving linkage of a clause with a core.

Chapter 3

Complex sentences

Table 3.2 brings out a particularly important aspect of the RRG account: the nexus relations are abstract syntactic relationships, which can correspond to more than one construction type. Indeed, while the clausal types of coordination and subordination correspond quite closely to the traditional model, when these relations apply to nuclear and core junctures they do not yield structures which would be recognised as coordinate or subordinate in most approaches. Let us, then, examine the argumentation behind the analyses proposed.

.. Types of juncture The abstract schemas for the three main juncture types are shown in (131). (131) (= Van Valin & LaPolla’s (8.2), 1997: 442) [CORE . . . [NUC PRED] . . . + [NUC PRED] . . . ] Nuclear juncture [CLAUSE . . . [CORE . . . ] . . . + . . . [CORE . . . ] . . . ] Core juncture [SENTENCE . . . [CLAUSE . . . ] . . . + [CLAUSE . . . ] . . . ] Clausal juncture Let us begin by comparing nuclear and core junctures in English (Van Valin & LaPolla 1997: 444ff.). In (132) is the RRG constituent projection for the example it made her cough given in Table 3.2, while (133) shows the projection for he told me to fetch it (BNC F99 1126). (132)

SENTENCE CLAUSE CORE ARG

NUC NUC

NUC

PRED

ARG

PRED

NP

V

NP

V

it

made

her

cough



 Structure and Function

SENTENCE

(133)

CLAUSE 

CORE ARG

NUC

ARG

NUC

PRED NP

V

NP

he

told

me

CORE

to

PRED

ARG

V

NP

fetch

it

In (132), two verbal nuclei are joined to form a single complex predicate ‘make cough’, while in (133) the relationship is between two cores, each of which has its own arguments. The two types have different syntactic properties. Some core junctures demand a complementiser (e.g. to in (133)),26 while nuclear junctures such as that in (132) cannot have one, as witness the ungrammaticality of (134): (134) *It made her to cough. Also, some types of nuclear juncture can have the two nuclei adjacent, as with he pushed open the door, as well as a version with the two nuclei separated (he pushed the door open) while with the core juncture we cannot have a structure with told to fetch in it. Note that, as pointed out by Van Valin & LaPolla (1997: 446–447), an example with a transitive verb in the second nucleus, such as (135), despite its apparent similarity to (132), is in fact an instance of core juncture with the structure in (136), similar to that in (133). (135) You made me love you. (BNC AR2 494)

. We shall see in §3.3.4 that complementisers can be seen as members of a more general class of ‘clause linkage markers’.

Complex sentences 

Chapter 3

SENTENCE

(136)

CLAUSE CORE ARG

NUC

CORE ARG

PRED

NUC PRED

ARG

NP

V

NP

V

NP

You

made

me

love

you

The evidence for this analysis comes from the possibilities for reflexivisation. The antecedent of a reflexive pronoun must be a syntactic co-argument in the same core. This is the case, for example, for the nuclear juncture in (137), and for (138), where the reflexive and antecedent are in the same core in a core juncture. (137) . . . Mr Smithi will have made himselfi miserable for days in advance. (BNC AYK 844) (138) Shei told herselfi to be calm. (BNC EDN 127) However, if the pronoun and antecedent are in different cores, as in (139), reflexivisation is not possible, as shown by the ungrammaticality of (140). (139) Frank has asked me to marry him. (BNC ASE 1577) (140) *Frank has asked me to marry himself. If we now go back to example (135), we see that it is the non-reflexive pronoun that is used, reflexivisation being ungrammatical: (141) *You made me love yourself. The pronoun and antecedent must therefore be in different cores, and we have an instance of core juncture. In English, there are heavy restrictions on nuclear juncture: as Van Valin & LaPolla (1997: 446) point out, the second nucleus must be intransitive, since, as we have seen, the use of a transitive verb construction creates core juncture. Van Valin & LaPolla (1997: 444–445) demonstrate that in French a different situation obtains: semantically causative constructions with faire (‘make’) plus infinitive show nuclear juncture even when the second nucleus is a transitive predicate, while constructions with laisser (‘let’) have core juncture. For Spanish, París (1999) has argued that causatives with hacer (‘make’) can represent either nuclear cosubordination or core coordination, depending on the possibilities for the morphosyntactic coding of the causee.

 Structure and Function

To complete our brief survey of the juncture possibilities of English, let us look at an example of clausal juncture taken from Table 3.2: (142) His face collapsed with relief, and then he took her arm again. (BNC AN7 3643) Here, each clause is independent of the other, both structurally and in terms of the operators concerned. Finally, we should note that Van Valin & LaPolla (1997: 469) mention a special type of juncture which they call simply sentential juncture, in which two or more complete sentences, with the possibility of left-detached elements, are linked. An example is given in (143), where the second clause has a left-detached element starting with as for: (143) Prices came down in the street and as for having a purse snatched, well, such things didn’t happen to army wives. (BNC H9N 12)

.. Nexus relations First, let us remind ourselves of the characterisation of the three nexus relations, as set out in §7.2.2.3 if Part 1. Coordination “refers to an abstract linkage relation involving a relationship of equivalence and independence at the level of juncture” (Van Valin & LaPolla 1997: 454). Subordination refers to a relationship in which there is structural dependence between the two units concerned, one acting as either an argument or a modifier within the other, the subordinate unit being unable to stand alone (Van Valin & LaPolla 1997: 454). Cosubordination refers a relationship in which there is dependence between units, but not in structural terms: rather, there is operator dependence; “[t]hat is, the non-matrix unit(s) must be dependent upon the matrix unit for the expression of at least one operator at the level of juncture” (Van Valin & LaPolla 1997: 455, emphasis in original). Such a relationship was originally proposed to account for switch-reference and serial verb constructions in Papuan languages (see Olson 1981; Roberts 1988). In switch-reference constructions, we have a series of clauses which are ‘added together’ rather as in coordinated structures, but which differ from coordination in that tense and illocutionary force are signalled only on the final clause, on which prior clauses are thus dependent. In the following discussion, which is based closely on Van Valin & LaPolla (1997: §8.4), I shall first look at the various combinations of nexus and juncture in English, using the examples in Table 3.2.

... The three types of nexus in relation to clausal junctures .... Clausal coordination. Clausal coordination is exemplified by (142) above. Each clause in such a structure is able to make independent selections of operators at all levels. As we saw in §3.2.2.2, even clauses with different illocutionary forces can be coordinated. Example (8) is repeated as (144) below:

Complex sentences 

Chapter 3

(144) . . . modern apprenticeships are going to help that process even further and why aren’t modern apprenticeships being welcomed? (BNC JSH 179) The structure of (142), with both constituent and operator projections, is shown in (145).27 (145)

SENTENCE CLAUSE CORE

CONJ

CLAUSE

PERIPHERY CORE

ARG

NUC

ARG

PRED NP

V

His face

collapsed

NUC

PP with relief, and then

NP

V

he

took V

NUC

NUC

CORE

CORE

CLAUSE

ARG

PRED

V

CLAUSE

PERIPHERY

TNS

CLAUSE IF

NP

ADV

her arm again

TNS

CLAUSE

IF

SENTENCE

.... Clausal subordination. Clausal subordination is illustrated by (146) and (147). (146) I persuaded him that we should go away together, . . . (BNC G2V 1459) (147) The conditional bail had been granted after she had been arrested for shouting ‘scab’ at working miners. (BNC ASB 1677) . The analysis of and then as a complex conjunction was suggested to me by Robert Van Valin (personal communication).

 Structure and Function

The clauses that we should go away together and after she had been arrested for shouting ‘scab’ at working miners are structurally dependent, being unable to stand alone. They are, however, capable of taking the normal operators at the clausal level or below. For instance, we can add expressions indicating different degrees of epistemic modality in the two clauses, as shown in (148):28 (148) I might have persuaded him that we should certainly go away together. There is one exception to this generalisation: as noted by Van Valin & LaPolla (1997: 457), a subordinate clause does not have a free choice of illocutionary force. Similar considerations apply to (147).29 Incidentally, it might be thought that in (146) we had an example of core subordination rather than clausal subordination. Van Valin & LaPolla (1997: 464– 466) make this point, observing that the that-clause in such examples is a semantic argument of the verb, and so should be a core argument syntactically. They argue, however, that although Subject that-clauses are indeed core arguments, Object clauses are not. The argument rests on the positioning of peripheral adverbials. Consider the following: (149) I persuaded him with difficulty that we should go away together. (150) ?I persuaded him that we should go away together with difficulty. (149) is not only grammatical, but in fact more natural than (150). That is, the most natural place for the adverbial is before the that-clause, and yet we know that peripheral adverbials must follow all core material. In (149), then, the that-clause must fall outside the core. The reason for the increased naturalness of (149) is no doubt that heavier constituents tend to follow lighter ones, but this does not alter the fact that anything coming after a peripheral element must be outside the core. Furthermore, in some cases positioning the adverbial at the end causes ambiguity: (151) I persuaded him that we should go away together yesterday. The adverbial here could modify either the matrix or the subordinate predicate. Moving it forward resolves the ambiguity: (152) I persuaded him yesterday that we should go away together. Thus, Van Valin & LaPolla (1997: 467) conclude, placement before the that-clause results in structures which are unambiguous and which can be taken to correspond to the default interpretation placed on these constructions by speakers. . Because most varieties of English do not allow combinations of modals, I have used a modal adverb in the dependent clause. Remember, though, that such adverbs are represented in the operator projection as well as in the constituent projection (see §4.11.2 of Part 1). . It might be argued that the subordinate clause does not, in fact, have a free choice of tense, as witness the ungrammaticality of *The conditional bail had been granted after she has been arrested for shouting ‘scab’ at working miners. But this has to do with the effect of after, rather than with the subordinate status of the clause as such.

Complex sentences 

Chapter 3

Below is the structure for (146). Note that the subordinate clause is dominated by the clause node of the matrix structure. As it is this matrix clause node to which the illocutionary force operator is attached, this representation indicates that the subordinate clause has no independent choice of illocution. However, as Van Valin & LaPolla (1997: 468) observe, what prevents the subordinate clause from having its own illocutionary force is its place in the structure, not its own form, since it is only the complementiser which prevents it from standing alone as an independent assertion. SENTENCE

(153)

CLAUSE 

CORE ARG

NUC

ARG

NP

PRED

NP

CLAUSE CORE ARG

NUC PRED

V I persuaded

PERIPHERY

him

that

V

NP we should

NUC

V

ADV

go away

together

V NUC MOD

CORE CLAUSE CLAUSE

CORE CLAUSE

TNS IF

SENTENCE

The structure of (147) is given in outline in (154): the full structural complexity of the final prepositional constituent is not analysed. Note that in (154) the adverbial clause is an adjunct modifier of the matrix core, and this is shown in both the constituent and operator projections.

 Structure and Function

(154)


PERIPHERY

ARG

NUC

PP

NP

PRED

CORE

V

NUC ARG

The conditional bail had be-en granted

PRED P CLAUSE

V ASP

NUC

PERIPHERY

after CORE ARG

NUC

NP

V

she had

be-en arrested V

PP

CORE NUC ARG PRED CORE P

ASP

NUC

for shouting ‘scab’ at working miners

CORE CLAUSE

CORE CLAUSE CLAUSE SENTENCE

TNS IF

TNS

Chapter 3

Complex sentences 

.... Clausal cosubordination. Although, as we have seen, the category of cosubordination was put forward in order to account for phenomena in Papuan languages, it is also needed for a wide range of other languages, including English. Consider the following examples: (155) . . . the landlord came up again shouting abuse through the door. (BNC HH5 313) (156) Bandeira walked to a chair and sat down in it. (BNC APY 2694) In most accounts, the participial construction in (155) would be analysed as being a subordinate adverbial clause, and (156) would be treated as coordination. First let us compare (155) with the example of clausal subordination in (147). Note that in (147) we could insert separate epistemic and evidential modifiers in the main and subordinate clauses:30 (157) The conditional bail was certainly granted after she had allegedly been arrested for shouting ‘scab’ at working miners. In (155), however, we cannot do this: (158) *The landlord certainly came up again allegedly shouting abuse through the door. An epistemic modifier added to the first junct modifies the whole complex: (159) The landlord certainly came up again shouting abuse through the door. Here, what is presented as ‘certain’ is that the landlord came up again shouting abuse through the door, not just that he came up again. If we turn now to (156), we see that there is a clausal operator, illocutionary force, which is obligatorily shared between the two clauses, as demonstrated below: (160) Did Bandeira walk to a chair and sit down on it? (161) *Bandeira walked to a chair and did sit down on it? In (160), the interrogative illocution applies to the whole complex walk to a chair and sit down on it, and (161) shows that we cannot have a version in which only the second junct is questioned (see the similar example in Van Valin & LaPolla 1997: 520–521). We saw earlier, however, that in clausal coordination there is indeed the possibility of different illocutionary forces in the two halves. As we saw earlier, the obligatory sharing of at least one operator at the level of juncture is the hallmark of a cosubordinate construction. The structure of (156) is shown in (162) below.

. Remember that status adverbials are represented in the operator projection, as well as modal expressions of status.

 Structure and Function

(162)

SENTENCE CLAUSE CLAUSE

CONJ

CORE ARG

NUC

CLAUSE

NUC

AAJ

PRED

PRED NP

V

Bandeira

walked

TNS

PP

NP

to a chair and

V

V

NUC

NUC

CORE

CORE TNS

PP

pro sat_down

V

CLAUSE

PERIPHERY

ARG CORE

on it

CLAUSE

CLAUSE

IF

SENTENCE

... The three types of nexus in relation to core junctures .... Core coordination. Core coordination was illustrated Table 3.2 by means of the following examples: (163) . . . she must tell him to leave, . . . (BNC CKD 1234) (164) . . . you can watch a Seminole Indian wrestle an alligator . . . (BNC AL3 1455) Note that the deontic modality (a core operator) in (163) has scope over only the first core: she is under an obligation to tell him, but he is not obliged, through this modality, to leave. Similarly, in (164) the ability modality (treated as a core operator in RRG) applies only to the watching, not to the wrestling. Here then, we do not have sharing of the core-level operator between the two cores, so that we are dealing with core coordination here, rather than with core cosubordination.

Chapter 3

Complex sentences 

.... Core subordination. The following illustrate core subordination: (165) . . . she resented his breaking the mood. (BNC H8X 2405) (166) That it came to this shows how involved Priestley was in the religious disputes and politics of his day. (BNC B71 1363) Note that here, the units his breaking the mood and that it came to this are themselves direct core arguments of the matrix predicates resent and show respectively. It is this which determines, for junctures involving the core, that they should be treated in terms of subordination. We have one complication here, which is noted by Van Valin & LaPolla (1997: 462– 463). The subordinate unit in (165) is a core: note that it cannot itself take clausal operators such as epistemic modalities. We thus have a clear case of core subordination. In (166), however, the first argument of show is a clause, which can take its own clausal operators (note the grammaticality of, for example, that it had possibly come to this). This, then, is the one case in which we have joining of units at different levels of juncture, one a clause, the other a core.

.... Core cosubordination. Now consider the following: (167) He must try not to faint . . . (BNC B20 2160) (168) One can sit leafing through glossy English magazines, . . . (BNC AHK 1788) Van Valin & LaPolla (1997: 461–462) note that such examples have traditionally been described in terms of subordination, but that in fact their behaviour is quite different from that of truly subordinated units. It will be recalled that subordination involves the occurrence of a unit as an argument or modifier of the matrix clause. Van Valin & LaPolla demonstrate that this is not the case for sentences such as (167) and (168). The evidence here comes from passivisation and clefting. Compare the following: (169) It was his breaking the mood that she resented. (cf. the non-clefted version in (165)) (170) His breaking the mood was resented (by her). (171) *It is not to faint that he must try. (172) *Not to faint must be tried (by him). (173) *It is leafing through glossy English magazines that one can sit. (174) (*Leafing through glossy magazines can be sat. is ungrammatical anyway, because the verb is intransitive, so the clause is not an Object) Van Valin & LaPolla conclude that while in examples such as (165) we have a core in a subordinate relation, this is not the case in (167) and (168).31 . There is, however, a problem here which is not addressed by Van Valin & LaPolla. Examples with thatclauses, such as (166), cannot be clefted or passivised as they stand, even though they are regarded as core arguments: *It is that it came to this that shows how involved Priestley was . . . , *How involved Priestley was

 Structure and Function

What, then, is the relationship involved in (167) and (168)? Once more, operator scope allows us to decide the issue. It will be remembered that in the cases of core coordination described in §3.3.3.2.1, a root modality attached to the first core has scope over just that core. On the other hand, in (167) and (168) the modality has scope over both cores: in (167), what he must do is try not to faint, rather than just try; similarly, in (168) what one is able to do is sit leafing through glossy English magazines, not just sit. Here, then, there is obligatory sharing of the core operator, and we have a case of core cosubordination.

... The three types of nexus in relation to nuclear junctures We saw earlier that in English there is no contrast of nexus types in the case of nuclear junctures. We must therefore look to other languages for examples of such contrasts, and for this I shall rely on Van Valin & LaPolla’s examples, in view of the scarcity of corpus materials in most of the world’s languages. All three types of nuclear juncture may be illustrated from the Papuan language Barai, described by Olson32 (1981), whose work is cited by Van Valin & LaPolla. In the course of the discussion, it will also become clear what type of nexus is involved in the type of nuclear juncture found in English. .... Nuclear coordination. Van Valin & LaPolla (1997: 457) cite the following example of a serial verb construction from Olson’s description of Barai: (175) (= Van Valin & LaPolla’s (8.29b), 1997: 458) Fu vazai ufu furi numu akoe. 3sg grass cut finish pile throw-away. ‘He finished cutting, piled and threw away the grass.’ They state that the verb furi acts as an aspect operator which modifies only ufu (‘cut’), not the other two nuclei (numu (‘pile’) and akoe (‘throw away’)). As this operator is not shared across the nuclei, the three nuclei are in a coordination relationship. The structure of (175) is given in (176).

. . . is shown by that it came to this. In order for these to work, we need to insert the fact in front of the that-clause. Van Valin & LaPolla (1997: 462) avoid examples with that-clauses when illustrating clefting and passivisation possibilities. As Van Valin (personal communication) notes, however, this behaviour is explicable not in terms of the status of that-clauses as arguments of the passive, but rather by the fact that the preposition by, in common with many other prepositions, takes only NP objects. . The term ‘cosubordination’ was taken over by RRG from Olson’s work.

Complex sentences 

Chapter 3

(176) (= part of Van Valin & LaPolla’s Figure 8.7, 1997: 458) SENTENCE CLAUSE CORE ARG

ARG

NUC

NUC

PRED

NUC

NUC

PRED

PRED

NP

NP

V

V

V

V

Fu

vazai

ufu

furi

numu

akoe

V

V

NUC

NUC

V NUC

ASP CORE CLAUSE SENTENCE

.... Nuclear subordination. Note that in (176) the verb furi is shown as not constituting a predicate (so there is no PRED node for it), since it does not contribute an argument to the core. Rather, furi is seen as a nucleus which acts as a modifier of another nucleus (in this case, ufu). The use of serial verbs as aspectual operators is regarded by Van Valin & LaPolla (1997: 459) as the clearest example of nuclear subordination, since the subordinate verb acts as a modifier of the matrix verb, just as an adverbial subordinate clause modifies a matrix clause. .... Nuclear cosubordination. Finally, let us compare the following sentence from Barai with that in (175). (177) (= Van Valin & LaPolla’s (8.29a), 1997: 457) Fu kai fu-one kume-fie va. 3sg friend 3sg-gen call-listen continue ‘He continued calling and listening for his friend.’

 Structure and Function

Here, both kume (‘call’) and fie (‘listen’) fall under the scope of the verb va (‘continue’) which, like furi in (175), acts as an aspect operator. We therefore have an operator shared over two nuclei, in other words nuclear cosubordination, with the structure in (178). (178) (= part of Van Valin & LaPolla’s Figure 8.7, 1997: 458) SENTENCE CLAUSE CORE NUC ARG

ARG

NUC

NUC

NUC

PRED

PRED

NP

NP

V

V

Fu

kai fuone

kume-

fie

V

V

NUC

NUC NUC

V

va

ASP

CORE CLAUSE SENTENCE

Nuclear cosubordination is also the one nuclear pattern found in English. Consider the following example: (179) A few seconds later Matilda Jenkins had pushed open the bedroom door. (BNC CR6 120) Here, the Perfect aspect nuclear operator carries over into the second part of the juncture: the ‘pushing’ and ‘becoming open’ are both completed and have relevance to a past reference point. As a further example, take (180): (180) Playing and working outside, and eating good Yorkshire food, has made him strong. (BNC FS2 1056)

Chapter 3

Complex sentences 

Here again, the Perfect aspect nuclear operator in has made him strong carries over to the second junct: both the ‘making’ and the ‘becoming strong’ are completed, and both have current relevance to the moment of utterance.

.. Clause-linkage markers Van Valin & LaPolla (1997: 469–477) argue for a class of clause linkage markers (CLMs) which are involved in expressing meanings within complex constructions. For English, the set of clause linkage markers includes not only that, usually regarded as a complementiser, but also to and from, in constructions such as those below.33 (181) . . . the bank forced him to step down as head of Pathe . . . (BNC ABG 2668) (182) . . . banking laws prevented him from saying anything about the case of the Fayed brothers, . . . (BNC ABE 1978) Van Valin & LaPolla point out that such constructions are similar in that they are core coordinations, resistant to clefting: (183) *It was to step down as head of Pathe that the bank forced him. (184) *It was from saying anything about the case of the Fayed brothers that banking laws prevented him. The difference between the to and from constructions is that the latter indicates causation of a negative situation. The fact that from contributes negative meaning in such cases is particularly clear in pairs such as the following (cf. Van Valin & LaPolla’s (8.44), 1997: 471). (185) Dave kept them talking . . . (BNC AJY 926) (186) . . . Michael kept him from talking too loudly. (BNC ATE 1771) Van Valin & LaPolla also suggest that to is not just a semantically empty formal marker, but contributes meaning to the constructions in which it occurs. They compare the following sentences: (187) (= Van Valin & LaPolla’s (8.45a), 1997: 471) Will you help me clear the table? (188) (= Van Valin & LaPolla’s (8.45b), 1997: 471) The book helped me to see the truth. Following Quirk et al. (1972: 841), they claim that in (187), the table clearing constitutes the help, whereas in (188) the helping and the seeing are distinct processes. They go on to interpret these claims in temporal terms, suggesting that the actions in examples such as (187) overlap, at least partially, in time, whereas this is not necessarily the case for (188), the preferred interpretation being that the actions are sequential. Corpus evi. Van Valin (personal communication) has informed me that in a forthcoming treatment of RRG he intends to extend the class of clause linkage markers to include conjunctions such as and, which in Van Valin & LaPolla (1997) are treated as hanging from the SENTENCE node.

 Structure and Function

dence, however, suggests that these claims are somewhat simplistic. Consider (189) and (190) below. (189) Farther into the light at gallery level are sculptures of those who helped build the Cathedral: Charles IV, his mother, his third and fourth wives and his son, . . . (BNC APT 146) (190) You see, he helped to build the Opera House. He built secret passages underground, and his secret house on the lake. (BNC FPL 763–764) In (189), it is hardly likely that the monarch and his family were actually involved in the building process; rather, they presumably provided funds, ideas or whatever for the later process of building. On the other hand, in (190) the context makes it quite possible, though not certain, that the person under discussion was actually involved in the building process. There are many examples in the corpus where the difference between bare and to infinitives after help is very difficult to discern. A similar situation obtains with from. Van Valin & LaPolla claim that in (191), which they say is “marginal for many speakers”, the activity must already have started and is then terminated, while in (192) the activity is totally prevented. (191) (= Van Valin & LaPolla’s (8.47a), 1997: 472) Robin stopped Kim singing ‘Advance Australia Fair’. (192) (= Van Valin & LaPolla’s (8.47b), 1997: 472) Robin stopped Kim from singing ‘Advance Australia Fair’. In my dialect at least, (191) is perfectly acceptable, but does not necessarily imply that Kim had already started singing. Again, corpus evidence also shows that by no means all examples conform to the simple pattern proposed by Van Valin & LaPolla. (193) . . . the socks stopped her catching him with her toe nails. (BNC AC3 1657) (194) . . . the only thing that had stopped her being thrown about like a rag doll was her seatbelt. (BNC JY8 539) In (193), it is clear that the socks totally prevented her from catching him with her toe nails, rather than that she was catching him with them, and then the socks prevented this from continuing. Similarly, in (194) she was presumably prevented by the seat belt from being thrown about. Equally doubtful is the claim (Van Valin & LaPolla 1997: 472) that the start to and start -ing constructions differ in the way proposed for to/from above, i.e. that start to X indicates temporal separation of start and X, while start Xing indicates overlap in time. It is easy to find examples where this is not the case. (195) But he had started to drink heavily . . . (BNC EF1 2152) (196) She started drinking heavily. (BNC JXS 4159)

Chapter 3

Complex sentences 

There is surely no distinction here: in both cases start simply indicates ingressive aspect. Many similar examples can be drawn from the corpus. Here are just two more: (197) He started to shout, . . . (BNC CML 1733) (198) Suddenly Brian started shouting, . . . (BNC FS0 927) More convincing, however, are Van Valin & LaPolla’s comments regarding to-infinitive and -ing participial clauses in cases such as (199) and (200): (199) We sat down to read. (BNC ARB 655) (200) He took it home with him that night and sat reading the words. (BNC AP0 774) Clearly, in (199) the sitting and the reading are different, sequential actions, while in (200) they are simultaneous. Similarly, Van Valin & LaPolla correctly predict that in direct perception constructions such as that in (201) (cf. their (8.50a and a ), which necessarily involve simultaneity, to cannot occur: (201) I saw him (*to) disappear . . . (BNC AS7 284) They also comment on the fact, strange at first sight, that in the passive, to, far from being impossible, is actually obligatory: (202) A typical half embryo was seen to emerge . . . (BNC ASL 413) (203) *A typical half embryo was seen emerge. Van Valin & LaPolla’s (1997: 474) explanation is that active perception constructions, with the PERCEIVER as Privileged Syntactic Argument, favour the direct perception interpretation, that is the one in which the process is actually observed to occur, while the passive counterpart, with the STIMULUS as PSA and downgrading or even omission of the PERCEIVER, favours an indirect perception interpretation, in which what is seen is not the process itself, but evidence that it has occurred. Therefore, since the zero form (i.e. omission of to) is incompatible with an indirect reading, we would expect to in the passive. For this argument to be acceptable, of course, we would need to demonstrate that the passives are indeed preferentially interpreted as involving indirect perception: certainly examples such as (202) are not most easily interpreted in this way. I shall leave the matter of clause-linkage markers here: readers are recommended to consult Van Valin & LaPolla’s account for information on such markers in languages other than English.

.. The Interclausal Relations Hierarchy Van Valin & LaPolla (1997: 477) observe that the units in complex constructions vary in the tightness of the bonding between them. Contrast example (168) (repeated below as (204)), an example of core cosubordination, with (147) (repeated as (205)), illustrating clausal subordination:

 Structure and Function

(204) One can sit leafing through glossy English magazines, . . . (BNC AHK 1788) (205) The conditional bail had been granted after she had been arrested for shouting ‘scab’ at working miners. (BNC ASB 1677) The linkage between one can sit and leafing through glossy English magazines in (204) is clearly tighter than that between the adverbial clause and the main clause in (205), where the order of the clauses could in fact be reversed. There are two ways of looking at tightness of linkage, syntactic and semantic, and both are reflected in the Interclausal Relations Hierarchy. Syntactically, the various combinations of juncture and nexus vary in the degree of independence of the units from the point of view of operators and the coding of semantic arguments as direct core arguments. Figure 3.1 is based on Van Valin & LaPolla’s Figure 8.18 (1997: 481), with additional exemplification.

Figure 3.1. The Interclausal Relations Hierarchy

In terms of syntactic linkage, we have seen that nuclear junctures are the tightest and clausal junctures the loosest, as evidenced by the degree of independence of operators and the coding of semantic arguments as distinct core arguments. In a clausal juncture, each semantic argument can be allocated to a distinct core in the syntactic structure, and (with certain specifiable exceptions) the clauses have a free choice of operators. At the other end, in nuclear junctures, the complex of nuclei behaves as a single unit: it is not possible to allocate semantic arguments to one or other of the nuclei, nor can the nuclei take separate operators. Core junctures lie between these extremes. Within a particular juncture type, the nexus relations also form a hierarchy, cosubordination being the tightest kind of nexus, and coordination the loosest: for instance, we have seen that a defining feature of cosubordination is sharing of operators between the linked units. For the semantic part of the hierarchy, Van Valin & LaPolla (1997: 480) cite the work of Silverstein (1976) and Givón (1980), in which it is claimed that semantic relations differ in

Complex sentences 

Chapter 3

terms of the degree to which a particular construction represents aspects of a single state of affairs, or different states of affairs. For instance, causation expresses two phases of a single event, as do the aspectual relations of beginning, continuing or ending some event or action. On the other hand, combinations of clauses in which the temporal ordering of the events is unspecified represent the loosest ‘semantic cohesion’ between units. These same authors are credited with the important observation that the relationship between the syntactic and semantic hierarchies is an iconic one: in general, the tighter the semantic link, the tighter the syntactic link used to express the meanings. There is not, however, a one-to-one relationship between categories on the two hierarchies. For one thing, it is clear that there are more semantic than syntactic categories (and Van Valin & LaPolla stress that the list given is not meant to be exhaustive). Furthermore, although every language can express all the possible semantic relations we have already seen that languages differ in the number of combinations of juncture and nexus attested. Even within a single language, then, one type of syntactic linkage can code more than one type of semantic linkage: for instance, in English, as pointed out by Van Valin & LaPolla (1997: 481), complement that-clauses, which are just one kind of clausal subordination, can express propositional attitude, cognition and indirect discourse types of meaning. It is also the case, however, that a given semantic linkage type can correspond to more than one syntactic type: for instance, causative relations in English can be expressed by at least six syntactic linkage types. There are nevertheless some strong universal constraints on which semantic types can be realised by which syntactic linkages: . . . the tightest syntactic linkage realizing a particular semantic relation should be higher than or as high on the Interclausal Relations Hierarchy as the tightest syntactic linkage realizing semantic relations lower on the Interclausal Relations Hierarchy. (Van Valin & LaPolla 1997: 483)

For instance, since the tightest type of semantic link is causation, this should always be capable of realisation by the tightest type of syntactic linkage found in a particular language: for English, this is nuclear cosubordination, and as we saw in §3.3.3.3.3, this type of linkage can indeed code causation in English. The general principle stated above makes clear predictions about types of semantics/syntax relation which should not be attested in any language: for instance, if causative relations can be realised by core cosubordination as the tightest syntactic type, then it should not be possible for, say, jussive relations to be realised by some type of nuclear juncture. To complicate matters still further, a single verb may be capable of taking more than one juncture-nexus type, corresponding to different meanings of the verb (Van Valin & LaPolla 1997: 482). Consider the following examples: (206) . . . Piaf had persuaded him to make the trip. (BNC BP4 1177) (207) Your master has persuaded me that you found our correspondence helpful . . . (BNC AE0 2077)

 Structure and Function

In (206), persuade is a psych-action verb, analysed in terms of causing someone to want something,34 as shown in (208); while in (207) it is a verb of propositional attitude/cognition, analysed as causing someone to believe something, as in (209). (208) [do´ (Piaf, Ø)] CAUSE [want´ (he, [make´ (he, the trip)])] (209) [do´ (your master, Ø)] CAUSE [believe´ (I, you found our correspondence helpful)] The type of structure in (208) is common to all psych-action verbs, since all such verbs code a situation in which the person who has a mental disposition towards some action is involved in doing it. Similarly, the type of structure in (209) is common to all propositional attitude/cognition verbs, since they take a proposition as their second semantic argument, and this is canonically realised as a clause, in the case of an embedded proposition more specifically a that-clause. The extremely important conclusion which can be arrived at as a result of this line of argument is that the complementation patterns which a verb may take need not be specified explicitly in the lexicon, since they are fully predictable from the semantics of each sense of the verb, as formalised in the logical structure. As we saw briefly in §6.2.2.2 and §8.4.4 of Part 1, this has been demonstrated by Van Valin & Wilkins (1993) for the English verb remember and semantically related verbs in the Australian Aboriginal language Mparntwe Arrernte. Three basic Achievement35 senses of the verb are recognised, as illustrated below: (210) The next night he remembered to pick up a video on the way home from work. (BNC A0R 985) (211) She remembered him laughing kindly as he said this, . . . (BNC CFY 819) (212) In time, she remembered that it was Tuesday, . . . (BNC AD1 487) In (210), remember is a psych-action predicate involving a disposition to act; examples such as (211), according to Van Valin & Wilkins (1993: 512) represent a perceptual sense; and in (212) we have a predicate of propositional attitude/cognition. The authors propose, as a basic unitary semantic representation for all these senses of remember, the structure in (213). (213) BECOME think.again (x) about something.be.in.mind.from.before (y) The element something.be.in.mind is generalised from a more specific set of elements located in a set of semantic redundancy rules in which the nature of what is in mind is . This is Van Valin & LaPolla’s formulation, but it might be more accurate to substitute ‘be willing’ for ‘want’ here. . The classification ‘Achievement’ is used in Van Valin & Wilkins (1993) for verbs with logical structures of the type BECOME predicate´ (x) or (x, y), which in present-day would be Achievements only if punctual, otherwise Accomplishments. For full discussion see §8.4.4 of Part 1.

Complex sentences 

Chapter 3

made more explicit: something.x.intends/knows/believes/perceived.be.in.mind. It is the nature of what is in the mind which determines the semantic type: if what is present in x’s conscious mind is a previous intention to do something, we have a psych-action reading; when it is a perceptual event, we have the perceptual sense; when it is knowledge or belief, we get the propositional attitude/cognition reading. Van Valin & Wilkins go on to show how the type of syntactic linkage involved can be predicted from the semantics, in accordance with the Interclausal Relations Hierarchy. For instance, as we saw earlier, with a psych-action predicate such as persuade in (206), one argument must be shared between the want´ predicate and the predicate in the embedded construction, and this means that the nexus must be cosubordinate (Van Valin & Wilkins 1993: 516). Such a juncture-nexus combination is unmarkedly instantiated in English as a same-Subject infinitive construction. Similarly, in the perception interpretation we have a structure which is the same as that for other direct perception verbs such as see, viz. an accusative + -ing complement. And we have already seen that we can motivate the relation between propositional attitude/cognition senses and that-clause complementation. As Van Valin & LaPolla (1997: 484) note, the fact that in some languages the semantic relations at the top of the hierarchy (notably causation) are coded morphologically rather than syntactically should not be taken as evidence against the principles discussed above. Rather, such phenomena support the hypotheses advanced, in that morphological realisation represents an even tighter form of formal relationship than the tightest syntactic relation.

.. Focus structure in complex sentences Van Valin & LaPolla, following a proposal made originally in Van Valin (1993b: 121), state a general constraint on what can occur in the potential focus domain in complex sentences: A subordinate clause may be within the potential focus domain if it is a direct daughter of (a direct daughter of . . . ) the clause node which is modified by the illocutionary force operator. (Van Valin & LaPolla 1997: 485)

No limitation on the depth of direct daughter relations is proposed, so that either a language should have its potential focus domain restricted to main clauses, or it should be able to penetrate to the deepest subordinate clause of any given sentence. According to this principle, the elements of a that-clause complement in English should be within the potential focus domain for the whole sentence, since the complement clause is a direct daughter of the clause node to which the illocutionary force operator attaches. For instance, in example (146), repeated as (214) below, the clause that we should go away together is a direct daughter of the main clause node, as shown in the structure given in (153) earlier. (214) I persuaded him that we should go away together, . . . (BNC G2V 1459)

 Structure and Function

This should mean that the that-clause and its contents are within the potential focus domain, and this seems to be true, as witness the exchange in (215) (cf. Van Valin & LaPolla’s example (8.62), 1997: 486): (215) A. Did you persuade him that you should go away together? B. No, separately. Van Valin & LaPolla go on to claim that adverbial clauses, by contrast, are outside the potential focus domain. Their example is given below: (216) (= Van Valin & LaPolla’s (8.63), 1997: 487) Q. Did Pat see Mary after shei arrived? A. a. No, Sally. b. No, before. c. *No, shei left. They argue that the replies in (a) and (b) are possible because Mary is a constituent of the main clause, and after part of a peripheral PP again in the main clause, so that both should be within the potential focus domain. On the other hand, arrived is part of the embedded clause she arrived, which is not a direct daughter of the clause node to which the illocutionary force operator attaches, so the general principle correctly predicts that it should not be in the potential focus domain. What Van Valin & LaPolla do not note, however, is that although it seems difficult to make the main predicate in an adverbial clause the focus of an answer to a question, it is often possible to do this with other constituents, as shown in relation to example (147), repeated as (217) below, which can be questioned as in (218): (217) The conditional bail had been granted after she had been arrested for shouting ‘scab’ at working miners. (BNC ASB 1677) (218) A. Had the conditional bail been granted after she had been arrested for shouting ‘scab’ at working miners? B. No, for shouting ‘traitors’ / for shouting ‘scab’ at working bus drivers. Van Valin & LaPolla (1997: 487–492) also discuss the way in which, in languages with overt focus-marking particles, such as Lakhota, the distribution of such particles in embedded clauses can be used to investigate the potential focus domain in complex sentences.

.. Clausal postmodification in noun phrases We saw in §7.2.2.1.1 of Part 1 that RRG postulates a layered structure for the noun phrase which is quite closely parallel to that for the clause, having core and peripheral elements, with a nominal nucleus within the core, relating to a referring entity, rather than to a predicating entity as in the case of the nucleus in a clause core. In addition to the core and periphery, there is a possible NP-initial position, in which arguments, adjuncts or whwords can appear. §7.2.2.3 of Part 1 dealt with those types of complex NP which do not

Chapter 3

Complex sentences 

involve clause embedding, and we saw that the nexus relations of coordination, cosubordination and subordination were also relevant to the NP. In the present section, I shall look at cases where restrictive relative or appositional clauses appear within a NP.36

... Relative clauses RRG treats externally-headed restrictive relative clauses as instances of NP subordination (Van Valin & LaPolla 1997: 497–503).37 The relative clause is in the periphery of the NP, since, like an adverbial clause attached to a main clause, it is always syntactically optional. There is also a semantic parallel between relative clauses in NPs and adverbial clauses attached to main clauses, in that both allow the speaker/hearer to locate a referent: in the case of a relative clause, an individual specified partly through the subordinate clause, and in the case of an adverbial clause a state of affairs (Van Valin & LaPolla 1997: 493). The structure of the NP in bold type in example (219) is given in (220). (219) Geldof ’s idea and the money which was raised cannot be faulted, . . . (BNC ART 1158)

. McGregor’s (1997: 189) comment that RRG has almost nothing to say about linkage involving clauses and nominals, based on Van Valin (1993b), would certainly be unjustified today, as we shall see in what follows. . RRG has not given much attention to non-restrictive modification as yet.

 Structure and Function

(220)

NP

the

COREN

PERIPHERYN

NUCN

CLAUSE

REF

PrCS

CORE

N

NP

NUC

money

PROREL

PRED

N

which

V

NUCN

was

raised V NUC CORE

COREN DEF

CLAUSE

TNS

NP

Van Valin & LaPolla (1997: 499–503) also discuss examples from languages, such as Lakhota, in which relative clauses are internally headed: that is, the head is within the relative clause, but is also interpreted as an argument of the main clause. Headless relative clauses such as that in (221) below occupy an argument position in the matrix core, and are treated as clauses forming an NP which lacks a layered structure, as shown in (222) (see Van Valin & LaPolla 1997: 504–505). Note that the relative pronoun is coindexed to the NP which forms the argument of the matrix clause. (221) . . . he knows what you need. (BNC C8N 1155)

Complex sentences 

Chapter 3

SENTENCE

(222)

CLAUSE CORE ARG

NUC

ARG

NP

PRED

NP1

V

CLAUSE

he

TNS IF

knows

PrCS

V

NP1

ARG

NUC

NUC

PROREL

NP

PRED

CORE

what

CLAUSE

CORE

V you

need

CLAUSE

V

SENTENCE

NUC CORE TNS

CLAUSE

... Appositional clauses Restrictive postmodifiers in NPs can also be of an appositional nature, as in the following examples. (223) About half of the people detained under the Immigration Act powers in general do not wish to challenge the decision that they should leave . . . (BNC B0N 111) (224) Consumer confidence and spending were improving ahead of the decision by John Major to call an election, . . . (BNC AJ2 184) Modification by means of a that-clause as in (223) is analysed as CoreN subordination, as shown in (225).

 Structure and Function

(225)

NP COREN ARG

NUCN N REF the



CLAUSE

decision

CORE

N

ARG

NUC

NUCN

NP

PRED V

that

they

should

leave V NUC

MOD TNS

COREN CLAUSE

COREN DEF

NP

On the other hand, postnominal infinitive clauses are instances of coreN cosubordination (Van Valin & LaPolla 1997: 494), as evidenced by the fact that there is obligatory sharing of an argument between the deverbal nominal and the infinitive, as shown in (226).

Complex sentences 

Chapter 3

(226)

NP COREN NUCN

ARG

N

PP

REF the

P

decision N

by

NUCN



CORE NUC

ARG

NP

PRED

NP

COREN

V

COREN

NUCN

NUCN

REF

REF

NPROP

N

John Major

to

an

call

election

V

N

NUC

NUCN

CORE

COREN

INDEF

NP

COREN DEF

NP

Further evidence for core cosubordination in such cases comes from the fact that the core operators of number and quantification spread their influence over the whole complex: in the many decisions of John Major to call an election, the quantification and plurality apply to the whole of decision of John Major to call an election.

.. Linking algorithms in complex sentences ... Introduction: Linking in simple and complex sentences In §4.13 of Part 1, I summarised the algorithms proposed in RRG for linking semantic and syntactic representations, in each direction, for simple clauses. Van Valin & LaPolla (1997: Chapter 9) show that these algorithms are also valid for certain types of complex sentence,

 Structure and Function

but that in other types the rules need to be modified. They provide a very detailed discussion, which it will be impossible to do full justice to here. Rather, I shall indicate some of the main points and give a few examples, leaving the reader to expand on this picture by consulting Van Valin & LaPolla’s account. Basically, the position advanced by Van Valin & LaPolla is that linking in clausal and nuclear junctures is adequately catered for by the apparatus proposed for simple sentences. In clausal junctures, the component clauses behave, for linking purposes, largely like independent clauses; while in nuclear junctures, the complex of nuclei behaves like a single complex predicate. Non-subordinate core junctures, on the other hand, do present additional challenges with regard to linking.

... Linking in clausal junctures Consider an example such as (227): (227) Once we went to a fish stall and he bought 30 crab sticks for 20p each. (BNC CBC 1055) Linking in such sentences is determined by the rules which apply to each clause individually. Only slightly more complicated is the situation for a subordinate clause such as that in (228): (228) They stood in front of a blazing log-fire before they parted. (BNC ARK 2547) The adverbial clause before they parted is an adjunct to the main clause, and so is dealt with by means of the same rule which was used in the example analysed in §4.13.2 of Part 1, assigning such adjuncts, by default, to the periphery. Now consider cases such as the following (Van Valin & LaPolla 1997: 520–523), sometimes referred to as conjunction reduction: (229) Helen Brotherton moved to Dorset after the end of the Second World War and has lived there ever since. (BNC ANP 917) The difference between this construction and the one in (227) is that there is no overt Privileged Syntactic Argument in the second clause, but rather a zero anaphor. Such zero coding is possible only for highly topical elements: what we have in (229) is conjoined predicate focus constructions where the Privileged Syntactic Argument, a pragmatic pivot, is topic. Since illocutionary force is obligatorily shared between the conjuncts, we have an instance of clausal cosubordination. Again, the basic linking algorithms work well, but the construction itself constrains the linking of non-initial conjuncts, in that the zero anaphor must represent the pragmatic pivot of the clause. We saw in §4.8 of Part 1 that the grammatical structures of a language are stored as a set of constructional templates. Such templates for complex sentences need to include more information than those for simple sentences: for instance, the English conjunction reduction template (Van Valin & LaPolla 1997: 522) specifies the construction type (occurrence of pro as the first element of the non-initial conjunct(s), and its coindexing with the

Chapter 3

Complex sentences 

initial pragmatic pivot), also the juncture and nexus types (clausal, cosubordination). Any special properties of the syntactic templates required for the constituent clauses in a construction can also be specified, as can any constraints on linking (here, that pro must be the pragmatic pivot). Van Valin & LaPolla (1997: 523) stress that the constructional template for English conjunction reduction is in fact much more general than might at first appear, since it also represents the criterial properties of parallel constructions in various other languages of different types. Indeed, it can even be shown to underlie the formation of topic chains in languages, such as Dyirbal and Tepehua, which have the type of referencetracking system which Van Valin & LaPolla (1997: 287) refer to as ‘switch-function’, in which one primary participant is tracked by always being represented as a syntactic pivot, any changes in the function of this participant being indicated by changes in voice coded in the verbal system. Van Valin & LaPolla (1997: 523–529) also discuss linking in two further types of clausal juncture in English: what is often called VP ellipsis, as in (230), and sentences where it is used in a core argument position which refers to an extraposed that clause, as in (231). (230) Our heart went out to her and I’m sure that yours will too. (BNC KS9 12) (231) It surprised some that he did not retire to Cambridge. (BNC A68 31) They comment that although conjunction reduction and VP ellipsis have usually been considered as evidence for a VP node in the structure of English clauses, RRG succeeds in explaining these phenomena in terms of the layered structure of the clause and associated focus structure.

... Linking in nuclear junctures Van Valin & LaPolla (1997: 529) point out that the logical structures of clauses with nuclear junctures such as that in (232) are very similar to those of lexical causatives such as (233). (232) You could paint it red afterwards. (BNC A1C 2067) (233) He opened his eyes. (BNC CEU 3754) In accordance with their semantic similarity, the two types of structure have similar linking patterns, so that no extensions to the algorithms are needed here. Van Valin & LaPolla also show that no extensions are needed in order to account for linking in causative nuclear junctures in French, using faire + infinitive. Constructional templates for this construction, and also for serial verb nuclear junctures in Mandarin and Barai, are presented.

... Linking in core junctures .... Core subordination. As pointed out earlier, it is in the case of complex sentences with non-subordinate core junctures that modifications to the linking algorithms for simple sentences are needed. First, however, let us deal with the relatively unproblematic case of core subordination, as in example (165), repeated as (234) below.

 Structure and Function

(234) . . . she resented his breaking the mood. (BNC H8X 2405) The semantics-to-syntax linking for this sentence is shown in (235). (235)


NUC

ARG

PRED NP

V

Undergoer

she

resented

CORE

Actor

ARG

NUC

ARG

PRED

Actor

NP

V

NP

his

breaking

the mood

Undergoer

resent´(she, [[do´ (he, Ø)] CAUSE [BECOME broken´(mood)]])

As can be seen, the default positions in the core of the embedded clause are filled by the Actor he and the Undergoer the mood (he taking the form his because it precedes a gerund), and the whole of the embedded clause acts as the Undergoer of the matrix clause, with she as Actor in this clause. The semantics-to-syntax linking is thus unproblematic. So is the reverse linking, from syntax to semantics, which starts with the first clause in linear order, as must be the case if this linking is part of the comprehension process (Van Valin & LaPolla 1997: 539).

.... Non-subordinate core junctures. Let us now turn to the more problematic nonsubordinate core juncture type. The complications here arise from the sharing of a semantic argument between the linked cores. Van Valin & LaPolla (1997: 540–575) discuss two subtypes: control constructions (sometimes known in formal linguistic theories as ‘equi-NP deletion’), and matrix-coding constructions (raising to Subject or Object and exceptional case marking constructions). I shall deal briefly with each in turn.

Chapter 3

Complex sentences 

..... Control constructions. In control constructions, the linked core is short of one syntactic argument, and this argument is obligatorily interpreted as identical with one of the matrix core arguments, the controller. Examples are given below. (236) She tried to see him objectively . . . (BNC JXW 641) (237) They told him to ignore it . . . (BNC CCC 485) (238) But she had promised Peter to stay. (BNC JXU 1056) Semantically, in (236) she is the Actor of see as well as try; syntactically, we have she as the controller, and since this would be the Subject of the matrix clause in most theories, the phenomenon is often known as Subject control. In (237), him represents both the Undergoer of told and the Actor of ignore, but here we have Object control, since him is the Object of the matrix clause. (238) again illustrates Subject control. Clearly, since RRG does not operate with the categories of Subject and Object, an explanation must be found in terms of types of Privileged Syntactic Argument and/or macroroles. Van Valin & LaPolla (1997: 540) contrast such control constructions with the type illustrated in (239). (239) Since then, the Government has introduced national limits on the benefit paid in order to control the escalating cost. (BNC AP5 496) Again, we have control, since there is a syntactic argument missing in in order to control the escalating cost, and in the example given, this argument is interpreted as identical to the ‘Subject’ of the matrix clause, the Government. The difference between this type and that in (236)–(238) above, however, is that the control in the (239) type is optional, in that it is possible to have an explicit syntactic argument in the purpose clause, as shown in (240). (240) Since then, the Government has introduced national limits on the benefit paid in order for the administration to control the escalating cost. No such explicit argument can be introduced in the case of the obligatory control constructions in (236)–(238): (241) *She tried (for) Sue to see him objectively . . . (242) *They told him (for) Gail to ignore it. (243) *She had promised Joe (for) Peter to stay. Van Valin & LaPolla (1997: 541–543) review accounts of obligatory control within Government and Binding theory (in which control is explained in terms of closeness to the embedded unit in the structural tree) and in Lexical Functional Grammar (in which it is accounted for in terms of a hierarchy of grammatical functions), and demonstrate that these explanations run into several difficulties: ad hoc solutions are needed in order to account for control with promise-type verbs; control phenomena are very similar in languages such as English and in languages, such as Dyirbal, where immediate constituent representations are inappropriate; they are also similar in languages such as Mandarin

 Structure and Function

and Acehnese which, according to RRG, have no grammatical relations,38 so making the LFG account unattractive. The RRG account offers a semantic rather than a syntactic explanation for control. As Van Valin & LaPolla (1997: 543) point out, control in examples such as (236), with only one argument available for sharing, is trivial: the problem arises when there is more than one, as in (237) and (238). Verbs such as tell and persuade, which take ‘Object’ control, are a subset of verbs coding situations in which an Actor acts on an Undergoer and the Undergoer then performs the action. When the Actor acts by non-verbal means, the verbs are said to be causative, when the means are verbal, the label ‘jussive’ is used. The RRG theory of obligatory control, first proposed by Foley & Van Valin (1984), is as follows: (244) (= Van Valin & LaPolla’s (9.33), 1997: 544) Theory of obligatory control 1. Causative and jussive verbs have undergoer control. 2. All other (M-)transitive39 verbs have actor control. Clearly, with M-intransitive verbs the single argument is controller. This semantic account has a number of advantages over previous syntactic accounts (Van Valin & LaPolla 1997: 544–545). Since it is formulated in terms of macroroles, it applies just as well to Dyirbal, Acehnese, etc., as to English. It also makes the correct predictions for promisetype verbs without the need for ad hoc mechanisms, in that these ‘commissives’ are neither causative nor jussive, and so would be expected, by point 2 in (244) above, to have Actor control. It also explains the fact that although the pronoun he in (245) and (246) below could theoretically be coreferential with either of the arguments in the matrix core, the default interpretation is for he to be coreferential with the Actor God (and him in the second core with him in the first) in (245) (an interpretation that is actually confirmed by subsequent clauses in the text), but with the Undergoer Miles in (246). (245) . . . God promised him that he would be with him . . . (BNC ACG 646) (246) Charles persuaded a rather grudging Miles that he had time for a quick bath before they left. (BNC GUF 1283) The RRG account predicts that if a verb can be used as a causative or non-causative (or a jussive or non-jussive), there will be differences in control between the pairs. They cite examples of the type shown in (247), which are claimed to be ambiguous, for some speakers, between a jussive interpretation (in which the person represented by her is asked to have a coffee) and a non-jussive one (where the request is for permission for the speaker to have a coffee). (247) I felt so lonely I asked her to have a coffee. (BNC BMR 2131) . See §4.12 of Part 1. . M-transitivity is ‘macrorole transitivity: see §8.2.6 of Part 1.

Complex sentences 

Chapter 3

Clearly, in the jussive interpretation there is Undergoer control, whereas in the non-jussive counterpart there is Actor control, as predicted by (244). Van Valin & LaPolla also observe that interpreting control in terms of macroroles accounts for the differences in passivisation behaviour between persuade-type verbs and promise-type verbs. Let us turn now to the actual linking mechanisms in control constructions (Van Valin & LaPolla 1997: 545–560). Firstly, we need to add a universal qualification to the syntactic template selection principle which was discussed in §4.13.1 of Part 1 and is repeated below: The number of syntactic slots for arguments and argument-adjuncts within the core is equal to the number of distinct specified argument positions in the semantic representation of the core. (Van Valin & LaPolla 1997: 173, 324)

The qualification is as follows: The occurrence of a core as the linked core in a non-subordinate core juncture reduces the number of core slots by 1. (Van Valin & LaPolla 1997: 546)

Armed with this qualification, we may now show, still following Van Valin & LaPolla’s account, how the correct semantics-to-syntax linking may be achieved in control constructions, through the interaction of the linking algorithms, the theory of obligatory control and the Completeness Constraint, which is again repeated below from the discussion in §4.13.1 of Part 1. All of the arguments explicitly specified in the semantic representation of a sentence must be realized syntactically in the sentence, and all of the referring expressions in the syntactic representation of a sentence must be linked to an argument position in a logical structure in the semantic representation of the sentence. (Van Valin & LaPolla 1997: 325)

First let us look at the simplest case where only one argument is available for linking, exemplified by (236). The structure of this sentence and the semantics-to-syntax linking are shown in (248).

 Structure and Function

SENTENCE

(248)

CLAUSE CORE 

CORE

CORE

PERIPHERY

ARG

NUC

NUC

ARG

NP

PRED

PRED

NP

V

V

she

tried Actor

to

see

him

ADV

objectively

Undergoer

do´ (3sgFi, [try´ (3sgFi, [objective´ (see´ (yi, 3sgM))])])

Note that even though the y argument in the embedded logical structure is not linked directly to any syntactic item, it is coindexed with the argument ‘3sgF’, and this in turn is indeed linked to the syntax, so that no violation of the Completeness Constraint is involved. Van Valin & LaPolla (1997: 547–548) point out that there is another possible coindexing pattern for a logical structure such as that in (248), as shown in (249), in which the semantics of the irrelevant adverbial has been omitted. (249) do´ (3sgFi , [try´ (3sgFi , [see´ (3sgM, yi )])]) If we now try to map such a structure on to the syntax, however, we find that there is nothing for the argument ‘3sgM’ to map on to, since it is now the Actor of the embedded structure, and the grammar of English does not allow an Actor to link to the post-nuclear argument position. This blocked situation is shown in (250).

Complex sentences 

Chapter 3

SENTENCE

(250)

CLAUSE CORE 

CORE

CORE

ARG

NUC

NUC

ARG

NP

PRED

PRED

NP

V She

tried

to

see

Actor

Actor

do´ (3sgFi. [try´ (3sgFi, [see´ (3sgM, yi)])])

The impossibility of this linking explains the ungrammaticality of (251): (251) *Shei tried [him] to see _____i Van Valin & LaPolla also discuss the corresponding sentences with a passive in the embedded structure. The important point to be made here is that, as Van Valin & LaPolla (1997: 549) observe, there is no need to specify, in the lexical entry for try, that it obligatorily shares an argument with the logical structure of its complement, since this falls out naturally from the operation of the Completeness Constraint. The same is true for the control structures in (237) and (238), as well as for similar control constructions in Dyirbal, Lakhota, Sama, Acehnese and Mandarin Chinese. A further theoretically important point arises out of Van Valin & LaPolla’s account of semantics-to-syntax linking in control constructions. Parallel to example (238), repeated for convenience as (252) below, we have (253). (252) But she had promised Peter to stay. (BNC JXU 1056) (253) But she had promised Peter that she would stay. These have the same logical structure, as shown in (254).40 . As we saw in §4.10 of Part 1, Van Valin & LaPolla (1997: 116–118, 551) also postulate a more detailed logical structure for verbs of saying, involving the structure do´ (x, [express(α).to.(β).in.language.(γ)´ (x, y)]). For our present purposes, the simpler formulation is adequate.

 Structure and Function

(254) [do´ (3sgFi , [say´ (3sgFi , Peter)])] CAUSE [BECOME obligated´ (3sgFi , [do´ (yi , [stay´ (yi )])])] The difference between (252) and (253) semantically, according to Van Valin & LaPolla, emerges only when we consider a fuller semantic representation including operators, as shown below. (255) IF DECTNS PASTASP PERF[do´(3sgFi , [say´(3sgFi , Peter)])] CAUSE [BECOME obligated´ (3sgFi , [do´ (yi , [stay´ (3sgFi )])])] (256) IF DECTNS PASTASP PERF[do´(3sgFi , [say´(3sgFi , Peter)])] CAUSE [BECOME obligated´ (3sgFi , [TNS PASTSTA PSBL[do´(3sgFj , [stay´(3sgFj )])] ])] In (255), corresponding to sentence (252), the lack of operators for the embedded logical structure means that we must have a core juncture here. The theory of obligatory control stipulates that one of the arguments in the embedded logical structure must be unfilled lexically, and coindexed with the Actor in the logical structure of the matrix. In (256), however, corresponding to sentence (253), the embedded logical structure has its own set of clausal operators, and so is realised as a finite clause, in a clausal subordination pattern. Furthermore, there is no shared argument, so the she of the embedded clause may or may not refer to the same person as the she of the matrix clause (i.e. i = j or i = j). The important general point is as follows: Thus, the same logical structure can be the basis of two different semantic representations which can be realized by different juncture-nexus types and by correspondingly different formal constructions. (Van Valin & LaPolla 1997: 552)

So far, I have considered only the semantics-to-syntax linking for control constructions. Let us turn now to the reverse linking, from syntax to semantics, which requires that the correct decisions be made regarding the assignment of the controller in the core of the matrix unit. This is achieved by adding, at the appropriate point in the linking algorithm, a statement reflecting the theory of obligatory control: In non-subordinate core junctures, one of the arguments of the matrix core must be linked to an argument position in the embedded logical structure, following [the theory of obligatory control]. (Van Valin & LaPolla 1997: 559)

Below is the structure and syntax-to-semantics linking for (252).41

. The initial conjunction in the example is ignored as irrelevant to our present concerns.

Chapter 3

Complex sentences

SENTENCE

(257)

CLAUSE 

CORE ARG

NUC

ARG

NUC

NP

PRED

NP

PRED

V She

V

had promised

Peter

1

stay

non-Actor direct core arg

3

2

to

1

Actor Actor

CORE

Undergoer 2

3

Actor 2

[do´ (xi, [say´ (xi, y])] CAUSE [BECOME obligated´ (xi, [do´ (zj , [stay´ (zj )])])]

The numbers in the above diagram correspond to the steps in the linking process. In Step 1 we determine the functions of core arguments: note that this will need to be done for both clauses. Since English is a syntactically accusative language, the linking rules state that since the voice in the matrix clause is unmarked (i.e. active), the PSA is the Actor. The macrorole status of Undergoer must therefore be assigned to the other direct core argument. In the embedded unit, there is only one possibility: the PSA is the Actor. In Step 2, we determine the Actor and Undergoer assignments for the logical structures of the predicates, following the Actor-Undergoer Hierarchy. We then link the arguments determined in Steps 1 and 2: the Actor of the matrix logical structure to the Actor as determined in Step 1 (she); the Undergoer to the non-Actor direct core argument (Peter). This still leaves the Actor of the embedded unit unlinked: the theory of obligatory control stipulates that since we have a core juncture, and since promise is neither jussive nor causative, we have Actor control, so that the so far unlinked argument in the embedded structure must be linked to the Actor of the matrix structure, as shown by the thick line in (257).

..... Matrix-coding constructions. The term ‘matrix-coding construction’ is intended as a theory-neutral label for what have often been referred to as raising, either to Subject or Object. In (258) we have matrix coding as PSA, and in (259) as non-PSA. (258) This principle appears to prohibit disclosure of personal data to third parties; . . . (BNC BNE 777)



 Structure and Function

(259) Antrobus considered archaeologists to be another kind of meddling vandal, . . . (BNC B7A 476) Note that as with the control constructions discussed earlier, for both of these types of sentence there is an alternative construction, not necessarily having exactly the same meaning, with a that-clause: (260) It appears that this principle prohibits disclosure of personal data to third parties. (261) Antrobus considered that archaeologists were just another kind of meddling vandal. First let us consider matrix-coding as PSA, which occurs with English verbs such as appear, seem, and also with be likely/certain, as well as with certain predicates in a number of other languages, including Icelandic, the Bantu language Kinyarwanda and the Polynesian language Niuean (Van Valin & LaPolla 1997: 562). The verbs seem and appear, in common with meteorological verbs such as rain, snow, are atransitive: that is, they are exceptional in not having any macroroles associated with them. We can see this from the fact that although they have the logical structure verb´ (x, y), x being an individual with the semantic role of PERCEIVER and y a proposition, neither argument can appear directly in the core, the former being realised, if at all, as a prepositional phrase and the latter as an extraposed clause, as in (262), rather than as a direct core argument acting as PSA (Van Valin & LaPolla 1997: 154). (262) It appears to us that the point is a thoroughly esoteric one . . . (BNC FDW 213) (263) *That the point is a thoroughly esoteric one appears to us. This property would be indicated by the designation [MR0] in the lexical entry for these verbs. The logical structure is the same for (258) and (260), and is shown in (264). Skeleton semantic representations are given in (265) and (266). (264) appear´ (Ø, [do´ (this principle, [prohibit´ (this principle, disclosure of personal data to third parties)])]) (265) IF DECTNS PRESappear´ (Ø, [do´ (this principle, [prohibit´ (this principle, disclosure of personal data to third parties)])]) (266) IF DECTNS PRESappear´ (Ø, TNS PRES[do´ (this principle, [prohibit´ (this principle, disclosure of personal data to third parties)])]) The fact that there is no tense operator in the embedded logical structure in (265) indicates that we are dealing with a core juncture here; in (266), on the other hand, the embedded structure will be realised as a tensed clause. The semantics-to-syntax linking for the logical structure in (265) is shown in (267).

Complex sentences 

Chapter 3

(267)




CORE

ARG

NUC

NUC

ARG

NP

PRED

PRED

NP

V

V

This principle appears

to

Actor

prohibit

the disclosure ...

Undergoer

appear´ (Ø, [do´ (this principle, [prohibit´ (this principle, disclosure...)])])

Although there is a position for a direct core argument in the matrix core, the logical structure of appear, as we have seen, has no argument which can be used to fill this position. Instead, it is filled by the semantic argument which would usually act as PSA for the embedded unit, which cannot function in this unit because the prenuclear core argument is missing in a core juncture. In this way, violation of the Completeness Constraint is avoided. We are not, however, dealing here with the same nexus type as in the control constructions. Recall from §3.3.3.2.3 that try-constructions are cosubordinate: for instance, a deontic modality operator modifies the whole core complex, not just the first core. With appear, however, there is no argument which could be under the influence of obligation, permission and the like. The nexus, then, is not cosubordinate but coordinate. As far as syntax-to-semantics linking is concerned, in order to accommodate the matrix-coding as PSA type of construction, Van Valin & LaPolla add a further modification to that introduced to cover control constructions. The new version reads as follows: In non-subordinate core junctures, one of the arguments of the matrix core must be linked to an argument position in the embedded logical structure: a. b.

if the matrix predicate is a control verb, this follows [the theory of obligatory control]; otherwise, if the matrix predicate is not a control verb, then link the unlinked syntactic argument in the matrix core to the logical structure argument position of the pivot of the linked core. (Van Valin & LaPolla 1997: 566)

Van Valin & LaPolla (1997: 567) note that the matrix-coding as non-PSA type of construction, as in (259), has been a topic of some controversy among syntacticians. Within

 Structure and Function

the transformational generative literature, there was a debate about whether the surface structure of such constructions conformed to the pattern in (268) or to that in (269). (268) [S Antrobus [VP considered archaeologists [VP to be just another kind of meddling vandal]]] (269) [S Antrobus [VP considered [S archaeologists to be just another kind of meddling vandal]]] Evidence that, in RRG terms, considered and archaeologists belong in the same core comes from reflexivisation (Van Valin & LaPolla 1997: 567–568). In English, the controller and the reflexive must both be syntactic arguments in the same core.42 Compare (270) and (271). (270) Muelleri considered that hei /*himi /*himselfi was now in a much stronger position . . . (BNC AC2 200) (271) . . . Lord Diplock considered *he/*him/himself to be stating a general rule with exceptions. (BNC FCA 179) Whereas in the version with the finite clause complement, only he is grammatical, in the matrix-coding version reflexivisation is obligatory, showing that Lord Diplock and himself must be in the same core. The semantics-to-syntax linking for (259) is shown in (272).43 (272)

SENTENCE CLAUSE 

CORE

CORE

ARG

NUC

ARG

NUC

NP

PRED

NP

PRED

V

NP

Antrobus considered archaeologists

Actor

to

be

just another kind of meddling vandals

Actor

consider´ (Antrobus, [be´ (archaeologists, [vandals´ ])]) . See also §2.3.6 and §3.3.2. . The complexities of the predicative NP just another kind of meddling vandals are omitted as irrelevant here: it is assumed that vandals is the semantic head.

Chapter 3

Complex sentences 

Following Foley & Van Valin (1984), Van Valin & LaPolla (1997: 569) note that when a verb takes a clausal complement in core juncture, not only the embedded core, but also the matrix, has its S-transitivity reduced by 1. For instance ask someone a question has 3 core arguments, but ask someone to do something has only 2; want something has 2, but want to do something only 1. Verbs appearing in matrix-coding to non-PSA constructions, however, are exceptions to this general rule: consider something (2), but not *consider to be something (1), but rather consider X to be something (2). Given this fact, the linking in (272) above becomes possible. Van Valin & LaPolla (1997: 569) propose an amendment to the syntactic template selection principle to deal with this situation. Syntax-to-semantics linking for matrix-coding to non-PSA works in basically the same way as in the PSA type.

... Linking in complex NPs Finally, we must deal briefly with linking in complex NPs, especially those with restrictive relative clauses. Consider example (273). (273) . . . he named the girl whom I knew (BNC CDX 2561) As Van Valin & LaPolla (1997: 593) note, the semantics-to-syntax linking must take account of the fact that an attributive logical structure must be placed in the argument position occupied by the head noun, this noun acting as its first argument, and the logical structure of the verb in the relative clause acting in the pred´ slot. The structure and semantics-to-syntax linking for (273) are shown in (274).

 Structure and Function

(274)


NUC

ARG

NP

PRED

NP

V

COREN

PERIPHERYN

NUCN

CLAUSE

REF

N

PrCS

CORE

NP

ARG

NUC

PROREL

NP

PRED V

he

named

Actor

Undergoer

the girl Actor

name´ (3sgM, [be´ (girli, [know´ (1sg,

whom

I

knew

Undergoer

whomi)])])

The semantics-to-syntax linking in (274) proceeds according to the normal algorithm. The first argument of name´ (x,y), that is he, is assigned as Actor and the second (girl) as Undergoer, according to the Actor-Undergoer Hierarchy. In the embedded logical structure, this hierarchy specifies that the first argument of know´ (I) is Actor, the second (the relative pronoun whom) Undergoer. As the latter is a wh-item, it must go into the pre-core slot of the embedded clause. Syntax-to-semantics linking in externally-headed relative constructions requires the following addition to the algorithm: a. b.

Retrieve from the lexicon an attributive logical structure and substitute the logical structure of the verb in the relative clause for the y argument. If there is no pre-/postcore slot element in the relative clause, then treat the head noun as if it were in the pre-/postcore slot for linking purposes; if there is an element in the pre-/postcore slot in the relative clause, coindex the head noun with it.

Complex sentences 

Chapter 3

c.

Coindex the x argument in the attributive logical structure with the argument in the relative clause logical structure linked to the head noun in (b). (Van Valin & LaPolla 1997: 593)

For our example, we start the syntax-to-semantics linking, as usual, by determining the functions of the core arguments in each core. The main clause and relative clause are both active, so that the PSA is the Actor in each case, and the other direct core argument is Undergoer. We then retrieve the logical structures for the predicate in each clause, and link the Actor to the PSA argument in the syntactic structure and the Undergoer to the other argument position in each case. Part (b) of the above addition to the linking algorithm specifies that since there is an element (whom) in the pre-core slot of the relative clause, the head noun girl must be coindexed with it. Part (c) of the rule says that the x argument of the attributive logical structure (girl) must be coindexed with the argument in the relative clause logical structure (whom) which we have just linked to the head noun. The resulting linking pattern is shown in (275).

 Structure and Function

SENTENCE

(275)

CLAUSE CORE ARG

NUC

ARG

NP

PRED

NP

V

COREN

PERIPHERYN

NUCN

CLAUSE

REF

N

PrCS

CORE

NP

ARG

NUC

PROREL

NP

PRED V

he

named

the girl

whom

Main verb: voice active so PSA = Actor Actor

I

knew

Rel clause verb active so PSA = Actor Non-actor direct core arg Coindexing

Actor

Undergoer

Actor

Undergoer

name´ (v, w) be´ (x, [know´ (y, z)]) Coindexing

Van Valin & LaPolla (1997: 598–604) also discuss internally-headed relative clauses in languages such as Lakhota and the Niger-Kordofanian language Bambara. They further note that as all the constraints on linking in relative clauses are construction-specific, they need not form part of the general algorithm, but can be stated once so that reference can be made to them by relative clause constructional templates.

Complex sentences 

Chapter 3

Finally, it should be noted that Van Valin & LaPolla’s account of linking in complex sentences contains much more than it has been possible to provide here, for example concerning case assignment, constraints on linking in complex wh-questions,44 and reflexivisation phenomena. They also provide detailed analyses of data from languages other than English: readers are referred to the original for further details.

.. Descriptions of complex sentences in particular languages Considerations of space preclude any account of the detailed work done on complex sentences in a variety of languages, within the RRG framework. Among the relevant recent references which interested readers should consult are Hasegawa (1992) on TE-linkage in Japanese, Ohori (1992) on diachronic aspects of Japanese clause linkage, Cutrer (1993) on control in English, Hansell (1993) on serial verbs and complement constructions in Mandarin, Jacobsen (1993) on clause combining in Nootka, Watters (1993) on clause linkage in Turkish, Yang (1994) on complex sentences in Korean.

.

Complex sentences in Systemic Functional Grammar

.. The Sydney grammar account ... The concepts of clause complex and sequence We saw in §5.2.2 of Part 1 that in Scale and Category Grammar, the highest unit on the grammatical rank scale was the sentence, which consisted of one of more clauses. It was also mentioned at that point that Halliday later replaced the label ‘sentence’ by ‘clause complex’, when referring to grammatical properties. This change was suggested by the work of Huddleston (1965), who, in a detailed discussion of univariate and multivariate structures in English, demonstrated that units at any rank could be formed into complexes. In §7.6 of Part 1 we saw that various classes of group can form group complexes; Huddleston also recognised word and morpheme complexes. He then took the further logical step of handling coordination and subordination of clausal units in terms of complexing, leading to the abandonment of the grammatical unit of sentence in favour of the clause complex. Halliday adopts this practice in his later work: We shall assume [. . . ] that the notion of ‘clause complex’ enables us to account in full for the functional organization of sentences. A sentence will be defined, in fact, as a clause complex. The clause complex will be the only grammatical unit which we shall recognize above the clause. Hence there will be no need to bring in the term ‘sentence’ as a distinct grammatical category. We can use it simply to refer to the orthographic unit that is contained between full stops. This will avoid ambiguity: a sen. I shall return to the area of complex wh-questions in §5.2.2, since it is very relevant to the RRG approach to language acquisition.

 Structure and Function

tence is a constituent of writing, while a clause complex is a constituent of grammar. (Halliday 1994a: 216)

In §8.3.1.1 of Part 1, we saw that recent work in SFG has recognised a semantic unit, the sequence, corresponding congruently to the clause complex in the grammar: sequences consist of figures, which in turn consist of elements.

... Types of relationship between clauses: An introduction Halliday proposes two intersecting dimensions of variation in the ways in which clauses can be combined into clause complexes, both of which we have already met in Part 1. Firstly, the relationship between clauses can be characterised in terms of taxis, as either paratactic or hypotactic. The difference is explained by Halliday as follows: The general term for the modifying relation is hypotaxis. Hypotaxis is the relation between a dependent element and its dominant, the element on which it is dependent. Contrasting with this is parataxis, which is the relation between two like elements of equal status, one initiating and the other continuing. (Halliday 1994a: 218)

Any pair of clauses related by taxis is referred to as a clause nexus, made up of primary and secondary clauses. In a paratactic nexus, the initiating clause is primary and the continuing clause secondary; in a hypotactic nexus, the dominant clause is primary and the dependent clause secondary. Cross-cutting the taxis dimension is that of logico-semantic relation. This is a set of categories which will be familiar from earlier discussion, since they are regarded in present-day SFG as ‘fractal’, in that they pervade the linguistic system, appearing in units of various ‘sizes’, although they were first elaborated in relation to clause linking. The main distinction is between expansion and projection, each of which has sub-categories: 1. 2.

Expansion: the secondary clause expands the primary clause, by (a) elaborating it, (b) extending it or (c) enhancing it. Projection: the secondary clause is projected through the primary clause, which instates it as (a) a locution or (b) an idea. (Halliday 1994a: 219)

Both taxis and logico-semantic relation are seen as part of the logical metafunction,45 though Halliday (p. 225)46 reminds us that this term refers to the natural logic of language itself, not to formal logical categories. In the following sections I shall look at these types of relationship in much more detail, before summarising briefly some of the challenges which have been made to Halliday’s account.

... Parataxis and hypotaxis Consider the following examples: . The logical metafunction, in its turn, is treated as part of the ideational function in some of Halliday’s writings, as we saw in Part 1. . All further references to Halliday in §3.4.1 will be to Halliday (1994a), unless otherwise specified.

Complex sentences 

Chapter 3

(276) At least Nails was not afraid of suffering a bit; he had come by his name because he was so hard. (BNC AT4 2082) (277) The crowd parted, and they stood gazing up at the canyon, . . . (BNC AT3 636) (278) The straps were fabric instead of rubber, so they kept flopping. (BNC ASV 287) (279) I said, “Were you aiming at that flag?” (BNC ASA 1889) (280) I thought to myself, “How do you write a novel?” (BNC GWL 801) (281) Harriet rode close by the demonstrators, which surprised me. (BNC CEB 2326) (282) As late as 1937 only 10 per cent of women were attending post-natal clinics, whereas 54 per cent received ante-natal care. (BNC GUW 289) (283) There’s a grudge against Tom because he drops in on everyone. (BNC ASV 496) (284) She said she was tired after the journey. (BNC ATE 2490) (285) Alice thought she would get the business of ringing Electricity over with. (BNC EV1 475) Examples (276)–(280) show paratactically related clauses: the initiating and continuing clauses are clamed to be of equal status. (281)–(285), on the other hand, have hypotactic relationships: one clause (the second, in the case of the examples given above) being dependent on the other. Halliday uses different notational conventions for paratactic and hypotactic relationships: paratactically related clauses are numbered 1, 2, etc., while hypotactically related clauses are labelled α, β, γ, etc. Both relationships are univariate: that is, multiple relationships within a series are of the same kind. Consider (286) and (287): 1

2

3

(286) They moved up to one of the white banquettes, sat down and ordered Caesar salads. (BNC G0V 2185) α

β

(287) Please amend the declaration on your Application if you wish to see γ any report before it is sent to us. (BNC AYR 529) The relationship between 1 and 2 in (286) is the same as that between 2 and 3: each pair of clauses is in a coordinative relationship. Similarly, in (287) the γ clause is dependent on the β clause in the same way that the β is dependent on the α. Note, incidentally, that the paratactic type of construction is basically transitive (though other factors can neutralise this relationship), so that (286) also implies They moved up to one of the white banquettes and ordered Caesar salads; on the other hand, hypotactic relationships are not transitive, so that (287) does not imply Please amend the declaration on your Application before it is sent to us.

 Structure and Function

Paratactic and hypotactic relationships can, of course, be present in the same clause complex; furthermore, there can be ‘nesting’, or internal bracketing, of relationships. Let us look at the more complex example in (288), the structure of which is given in (289). (288) If this were true, and if oceanic crust was being generated at all the oceanic ridges in the world at this rate throughout geological history, then the entire present organic crust could have been formed in a mere couple of hundred million years, and therefore, without some other kind of process acting, there would be a vast quantity of spare oceanic crust lying around. (BNC ASR 143) (289) á

â â1

If this were true

â2 á1

á2

á2â á2á and if.. history «without.. acting» then..years and therefore ... there .. around

Here, the basic structure is composed of a dependent element (If this were true . . . geological history) followed by an independent element (then .. lying around). Both have internal complexities: the initial dependent element consists of two paratactically related halves (hence the labels β1 and β2) – If this were true and and if .. history; the independent element likewise consists of two elements in paratactic relation (α1 and α2) – then .. years and and therefore .. lying around.47 This last unit itself has an independent clause (α2α) and therefore . . . there would be a vast quantity of spare oceanic crust lying around, within which is included a dependent clause (hence α2β). This example also illustrates the fact that dependent clauses can be either finite or non-finite, an instance of the latter being without some other kind of process acting. It is typical of Halliday’s account that he presents a number of examples of similar or even greater complexity, to reflect the kinds of structure found in samples of authentic interaction. Example (288) is taken from the written part of the British National Corpus: as Halliday (p. 224) points out, even more complicated patterns of ‘semantic movement’ can be attested in spoken language. I noted briefly in §2.4.1.2.5 that clause complexes display thematic relationships in similar ways to simplex clauses, in that a hypotactic complex can have either the head or the dependent clause first. For instance, in example (287), we have the unmarked thematic ordering of clauses, whereas in the top level structure of (288), the dependent (β) element, complex in itself, precedes the dominant (α) element. . Note that Halliday includes coordinating conjunctions in the second of the linked clauses.

Chapter 3

Complex sentences 

One important further point should be noted before I begin to explore the logicosemantic relations into which clauses enter within clause complexes. Halliday has always made a sharp distinction between hypotaxis and embedding (often referred to as rankshifting48 ), the latter being severely restricted. For instance, the Subject that-clause in (290) below is embedded, but the that-clause after confirms is not, being regarded as hypotactically related to the preceding clause; the restrictive relative clause in (291) is embedded in the structure of the nominal group, but the non-restrictive clause in (292) is hypotactically related to the main clause; and finally, the adverbial clause in (293) is seen as hypotactic rather than embedded. Clearly there are major differences here from other theories,49 and I shall need to revisit this area in what follows. (290) That they were not prepared to countenance Maxse at his most radical confirms that those ends were indeed Conservative. (BNC A6G 1190) (291) Rosina, a Yugoslavian, and the woman who was to become his wife, arrived in the same town five years later. (BNC AT1 1484) (292) The woman, who will be scarred for life, was treated in hospital for a number of injuries including a 3in cut to her neck. (BNC A5R 649) (293) He had always skipped swimming because he got teased about his bones sticking out. (BNC AT4 521)

... Logico-semantic relations .... The range of types of relation. As we saw earlier, the different types of logicalsemantic relation apply to both paratactically and hypotactically related clauses. In Table 3.3, examples (276)–(285) are classified in terms of both dimensions (cf. Halliday’s Table 7(2), p. 220). The primary split is between expansion and projection types of logico-semantic relation. The term ‘expansion’ is virtually self-explanatory: one clause expands on the content of another in some way. The term ‘projection’ is perhaps less transparent; Halliday explains it as follows: . . . the logical-semantic relationship whereby a clause comes to function not as a direct representation of (non-linguistic) experience but as a representation of a (linguistic) representation. (Halliday 1994a: 250) . See §5.2.2 of Part 1. Note that although in SFG ‘rankshifting’ and ‘embedding’ are normally used with the same meaning, McGregor (1997: 127–136), in the Semiotic Grammar framework he has elaborated in reaction to what he sees as deficiencies in SFG, distinguishes between the two terms. Rankshifting is the reclassification of a unit of given rank to one of lower rank, while embedding is rankshifting in which the rankshifted unit acts as a constituent of a unit of equal or lower rank, thereby playing an experiential role in it. The distinction is necessary because of McGregor’s particular view of the scope of constituency relations and their relationship with metafunction (see §5.8.2 of Part 1). . Halliday’s analyses also differ from those in the Cardiff version of SFG: see §8.3.2.4 of Part 1 and the discussion in §3.4.2.

 Structure and Function

Table 3.3. Clause complexes classified by taxis and logico-semantic relation Logicosemantic relation↓

Taxis→

Paratactic

Hypotactic

Expansion

elaboration

At least Nails was not afraid of suffering a bit; he had come by his name because he was so hard. (BNC AT4 2082) The crowd parted, and they stood gazing up at the canyon, . . . (BNC AT3 636)

Harriet rode close by the demonstrators, which surprised me. (BNC CEB 2326)

I said, “Were you aiming at that flag?” (BNC ASA 1889) I thought to myself, “How do you write a novel?” (BNC GWL 801)

She said she was tired after the journey. (BNC ATE 2490) Alice thought she would get the business of ringing Electricity over with. (BNC EV1 475)

extension

enhancement

Projection

locution idea

As late as 1937 only 10 per cent of women were attending post-natal clinics, whereas 54 per cent received ante-natal care. (BNC GUW 289) The straps were fabric instead of There’s a grudge against Tom because he drops in on everyone. rubber, so they kept flopping. (BNC ASV 287) (BNC ASV 496)

Thus, in the last four examples in Table 3.3, we have a representation of something linguistic, projected through a verb of saying or thinking. I shall unpack this notion in later discussion.50

.... Relations of expansion ..... Elaboration. Elaboration involves the expansion of the meaning of one clause by another, not though introducing any new element, but by characterising in more detail an element already present, in terms of restatement, refinement, or clarification, often by addition of an explanatory comment (Halliday p. 225). When elaboration operates within the environment of paratactically related clauses, the restatement type leads to an appositional structure in which (some element of) the first clause is expressed in different words: Halliday (p. 226) refers to this as ‘exposition’. An example is (294) below, in which something being congenital is rephrased as you must have inherited it. (294) Masochism is congenital; that is to say, you must have inherited it. (BNC AE0 2287) . In his Semiotic Grammar, McGregor (1997: 188) treats projection as a ‘framing’ relationship which forms part of the interpersonal rather than the logical semiotic: see §5.8.2 of Part 1. He does, however, follow Halliday in distinguishing the three types of logical expansion to be discussed in the next section, illustrating these from both English and Gooniyandi.

Chapter 3

Complex sentences 

The refinement type of relation again leads, in paratactic environments, to an appositional structure, this time one in which further specificity is introduced, often through exemplification, as in (295). (295) The chances of having a mentally handicapped child may be considerably heightened, however, under certain circumstances; for example, older women are much more likely to have Down’s Syndrome babies. (BNC ANA 86) Clarification in the context of parataxis reinforces what is said in the primary clause by giving some kind of explanatory comment, as in (296). (296) They do not need to be too smart; in fact, it is better if they do look rapidly produced, in response to an immediate threat. (BNC AR9 301) When the logico-semantic relation of elaboration combines with hypotaxis, we get a nondefining (or non-restrictive) relative clause. According to Halliday (p. 227) such clauses can be finite or non-finite. The finite type is identical in grammatical form to a defining/restrictive relative clause, but adds supplementary rather than defining information. Halliday (p. 227) notes that the domain to which the relative clause adds a further characterisation can vary. It can be the whole of the primary clause, or at least a part of the clause which is more than a nominal group, as in the example given in Table 3.3; it can be a nominal group such as that in example (292) where the relative clause adds further information about the woman; or it can be an expression of temporal or spatial location, in which case the relative clause has the relative adverbs when/where, as in (297). (297) In other places, where even the Norfolk reed is scarce, the reed is used as a capping ridge to straw thatch. (BNC AS4 181) Halliday (p. 228) claims that non-defining relative clauses in English are clearly signalled, marked off in the written language by punctuation and in the spoken language by allocation to a separate tone group, which is uttered on the same tone as the primary clause,51 as illustrated in (298), translated into Hallidayan notation in (299),52 where all the tone groups have falling tone (Tone 1 in Halliday’s system). (298) we ^started this procession down the :c\orridor# . ^very l\ong _corridor# which went a^long and along and al\ong# and then ^round a c\orner# (LLC 1 3 590–593) (299) //1 we / started this procession down the / corridor //1 very / long corridor // 1 which went a / long and along and a / long / and then //1 round a / corner// However, even a cursory glance at a prosodically transcribed corpus shows that this picture of tone concord is far too simple: when the non-defining relative clause has as its . More strictly, tone concord is with that part of the primary clause which constitutes the domain of the relative clause: see below. . For notes on transcription conventions, see §2.2.1.3 and §2.4.1.3.

 Structure and Function

antecedent the whole of the clause on which it depends, we often get a mismatch, as in (300)/(301), where the tone group corresponding to the main clause has falling tone (Tone 1), while that corresponding to the relative clause has rising tone (Tone 2); and even where the relative clause has only part of the primary clause as its domain, we still sometimes get different tones in the two parts, as in (302)/(303), where the tone in the tone group carrying the main clause is rising, but that in the relative clause tone group is falling-rising (Tone 4). Clearly other factors are involved in codetermining the tone choice. (300) [@m] - ^they *( - - - laughs)* interviewed me f\irst# which Î thought was a bit /ominous# (LLC 1 3 487–489) (301) /1 they interviewed me /first which //2 I thought was a bit /ominous// (302) we’re ^having this meeting of :CSC as:sistant((s)) on the !fourth of Jul/y# which is a ^S\/aturday# (LLC 1 1 182–183) (303) // 2 we’re / having this meeting of /CSC as / sistant(s) on the / fourth of Ju / ly which is a //4 Saturday // Halliday (p. 228) notes that there is one group of non-defining relative clauses which represent extension rather than elaboration: (304) Evans played with a pencil as he leaned over his desk, staring at Morgan, who stared back with a bleak expression. (BNC ARK 1416) (305) Becky looked across at Elspeth, whose big eyes told her she didn’t know either. (BNC ATE 1112) In this type of case, the relative pronoun could be paraphrased semantically using and: and he stared back with a bleak expression / and her (Elspeth’s) big eyes told her she didn’t know either. Halliday treats clauses such as those in (306)–(308) as non-finite analogues of nondefining relative clauses, the meaning relationship being indicated less explicitly than in the finite version. (306) The song, featuring several different sections, was a fine summary of the band’s sound at the time. (BNC AT1 1909) (307) . . . I looked down and saw an ant, crawling into the wind. (BNC AT3 298) (308) When he returned after the weekend he brought with him a tool that sums up his management style – a wedge, to keep his door open. (BNC CBV 1082) Like full non-defining relative clauses, these non-finite clauses contrast with defining counterparts: (309) A woman arranging flowers around an anaemic statue told me that Father Burne was “even now, in the sacristy”. (BNC ARB 2183) (310) There is an elegant staircase with a gate to keep the dogs downstairs . . . (BNC AP8 339)

Chapter 3

Complex sentences 

Halliday (p. 229) even includes, in the same category of non-finite non-defining clauses, those with an explicit Subject: his example is given in (330) below: (311) John went off by himself, the rest of us staying behind. It is difficult to see how such a clause could be considered any kind of equivalent to a relative clause. In (309), (310) and similar sentences, we can at least add a relative pronoun and auxiliary, so converting the structure into a full relative clause: (312) A woman who was arranging flowers around an anaemic statue told me that Father Burne was “even now, in the sacristy”. (313) There is an elegant staircase with a gate which is to keep the dogs downstairs. In (311), on the other hand, there is no such possibility. Rather, the non-finite clause seems to have an extending function: note that we can paraphrase with and the rest of us stayed behind.

..... Extension. Extension (Halliday pp. 230–232) is the relationship in which the secondary clause adds something to the meaning of the primary clause. Two main subcategories are recognised: pure addition and variation, the former being subdivided into additive (positive ‘X and Y’, or negative ‘not X and not Y’) and adversative (‘X and conversely Y’), the latter into replacive (‘not X but Y’), subtractive (‘X but not all X’) and alternative (‘X or Y’). Again, these types of logico-semantic relation can combine with either parataxis or hypotaxis. Paratactic extension gives what is generally known as coordination, often realised by one of the conjunctions and, nor, or, but. Some examples follow: (314) On Wednesday evening there was a sports programme on the BBC World Service, and Saturday was the day of the football results. (BNC AT3 678) [addition, additive, positive] (315) They have been a power behind the scenes for centuries, but now they’re coming to the fore. (BNC AT7 1287) [addition, adversative] (316) I would not bother you again, only I have a last request. (BNC AE0 1543) [variation, replacement] (317) Either you agree with it or you don’t agree with it. (BNC AJD 542) [variation, alternative] The same basic semantic relations can be expressed through hypotactically related clauses. In the following examples, the secondary clause is finite:

 Structure and Function

(318) Thus, whereas a basic forearm block simply deflects the opponent’s punch, the more advanced version deflects the opponent. (BNC A0M 737) [addition]53 (319) You’d have thought they were best friends or something, except that girls don’t have proper friends the way boys do. (BNC A0D 1808) [variation, subtractive] whereas in those below it is non-finite: (320) Apart from suffering from confused objectives, appraisal schemes may fail for a variety of reasons: . . . (BNC AYJ 388) [additive] (321) John left without saying goodbye to his mother, . . . (BNC ASC 1029) [adversative] (322) . . . you may simply decide to walk to work instead of going by car or bus. (BNC AYK 237) [replacive] (323) Hoomey pushed the front seat up and leaned over, groping about on the back seat. (BNC AT4 1759) [additive] Example (323) is included in order to illustrate Halliday’s point (p. 232) that when there is no conjunctive expression (such as apart from in (320)), an additive or adversative non-finite extending clause may be formally identical to the elaborating counterpart (see e.g. (307)), but without the tone concord claimed for such elaborating clauses. Furthermore, Halliday states that if the dependent clause precedes the independent clause, the interpretation may be neither extending nor elaborating, but enhancing (see below).

..... Enhancement. Halliday’s category of enhancement (pp. 232–239) covers cases where the meaning of the primary clause is expanded through reference to time, place, manner, cause or condition. Paratactic enhancement is a further type of coordination, one in which there is an added circumstantial meaning, such as can be realised by, for example, (and) then or and at that time, etc. for temporal meaning, (and) there, etc. for location, (and) in that way for manner, and so on. Examples are given in (324)–(327). (324) Yet the more she sipped the more sick she felt; and then she began to have a cramp in her stomach. (BNC AT7 657) [temporal] (325) . . . the back door opened and there, revealed in the gaslight, was Jessie. (BNC AT7 570) [spatial] (326) And by the way, I have an appointment in the city around eleven, so I may not be back to stand in for the dinner breaks. (BNC AT7 707) [cause followed by effect] Hypotactic enhancement corresponds to what are normally called adverbial clauses, with the same range of meanings as listed above. Finite dependent enhancement clauses are . Halliday (p. 231) comments that “there is no clear line between the additive and the adversative” in hypotactic addition.

Chapter 3

Complex sentences 

introduced by a subordinating conjunction, which may be a simple conjunction (327), a conjunction group (328), or derived from a verb (329), noun (330) or adverb (331). (327) Wherever you are, it is alright to yell if somebody is trying to hurt you. (BNC ARA 67) [simple temporal conjunction] (328) Even if you are not chairman, someone should be. (BNC AYJ 1813) [condition, conjunction group] (329) A horse will soon become used to the excitement of a show provided that he goes out on a regular basis from an early age. (BNC ASH 262) [condition, derived from verb] (330) But they know I’m here, in case anything happens. (BNC ATE 2970) [cause (reason), derived from noun] (331) Damp is acceptable so long as the cellar is not in use . . . (BNC AS1 1205) [condition, derived from adverb] Halliday states (p. 236) that non-finite enhancing clauses are introduced by a conjunction (332) or by a preposition acting conjunctively (333),54 though he also gives examples, similar to (334), where there is nothing before the non-finite verb. (332) Politicians and diplomats frequently exhibit these characteristics when dealing with foreign affairs. (BNC AYJ 1001) [temporal, conjunction] (333) This programming has influenced our thinking and our pattern of ability without us knowing it. (BNC AYK 1368) [condition (concession), conjunctive preposition] (334) Being a photographer, I understand how photographers can manipulate a situation; . . . (BNC APL 426) [cause (reason)]

..... Expansion where subtype is not explicit. Halliday (pp. 239–241) recognises that especially in cases where clauses are not explicitly linked by any conjunction, it is often difficult to decide how to analyse a given text sentence in terms of the kinds of logicosemantic relation proposed. He also points out that there is a cline, in terms of explicitness of information, between expression as an independent finite clause, through dependent finite clauses and non-finite clauses, to prepositional phrases at the other end. The following examples are similar to those given by Halliday (p. 241) to illustrate this point. (335) Going south down Corso Venezia, away from Porta Venezia and the Lazaretto, you will reach the Planetarium, . . . (BNC ANB 823) (336) Turn left when you reach the fortifications . . . (BNC APT 580)

. Halliday appears to treat the ‘conjunctive preposition’ as a conjunction for the purposes of the clause analysis: an alternative interpretation would be that it is acting as a preposition, in a prepositional phrase with the non-finite clause as complement.

 Structure and Function

(337) Come over Kirkstone Pass towards Ullswater, and on reaching the valley, turn off to the right . . . (BNC AP8 479) (338) Which way do we go at the traffic lights? (BNC HTU 4741)

..... Embedded expansions. As remarked earlier, the role of embedding is very restricted in Halliday’s SFG. Indeed, he claims (p. 242) that there are only the following types in English:55 (339) He put down the money that had been initially agreed upon. (BNC APC 1753) [finite clause as postmodifier in nominal group] (340) . . . some of the money being channelled into development should be redirected into more stringent enforcement of anti-doping measures. (BNC AJ3 671) [non-finite clause as postmodifier in nominal group] (341) She had to take all the money in his wallet, . . . (BNC AC3 335) [phrase as postmodifier in nominal group] (342) What I said was stupid. (BNC APM 2663) [finite clause as Head of nominal group] (343) For us to be reduced to the level of a Balkan state is very hard. (BNC AE8 1064) [non-finite clause as Head of nominal group] (344) Out of doors is the best place for Brownies, really, . . . (BNC B0B 2130) [phrase as Head of nominal group] (345) As it happened, the lecture ended earlier than I had expected. (BNC ANL 3700) [finite clause as postmodifier in adverbial group] (346) She’d come back much earlier than expected. (BNC B0B 1442) [non-finite clause as postmodifier in adverbial group] (347) The VHS video system was launched in Japan and the US earlier than in Britain. (BNC B7J 1120) [phrase as postmodifier in adverbial group] In what follows, I shall discuss each of these types of embedding. The distinction between embedding and hypotaxis, and the place at which the boundary is drawn, will be discussed again later, when I review other views on this area of SFG. Embedded expansions, like paratactic and hypotactic ones, can be of the elaborating, extending or enhancing types, though Halliday (p. 243) remarks that the distinction “is of very much less relevance” for embedded clauses. Just as hypotactic elaborating clauses are non-restrictive relatives, so embedded elaborating clauses are restrictive (or defining, the term adopted by Halliday) relatives. As we . It should be remembered that Halliday treats adjective-headed groups as a type of nominal group, so that constructions such as It was so loud that everybody jumped (BNC ATE 2999) are seen as instances of a finite clause as postmodifier in a nominal group.

Chapter 3

Complex sentences 

saw earlier, they are claimed not to have a separate tone group allocated to them, but rather to be part of the same tone group as the element they characterise, because they do not constitute separate, newsworthy information. Defining relatives, like their non-defining counterparts, can be finite (as in (339) above) or non-finite (340). Within the non-finite type, further distinctions are proposed: examples such as (340) are labelled as ‘imperfective’ (clearly they can be passive, as in this example, or active), while ones with infinitive clauses as postmodifier (which can again be active or passive) (e.g. (348)) are said to be ‘perfective’.56 (348) What’s the best time to hold a meeting? (BNC AND 772) Non-finite embedded clauses with a preposition are elaborating where the clause is in an appositional relation, though most constructions of this structural type, as we shall see, are enhancing.57 (349) However, the task of setting EC wide standards remains daunting and progress has been slow. (BNC AMK 172) Note that in an example such as (342), which would be called a headless relative clause in some approaches, Halliday treats the whole construction what I said as a nominal group which has just a head, filled by the clause itself. This analysis is clearly somewhat unusual, and I shall have cause to comment further on it later. The only type of embedded extending clause, according to Halliday (p. 245), is one of possession, as in (350). (350) This was counter-productive in alienating those sectors of the community whose cooperation was essential to criminal investigation. (BNC AS6 766) It is difficult, however, to see how such clauses differ in their logico-semantic type from those with non-possessive relative pronouns. Furthermore, Halliday himself (p. 227) includes non-defining relative clauses with whose under elaboration, as we might expect. Enhancing embedded clauses can again be finite or non-finite, and Halliday (p. 245) distinguishes two types: one in which the circumstantial meaning which characterises the category of enhancement is present in the embedded relative clause itself; another in which the circumstance is contained within the lexical item acting as head in the nominal group within which the clause is embedded. Let us start with the finite type. In (351) and (352) the circumstantial meaning of place is realised in the relative clause. (351) At the first hotel I worked in, I had shared an office . . . (BNC A0F 771) . The somewhat idiosyncratic usage of these terms was explained briefly in §9.4.1.2 of Part 1. . It is surely implausible for of to be analysed as conjunctive in such constructions: the case for analysing such constructions as examples of a prepositional phrase acting as postmodifier, the preposition having a non-finite clause instead of a nominal group as its complement, is even stronger here than in cases such as (333): for instance, in the (somewhat inelegant) version the task of the setting of EC wide standards the analysis would presumably be preposition plus nominal group.

 Structure and Function

(352) We arrived again at the street where we had heard the news of the assassination attempt. (BNC ARB 630) On the other hand, in the following sentences, the circumstantial meaning (location in the first instance, reason in the second) is present in the head noun (in ordinary type in the examples) whose meaning is enhanced by the relative clause. (353) . . . I’ll go back to the place I was before, . . . (BNC AC5 2436) (354) The reason why there is such a consensus about Europe in Germany is that everyone can unite around this vague concept. (BNC AMK 1225) These examples also illustrate a further characteristic of this type of enhancing finite clause: the circumstantial meaning can be present only in the head noun, as in (353), or in both the noun and the relative clause, as in (354) (reason + why). Enhancing non-finite embedded clauses are again of two types. The first is parallel to the corresponding finite type, and is exemplified in (355), which can be related to the finite form something one can talk about. (355) But, more importantly, a Smiths gig is merely part of a night out, something to talk about in the pub afterwards. (BNC ART 1520) The second type is parallel to the non-embedded clauses with ‘conjunctive preposition’ (e.g. (333)), and is illustrated in (356). (356) The problem with encouraging the creation of pressure groups is that the pressure might be applied against you! (BNC AND 1144) There are also non-finite embedded clauses acting as postmodifiers to head nouns which encapsulate the circumstantial meaning: indeed, Halliday (p. 247) points out that some such nouns (e.g. purpose, result, point, aim) actually require the preposition plus non-finite construction rather than a finite clause.58 (357) In reconciling the needs of these groups it is sensible to separate appraisal for the purpose of judging performance from that of dealing with pay and promotion. (BNC AYJ 364) Halliday (pp. 248–250) also discusses a type of embedded clause, with no head noun, which is a nominalisation of a process, and which he therefore calls an ‘act’. An example is given below. (358) Criticizing anyone is a definite art. (BNC AYJ 506)

. See Notes 54 and 57 for comment on the analysis of the postmodifying elements in examples such as (356) and (357) as clauses rather than prepositional phrases.

Chapter 3

Complex sentences 

.... Relations of projection. Projection, as we saw briefly in §3.4.1.4.1, is the relationship whereby a clause acts as the representation of something linguistic rather than as a direct representation of some non-linguistic aspect of the world. Matthiessen characterises projection as “developing a clause complex by projecting one clause onto a plane of existence higher than the other clause, as the symbolic content of that clause” (Matthiessen 1995a: 130, emphasis in original). The clearest examples involve constructions with verbs of saying, such as those in (359)–(361). (359) “You should worry,” said Hilda. (BNC ATE 1333) (360) Susan said that she had no intention of letting him into her life, . . . (BNC AP0 1348) (361) The often-heard statement that Hitler and Mussolini made the trains run on time can be seen – in this context – as a profoundly political one. (BNC AR0 270) The quoted material you should worry in (359), the indirect speech clause that she had no intention of letting him into her life in (360), and the appositive clause that Hitler and Mussolini made the trains run on time in (361), are all representations of linguistic events. We shall see below that the first type is analysed by Halliday as paratactic, the second as hypotactic and the last as embedded.

..... Paratactic projection: Quoted speech and thought. The relationship between direct (quoted) speech and its quoting clause is seen as paratactic because, according to Halliday’s analysis (pp. 250, 269), the two halves (e.g. you should worry and said Hilda in (359)) have equal status in that both are ‘wordings’, entities at the lexicogrammatical level: we shall see below how this contrasts with what Halliday regards as hypotactically related clauses involving indirect speech. Halliday (p. 250) observes that the distinction between projecting and projected material is signalled in written English by punctuation, and that in spoken English the projecting (quoting) clause is less salient phonologically than the projected (quoted) material. Either half can come first in the complex: example (279), given earlier, is repeated as (362) below. (362) I said, “Were you aiming at that flag?” (BNC ASA 1889) Furthermore, the quoted material can be more extensive than just a single clause. The verbs which can occur in the quoting clause include not only those such as say, ask, remark, shout, but also, especially in fiction, those whose primary use is to indicate some other action accompanying speech, e.g. breathe, sob. It is also possible to use quotation after verbs of thinking, as illustrated by example (280), repeated as (363). (363) I thought to myself, “How do you write a novel?” (BNC GWL 801) Whereas what is quoted in (362) is what Halliday calls a ‘locution’, the quoted material in (363) represents an ‘idea’.

 Structure and Function

..... Hypotactic projection: Reported thought and speech. Consider (364), presented as (285) earlier: (364) Alice thought she would get the business of ringing Electricity over with. (BNC EV1 475) Here, the ‘idea’ projected by the clause Alice thought is not an actual wording as in (363), but rather a meaning: therefore, for Halliday, the two halves have different status, the projected part being dependent on the mental process, and hence hypotactically related. As he points out (p. 253), hypotactic projection presents the projected clause from the deictic viewpoint of the utterer of the whole complex, so that Alice is referred to as she and the past time of the main clause is projected into the dependent clause as the ‘remote’ form would, whereas in the corresponding paratactic, direct speech version, the quoted clause would have I and will. We can, of course, also report speech, as in (365), seen earlier as (284): (365) She said she was tired after the journey. (BNC ATE 2490) What is reported is again a meaning (this time one relating to a ‘locution’) rather than a wording: indeed, the wording may, as Halliday (p. 254) observes, be quite different from the original, while preserving the gist. He also notes (p. 255) that whereas in direct quotation the speech act force of the original utterance is preserved, in reported speech this must be rendered through the choice of reporting verb (e.g. ask as opposed to state). Halliday points out that we can also quote an idea, but that this is much rarer than reporting a locution. He also comments on the association of the different combinations with particular registers of English, and (pp. 260–261) on the phenomenon of ‘free indirect speech’.

..... Projecting ‘proposals’. So far, I have discussed only the projection of what Halliday calls ‘propositions’ (i.e. statements and questions). It is also possible, however, to project ‘proposals’ (offers and commands), and again the projection can be either paratactic or hypotactic. Examples of projected commands are given below. (366) “No, please stop,” I said. (BNC AT3 428) [paratactic, verbal process] (367) Kiss me, she willed him, kiss me. (BNC HHA 2848) [paratactic, mental process] (368) The Gendarme nodded and told me to wait outside. (BNC EE5 227) [hypotactic, verbal process] (369) His father wanted him to go to Harvard Business School. (BNC ASV 2518) [hypotactic, mental process]59 The following examples illustrate projected offers: . In §7.6 of Part 1, I discussed Halliday’s analysis of examples similar to this one, except that there is no overt Subject in the infinitive clause (‘X wanted to Y’). We saw that although he concedes the possibility of an analysis in terms of hypotaxis, he argues for the superiority of a different analysis in such cases, involving

Complex sentences 

Chapter 3

(370) “I’ll build a house in readiness,” promised Edward. (BNC ASE 161) [paratactic] (371) I’d promised my mother I’d buy her some new central-heating, . . . (BNC ASA 2148) [hypotactic] As Halliday (p. 259) points out, although both propositions and proposals are projected by mental processes, the subclass of process is different in the two cases: cognitive for propositions, but affective for proposals.

..... Embedded projections. Projections can also be embedded to act as postmodifier to a head noun, which itself is the projecting element. Halliday (pp. 263–264) lists a number of nouns which can enter into such constructions, the associated grammar depending on whether we are projecting a statement, question, offer or command, as shown in Table 3.4, derived from Halliday’s list. Table 3.4. The grammar of embedded projections Type of projection

Finite projected clause

Non-finite projected clause of + -ing whether/wh- + infinitive

Proposition

Statement Question

Proposal

Offer

that-clause if/whether-clause OR wh- + indirect indicative future

Command

modulation or future

infinitive clause OR of + -ing infinitive clause

Some examples are given below: note the convention that an embedded clause is indicated by [[. . . ]]. (372) I shall concentrate upon the claim [[that there is a fruitful analogy between the development of species through natural selection and the growth of knowledge]]. (BNC CM2 183) [statement, locution, finite] (373) Braintree provided five more good reasons to justify their claim [[of being the most attack-minded team in the whole league]]. (BNC CF9 1038) [statement, locution, non-finite] (374) Christina left him in Todney’s office with a gnawing suspicion [[that he was up to something]]. (BNC FRS 2620) [statement, idea, finite] (375) Martin McGuinness, a leader of Sinn Fein, was arrested in Dublin last night on suspicion [[of being a member of an unlawful organisation]]. (BNC AKY 79) [statement, idea, non-finite] a verbal group complex within a single clause. For cases with an overt Subject, however, he prefers the hypotactic analysis (see Halliday 1994a: 290). I shall return to these points later.

 Structure and Function

(376) I write in reply to Difficult Decision December Post Bag which posed the question [[whether a Border Collie could cope with a front leg amputation]]. (BNC ACM 543) [question, locution, finite] (377) Mr Kenneth Baker probably wisely turned down the offer [[of becoming Secretary of State for Wales . . . ]] (BNC AKH 401) [offer, locution, non-finite] (378) Embedded within discussions of human rights is the intention [[that we should not so organise our social institutions that they promote some people and inhibit others ]]. (BNC CMU 176) [offer, idea, finite] (379) Last night, a ministry official delivered a notice to the monastery, stating that officers intended to return this morning to carry out the order [[to slaughter the birds]]. (BNC A3N 53) [command, locution, non-finite] All the embedded projections I have considered so far have involved a projecting clause with a verbal or mental process, or a projecting noun. There is, however, one type where the projected clause “comes as it were ready packaged in projected form”, without the need for any projecting element (p. 264). Halliday calls this type a ‘fact’, without in any way intending to imply anything about their truth or falsity. As an example, consider (290), repeated as (380) below. (380) [[That they were not prepared to countenance Maxse at his most radical]] confirms that those ends were indeed Conservative. (BNC A6G 1190) The Subject that-clause is a projection, but no verbal or mental process, and no nominalisation of such as process, is present to project it. Such facts can also occur as postnominal modifiers of nouns such as fact itself: (381) The fact [[that food and water were running out due to slow progress]], demoralized me still further. (BNC AT3 2201) Halliday (pp. 266–267) recognises four subtypes of fact noun, which he labels ‘cases’ (nouns simply indicating a fact), ‘chances’ (nouns indicating a modality), ‘proofs’ (indicating caused modalities such as proving or implying [i.e. making something certain or probable], and ‘needs’ (nouns indicating modulations of necessity, expectation, etc.). Example (381) illustrates the first category; examples of the others are given below. (382) We should be prepared to countenance the possibility [[that there will be children who leave school with little or no literary knowledge]], . . . (BNC ASY 722) [‘chance’] (383) The closed eyes are an indication [[that the horse is relaxed]]. (BNC ASH 1131) [‘proof ’] (384) But there is no obligation [[to keep rigidly to this rule]], . . . (BNC ASY 1399) [‘need’] It should be noted that even where a verb of saying or cognition is present, it is possible for a projected element to occur which is a fact, rather than being projected by the process. An

Chapter 3

Complex sentences 

example is given in (385), where the projected clause could be made into a postmodifier by being prefaced by the fact. (385) Having recognized [[that emotion does not buy God]], I now fell into the trap of believing that the right method does. (BNC AT3 1243)

... System networks for the clause complex Matthiessen (1995a: 126–160) presents system networks which formalise, and to some extent extend, Halliday’s account of the clause complex. He begins with a network distinguishing between clause complex and clause simplex. For a clause complex, there are two simultaneous systems: taxis ([parataxis] vs. [hypotaxis]), and type of interdependence (initially [expansion] vs. [projection]). As far as taxis is concerned, Matthiessen stresses that these relationships involve a relational interdependency structure rather than a constituency structure. In terms of interdependency type, [projection] clause complexes are subdivided into [idea] and [locution], while [expansion] complexes are further characterised as [elaborating], [extending] or [enhancing]. Matthiessen (p. 150) also presents a much more delicate network for each of the three types of expansion, reflecting the classification in Halliday (1994a). He also adds a recursive system to allow the addition of further paratactic or hypotactic relationships, so expanding the complex further. Matthiessen (pp. 133–138) also brings together the various ways in which the distinction between parataxis and hypotaxis is reflected. Firstly, the functional potential (i.e. the ability to carry out a function in the structure of some other unit) of a paratactic complex as a whole differs from that of a hypotactic complex: for parataxis, the complex has the same potential as each clause; for hypotaxis, the potential of the complex is that of the head clause. The following examples are similar to those provided by Matthiessen (p. 135). > in the second example represents the inclusion of the hypotactically related clause within the head clause on which it depends. (386) Leapor is firm that her friend will be happier with a man [[who is dependable and who lives within his means]]. (BNC AN4 1166) (387) . . . a taxi driver in New York regularly addressed his fare in a manner [[which > would end in some sort of fracas]], . . . (BNC AR3 150) In (386), both halves of the paratactic complex are relative clauses, and the complex acts as a postmodifier to the head noun man, just as a single relative clause would; in (387), on the other hand, what matters is that the head of the hypotactic complex is a relative clause, and the hypotactically related clause does not directly modify the head noun manner. This difference in functional potential is related to the difference in status of the clauses in the complexes: in a paratactic complex all are free or all are bound, and if bound, they must be of the same type, whereas in a hypotactic complex the dependent clause is always bound. Matthiessen (p. 136) also observes, following Halliday, that paratactic complexes and hypotactic complexes with the dependent before the independent clause have different default intonation patterns for the initial clauses (low rising in a paratactic relationship,

 Structure and Function

falling-rising for a β^α hypotactic complex), the unmarked intonation for the continuing clause being a fall. Matthiessen (p. 137) also comments on the explicit marking of tactic relationships, usually in the continuing clause in English, by means of a structural Theme (conjunction, preposition or wh-element). He further notes (pp. 151–152) the work of Nesbitt & Plum (1988), in which it is shown that the selection of the different options in the clause complex networks and their combinations are by no means equi-probable in the texts they examined. For instance, extension is very much more common with parataxis than with hypotaxis, whereas enhancement is much rarer with parataxis. Projection of locutions is most likely to be paratactic, whereas projection of ideas is more usually hypotactic. Matthiessen expands somewhat on Halliday’s account of the possibilities for thematic ordering in clause complexes, presenting a network (p. 154) which indicates the potential for the dependent clause to precede, follow or be included in the dominant clause, for the different types of logico-semantic relationship. He also discusses briefly the possibility of Theme predication60 in hypotactic complexes, as illustrated by the following example. (388) It was because we were unable to bear troubles like these that we came into the Party. (BNC ATA 1465) Ellipsis and substitution in the clause complex are also mentioned (pp. 158–160). Martin (1992a: Chapter 4) also presents networks for the kinds of relationship covered in this section, but since his account generalises such relationships to cover cases where they are represented by relationships between, rather than just within, clause complexes, it will be left for brief discussion in Chapter 4.

... The semantics of clause complexes: Sequences and their realisation In §5.6 and §8.3.1.1 of Part 1, we saw that in recent work, Halliday and Matthiessen have proposed a distinct upper level of semantics, which is realised by the lexicogrammar. At the upper semantic level, a clause complex corresponds, in the congruent (unmarked) case, to a sequence, consisting of figures made up of processes, participant roles and circumstantial roles, these being elements of the figures (see Matthiessen 1995a: 160–168; Halliday & Matthiessen 1999: Chapter 3). This congruent pattern is often found in restricted registers such as recipes: an example, similar to that in Matthiessen (1995a: 161), is given below. (389) Add the chopped pepper and the cumin seeds to the saucepan and bubble gently over a medium heat for 8–10 minutes until the pepper is soft. (BNC AK6 1239) This clause complex represents what Matthiessen calls a subprocedure in a set of procedural instructions:

. For the concept of Theme predication see §2.4.1.2.4.

Complex sentences 

Chapter 3

(390)

Add chopped pepper/cumin seeds to saucepan

and

Bubble gently over medium heat, 8–10 minutes

until

pepper is soft

On the other hand, it is possible for one or both of two figures in a sequence to be ‘downgraded’ through the operation of grammatical metaphor: (391) In 1918, shortly after publication of Moments of Vision, he wrote to John Galsworthy. (BNC AS5 214) (392) The creation of a powerful State thus preceded the creation of a popular nationalism for these countries . . . (BNC ANT 452) In (391), what could have been expressed as an enhancing clause in a clause complex (shortly after Moments of Vision had been published) is instead expressed by means of a nominalisation (publication) in a prepositional phrase. In (392), we have two instances of the nominalisation creation, the congruent version being as in (393). (393) A powerful State was created, and then a popular nationalism for these countries was created. The above examples involve the logico-semantic relation of expansion; Matthiessen also shows similar processes at work in projection, as in (394) and (395). (394) A judicial investigation into his case ordered the arrest of a member of the national police. (BNC A03 391) (395) Marchers and speakers at this year’s demonstration called for immediate British withdrawal from Ireland . . . (BNC ARW 1245) In both examples, the material projected by the verbal process clause is expressed as a nominalisation (arrest/withdrawal).61 Matthiessen discusses a range of types of example, but those given above should serve to show the principles involved.

... Some controversial aspects of the Sydney account .... Hypotaxis vs. embedding. Huddleston (1988), in his review of the first edition of Halliday’s An Introduction to Functional Grammar, voiced a number of criticisms concerned with the distinction between hypotaxis and embedding. These, together with . In the first example there is, of course, a further nominalisation (investigation).

 Structure and Function

Huddleston’s criticisms in relation to other areas of the grammar, became one topic of the rather heated debate with Martin and Matthiessen to which I have already referred on several occasions. In what follows, I shall use Huddleston’s examples.

..... Hypotaxis vs. embedding in Halliday’s ‘enhancement’. Huddleston first points out that the clause in bold type in (396) would be treated differently from the phrase in (397): (396) (= Huddleston’s (4a), p. 144) he left before the vote was taken. (397) (= Huddleston’s (5a), p. 145) he left before the debate. (396) is a clause complex, with before the vote was taken in hypotactic relation to he left; (397), on the other hand, is a simple clause, with before the debate as an Adjunct. Huddleston (p. 145) observes that it is odd that in a strongly function-based theory such as Halliday’s these pairs should be given such different analyses because of the difference in structure of the final units, especially since Halliday provides no evidence for differences in function. Huddleston points out that there are good reasons for saying that the elements in question are, in fact, functionally similar: in (396)/(397) both clause and phrase can be fronted (before the vote was taken/before the debate he left), both can be focussed in an interrogative (did he leave before the debate/before the vote was taken?), and they can be coordinated (he left before the debate or (at least) before the vote was taken). Matthiessen & Martin (1991: 24–30) present a number of counterarguments to Huddleston’s alternative analyses of the above examples. Firstly, they claim that the issues raised by Huddleston are descriptive rather than affecting the theory of rank. Huddleston (1991: 87), however, does see them as very much a theoretical issue, in that the theory, while allowing ‘downward rankshift’ (e.g. from clause to group), bans ‘upward rankshift’, and so is unable to account structurally for certain other types of example which I shall consider later. Matthiessen & Martin point out that while Huddleston’s grouping of (396) with (397) foregrounds one kind of relationship, Halliday’s analysis emphasises another, namely that between the hypotactic he left before the vote was taken and the paratactic he left, then the vote was taken, a relationship which recurs throughout Halliday’s grammar, and allows an explanation of why we can argue about the content of the hypotactically and paratactically related clauses (they claim that Was it? is an appropriate rejoinder to either version), whereas embedded clauses are not accessible to such argumentation in discourse. Huddleston (1991: 89) replies that the argument here is far too brief to be convincing, and in any case makes unjustifiable claims. He points out that Was it? is much more natural in reply to the paratactic version than to the hypotactic one, and analyses a further set of examples to demonstrate that questioning the content of what Halliday regards as a hy-

Chapter 3

Complex sentences 

potactically related clause is sometimes very marked, and that the content of rankshifted clauses can indeed be challenged in some contexts.62 Matthiessen & Martin also observe that the parallel made by Huddleston can be captured within Halliday’s framework in terms of the because-element in both (396) and (397) being an example of enhancement. A further factor mentioned by Matthiessen & Martin is that debate in (397) is not just a ‘normal’ noun, but rather a nominalisation, the product of grammatical metaphor, so suggesting a dual analysis in which a clause complex (e.g. he left before they started to debate) has been reinterpreted as a single clause. This point is also made by Matthiessen & Thompson, who claim: Rewording the “adverbial clause” with a prepositional phrase to show that it is an adverbial does not show that at all; it shows that the result of representing the event [. . . ] as if it was an adverbial is a metaphor. (Matthiessen & Thomspon 1988: 280)

This, however, seems to confuse syntactic function with semantic (or, some would say, pragmatic) import: there seems to be no necessary contradiction between the claim that before the debate is metaphorical and the claim that before the vote was taken is, in terms of its structural function, an adverbial clause. Matthiessen & Martin also take issue with the argument Huddleston presents to substantiate his contention that the because-elements in (396) and (397) are functionally similar. On fronting, they say that “by itself, the recurrence of the thematic principle does not constitute an argument that thematic elements must all have the same grammatical function in the other functional components” (p. 26).63 On focussing in interrogatives, they observe that this “is a matter of the distribution of information into information units, which is a variable independent of the distribution into clauses” (p. 27). And on coordination of before the debate and (at least) before the vote was taken, they claim that this can be accommodated within Halliday’s account either by taking the before-clause as rankshifted in this environment, or in terms of ellipsis of he left. Huddleston’s rejoinder (1991: 88– 89) concentrates on the issue of coordination, pointing out that both of Matthiessen & Martin’s solutions face problems: the rankshift suggestion is inconsistent with the theory, since rankshifted elements, according to an early paper by Halliday, occur only within structures which are themselves multivariate, while the proposed solution would involve rankshift into a univariate structure; the ellipsis solution runs into difficulties because of the semantic changes which can occur when the putatively ellipted elements are put back: as Huddleston points out, (398) and (399) do not have the same meaning. . Note also that Martin (1988: 247), reviewing the arguments for the embedding/hypotaxis distinction from possible responses, comments that although the tests work well for clause complexes involving projection, “[i]t is not clear how far these interpersonal arguments apply beyond ‘projection’ [. . . ] to ‘expansion’.” . Matthiessen & Martin (1991: 26) also state that Huddleston makes use of the possibilities for clefting as an argument for the functional similarity of the because-elements; however, I can find no reference to this argument in Huddleston’s review.

 Structure and Function

(398) (= Huddleston’s (26i), 1991: 89) No-one left before the debate or before the vote was taken. (399) No-one left before the debate or no-one left before the vote was taken. Furthermore, Huddleston shows that such difficulties are not restricted to examples where there is grammatical metaphor. Finally, we should note the argument in Matthiessen & Thompson (1988: 280–282) to the effect that a clause can combine with a combination of clauses, and that in such cases there is no single clause of which it could be an embedded constituent. They cite an example from Halliday (1985a: 270). (400)

Child: Parent: Child: Parent: Child:

How do you see what happened long ago before you were born? You read about it in books? No, use a microscope to look back. How do you do that? Well, if you’re in a car or you’re in an observation coach, you look back and then you see what happened before but you need a microscope to see what happened long ago because it’s very far away.

Matthiessen & Thompson note that in the child’s last utterance, the part in bold type consists of a disjunction of two clauses (if you’re in a car or you’re in an observation coach), which condition a pair of coordinated clauses (you look back and then you see what happened before). They conclude, correctly, that “[t]here is no simple clause that the condition could be analyzed as embedded in” (1988: 281). This, however, surely does not constitute evidence against the embedding analysis as such: each pair of clauses forms a unit (albeit a complex unit), and we could therefore still analyse one unit as being embedded in the other, as an Adjunct. We shall see in Chapter 4 that Matthiessen & Thompson also argue for the hypotaxis/rankshift distinction in terms of the correlation they propose between lexicogrammatical and rhetorical structures in texts, the latter being described in terms of a relational theory of text known as Rhetorical Structure Theory.64

..... Hypotaxis vs. embedding in Halliday’s ‘projection’. Huddleston’s review (1988: 144–145) also points to functional similarities between the elements in bold type in (401) and (402). . Rhetorical Structure Theory will be discussed in relation to discourse structure in Chapter 4. Kwee (1999a) has argued for adoption of the Matthiessen & Thompson proposals into an account of adverbial clauses in FG, on two sets of grounds. Firstly, he shows that current layering proposals in FG are unable to explain the difference in scoping between structures of the type ‘S1 before [S2 because S3]’ and the type ‘[S1 before S2] because S3], and appears to accept Matthiessen & Thompson’s claim that the possibility of clauses combining with clause combinations rules out the treatment of adverbial clauses as embedded. Secondly, Kwee regards favourably Matthiessen & Thompson’s view of clause combination as reflecting discoursebased hierarchies (see Chapter 4) as more in keeping with the professed pragmatic-discoursal orientation of FG than Dik’s own proposals for the analysis of adverbial clauses.

Complex sentences 

Chapter 3

(401) (= Huddleston’s (4b), p. 144) he assumed that she was guilty. (402) (= Huddleston’s (5b), p. 145) he assumed too much. (401) is a clause complex, with the that-clause hypotactically related to he assumed; (402) is a simple clause, with a nominal group as Complement. However, Huddleston observes that the function of the clause that she was guilty is the same as that of the phrase too much with regard to passivisation (too much was simply assumed/that she was guilty was simply assumed [or its extraposed version it was simply assumed that she was guilty]). Furthermore, examples of the type that she was guilty was simply assumed are treated by Halliday in terms of embedding rather than hypotaxis – in other words, quite differently from (401). So the relationship between the active and passive versions is different from that in everyone assumed her guilt/her guilt was assumed by everyone. Matthiessen & Martin (1991: 28) point out that, just as with the enhancement examples already discussed, Halliday’s analysis foregrounds a different contrast, that between parataxis (403) and hypotaxis (as in (404)): (403) (= Matthiessen & Martin’s (49), p. 28) (404) (= Matthiessen & Martin’s (509), p. 28)

I said “She is guilty”. I said that she was guilty.

They also claim, consistently with their observations about hypotactic enhancement clauses, that the content of the secondary clause in examples such as (404) is available for argumentation.65 Matthiessen & Martin further point to the difference in phoric reference possibilities between hypotactic and embedded clauses: so is used to refer to the content of that she was guilty in reply to a question such as Is she guilty?, whereas it cannot be used to refer to an embedded clause (i.e. I regret (the fact) that she is guilty corresponds to I regret it, not *I regret so).

..... Non-restrictive relative clauses. A further example of the assignment of different structures to constructions with similar functional relations is seen with nonrestrictive relative clauses and prepositional phrases. (405) (= Huddleston’s (i), p. 145, fn. 7) this is my new house, which Jack built (406) (= Huddleston’s (ii), p. 145, fn. 7)

have you seen my new hat, with the feather in it?

Under Halliday’s analysis, the non-restrictive relative clause would, as we have seen, be analysed as hypotactically related to the whole of this is my new house, while in (406) the phrase with the feather in it would be related hypotactically just to the nominal group my new hat. Huddleston points out that no similar distinction is made with respect to the restrictive versions: this is the house that Jack built and have you seen my hat with the feather in it? both have the corresponding units embedded as postmodifiers to the head . See also Martin (1988: 247).

 Structure and Function

nouns in a nominal group. There is therefore no unified treatment of the contrast between restrictive and non-restrictive. Furthermore, Huddleston (1991) observes that examples such as the following pose even greater problems: (407) (= Huddleston’s (9), 1991: 79) Both Kim, who hadn’t been before, and Pat, who had been many times, enjoyed the performance immensely. Under Halliday’s analysis, presumably both relative clauses are dependent on a discontinuous main clause both Kim . . . and Pat enjoyed the performance immensely, but they are not themselves related in any way, so that we cannot postulate an α β structure with a nested β. Huddleston states that in Halliday’s earlier work the structure would be α βi βii, but points out that no such structures are given in IFG, and his view is that they do not, in any case, conform to the characterisation given for univariate structures.

..... Hypotaxis and wh-interrogatives. Huddleston (1988: 146) points to a second way in which examples which Halliday would analyse as hypotactic clause complexes behave as single clauses: (408) (= Huddleston’s (6a), p. 146) She said he wanted something (409) (= Huddleston’s (6b), p. 146) What did she say he wanted? Although Halliday does not deal with examples such as (409), one would, Huddleston says, expect a systemic grammarian to want to see (408) and (409) as declarative and wh-question counterparts, and yet mood is a system of the clause, and not of the clause complex. As Huddleston (1991: 91) remarks, Matthiessen & Martin (1991) do not address the issue of the domain of mood in their rejoinder, and neither do they provide a congruent analysis for the structure of examples such as (409). They do present an analysis of an example with similar structure, (410), which in Huddleston’s review is contrasted with (411) to illustrate the differences in the concerns of systemic and transformational generative linguists: (410) What does she think he used? (411) *What is she furious because he used? Matthiessen & Martin’s (1991: 15) explanation of the difference in grammaticality is that “we find wh-selections beyond the simple clause with projection but not with expansion”. Their analysis is in terms of grammatical metaphor, (410) being seen as a metaphorical version of (412): (412) What in her view did he use? Huddleston (1991: 91) sees two problems for such an analysis: firstly, Halliday’s own account of metaphors of modality makes a clear distinction between first person I think plus

Complex sentences 

Chapter 3

a clause, and third person s/he thinks, only the first being seen as a metaphor for it is probably; secondly, Halliday makes it clear that in cases of grammatical metaphor a congruent as well as a metaphorical structure should be postulated.

..... Some further issues. Huddleston (1988: 147) also claims with regard to hypotaxis and embedding that “no clear principled basis emerges for making the distinction”, citing cases such as the following: (413) (=Huddleston’s (7a), p. 147; Halliday’s (a), 1985a: 245) it strikes me that there’s no-one here (414) (=Huddleston’s (7b), p. 147; Halliday’s (b), 1985a: 245) it worries me that there’s no-one here (415) (=Huddleston’s (7c), p. 147; Halliday’s (a), 1985a: 334)66 it seems likely that Mary knows Halliday (1985a: 245) analyses (413) as an instance of hypotaxis, but (414) as embedding, claiming that the difference is paralleled by distinct intonation patterns. Huddleston, rightly in my view, questions the necessity for any intonational distinction. He also points out that (415) (because of the presence of likely) is like (414), but unlike (413), in being able to take fronting of the that-clause instead of extraposition, whereas Halliday analyses it as a hypotactic complex, just as he does with (413). Finally, in the light of Halliday’s (1985a: 167, fn.) comment that the hypotaxis/embedding distinction is not usually made in formal grammars, Huddleston (p. 147) remarks that such grammars can make a distinction which works better, and that its superiority is due to the fact that it does not depend on a rank-based approach. He contrasts the following: (416) (= Huddleston’s (8a), p. 147) she has gone home early because of an appointment she had with her solicitor (417) (= Huddleston’s (8b), p. 147) pointment with her solicitor

she has gone home early because she had an ap-

(418) (= Huddleston’s (8c), p. 147) she has gone home early because her light is off Huddleston’s point is that for Halliday both (417) and (418) are clause complexes, but (416) is a single clause; functionally, however, (416) and (417) should be grouped together, in that they both give a reason for her going home early, while (418) gives a reason for the claim made by the speaker. This distinction can be made in a grammar which is not rankbased, by allowing the because element to combine with she has gone home early in (418), but with gone home early in (416) and (417). A similar distinction needs to be made in the following examples, both given by Huddleston: . Huddleston gives the page reference, incorrectly, as 343.

 Structure and Function

(419) they had already read the report very carefully (420) they had already read the report, rather surprisingly Matthiessen & Martin (1991: 29–30) point out that in (419) very carefully is part of the experiential structure of the clause, whereas in (420) rather surprisingly is part of the interpersonal structure. Huddleston (1991: 87) observes not only that the ban on upward rankshift in SFG precludes a solution in which rather surprisingly is shifted to occupy a higher position in the constituent structure of (420) than very carefully occupies in (419), but also that he is not claiming that Halliday has no way to differentiate the two cases, the argument having to do with constituent structure, and not with functional labelling.

.... Maximal and minimal bracketing. As we saw in Chapter 5 of Part 1, structures in SFG are flat, having minimal bracketing, rather than the maximal bracketing of the immediate constituent approach. Huddleston (1988: 149–151) notes that the problems discussed in relation to examples (396)/(397) and (401)/(402) are compounded when we add a further element. The arguments in this area are very detailed and complex, and I can do no more than indicate some of the main points here. The examples on which Huddleston’s case rests are reproduced below. (421) (= Huddleston’s (11), p. 149) I’ll tell him the truth under such circumstances. (422) (= Huddleston’s (12), p. 149) I’ll tell him you called if you like. Under the Hallidayan analysis, (421) is a simple clause with a multivariate, maximallybracketed structure containing an Adjunct (under such circumstances), while (422) is a clause complex with minimally-bracketed univariate structure. Huddleston (1988: 149) claims that this difference is “simply an artefact of the model and the description”. (422) contrasts, in terms of scoping, with (423): (423) (= Huddleston’s (13), p. 149) I’ll tell him you’ll be there if you can. We have seen that such clauses can be differentiated structurally in terms of layering in the univariate structure. The structure of (422) is as shown in (424): (424) (= Huddleston’s (14), p. 149) á á I’ll tell him

â â you called

if you like

Huddleston points out that given this analysis, one would expect (423) to have the structure in (425):

Complex sentences 

Chapter 3

(425)

á

â á

I’ll tell him you’ll be there

â

if you can

According to Huddleston, however, Halliday assigns the structure α^β^γ to structures of this type.67 Huddleston cites earlier work in which Halliday accepts that these structures are empirically equivalent, but argues for the minimally bracketed α^β^γ on the grounds of simplicity. Huddleston himself, however, believes that the argument for α^βα^ββ is stronger, since it allows us to distinguish more clearly between hypotaxis, with just a two-way contrast involving only two elements at each layer, and parataxis, where a threeway contrast is present, with the possibility of all three elements being at the same layer, as shown by his examples egg and bacon or stew (11^12^2), hotpot or fish and chips (1^11^12), pork, lamb or beef (1^2^3). Furthermore, Huddleston (1991: 77) argues, Halliday’s theory provides for two hypotactic structures, α^β^γ and α^βα^ββ, and actually uses both structures at various points in his work,68 but nowhere provides consistent criteria for assigning one or the other: indeed, Huddleston points to occasions on which one and the same sentence is given both analyses, at different points in IFG (see Halliday 1985a: 199, 270). Huddleston also notes that for the nominal group, the two-way hypotactic contrast is analysed in terms of structures ββ^βα^α (very small animals) and γ^β^α (splendid electric trains) (a sequential variation on α^β^γ), despite the fact that splendid does not modify electric in the way in which, for example, if you can modifies you’ll be there in (423). Huddleston therefore concludes that the α^β^γ structure is both unmotivated and interpreted inconsistently. Furthermore, since layered univariate structures were originally introduced in order to deal with problems arising in association with the rank-based model, Huddleston takes the above argument as constituting evidence against such a model. Matthiessen & Martin (1991: 32) counter Huddleston’s claim that the difference in analysis of (421) and (422) is a mere artefact of the model and description, by saying that if this claim were true, we should be able to find different bracketings in the clause as well as in the clause complex: in other words, we should be able to spot an analogue of the α^αβ^ββ vs. αα^αβ^β distinction. They imply that there is no such systematic alternation, but Huddleston (1991: 82) points out that exactly such an alternation gives rise to the systematic ambiguity in examples such as (421). The interpretation under which un. Matthiessen & Martin (1991: 32) dispute that this is the analysis Halliday assigns to this type of clause, claiming that the analysis of similar examples in IFG is α^βα^ββ. Huddleston (1991: 76–77), however, claims that the examples cited by Matthiessen & Martin differ in various ways from those under discussion, and that none is assigned α^βα^ββ structure. . Here, Huddleston corrects the mistaken statement in his original view, to the effect that α^βα^ββ does not occur.

 Structure and Function

der such circumstances gives a condition for telling him the truth corresponds to a structure in which there is a separate Adjunct, while the meaning ‘I’ll tell him what the truth under such circumstances is’ has the phrase under such circumstances as a postmodifier of truth. The scoping differences are, Huddleston claims, just those which are diagrammed by Matthiessen & Martin (their Table 5, p. 32), but assumed not to be systematically available in the clause grammar. Matthiessen & Martin (1991: 33–36) also argue that Halliday’s use of α^β^γ is neither unmotivated nor inconsistent. They cite the following examples, due to Halliday, of hypotactic nominal group structures: (426) (=Matthiessen & Martin’s (72), 1991: 33)

infant birth rate γ β α

(427) (=Matthiessen & Martin’s (73), 1991: 33)

record birth rate β αβ αα

(428) (=Matthiessen & Martin’s (74), 1991: 33)

still birth rate βα ββ α

Huddleston (1991: 78–79) raises a number of problems with these analyses, concerned with compounding vs. phrasal modification and the glosses given by Matthiessen & Martin. He concludes that just three examples, given without further discussion, “cannot provide a satisfactory basis for a systematic three-way distinction throughout the grammar” (1991: 78). According to Matthiessen & Martin (1991: 33), in the following example (originally from the work of Plum) the assignment of α^β^γ structure removes the need to choose between α^βα^ββ and αα^αβ ^β: (429) (= Matthiessen & Martin’s (75), 1991: 33) α it appeared that Teddy, β who owned the most magnificent dachshund, γ which was Lurid Liberace, . . . Huddleston (1991: 79), however, points out that there are, as we saw earlier, problems with Halliday’s analysis of non-restrictive relative clauses, which make it difficult to base any general conclusions about hypotaxis on such structures. Huddleston (1991: 82) also makes the point that problems arise from “the uncertainty concerning the applicability of constituent structure to univariate structures”. Halliday (1985a: 201, repeated in 1994a: 224) says that the notation used to represent hypotaxis “expresses both constituency and dependency at the same time”, while Matthiessen & Martin (1991: 22) state that “complexes are non-constructional – that is, their elements are not to be seen as parts of wholes; the interpretation of clause complexes is through interdependency rather than constituency”.

.... Parataxis in relation to rank. Huddleston’s review (1988: 151–153) also raises questions about the relationship of coordination, the most central form of parataxis, to

Chapter 3

Complex sentences 

the rank-based nature of SFG. He points out that in an example such as (430), SFG has to postulate ellipsis of the Subject in the second clause, since came into the room and sat down by the fire are not units in this approach. (430) (= Huddleston’s (16), 1988: 152) John came into the room and sat down by the fire. On the other hand, there is no need to postulate ellipsis in an example such as He searched the dining room and the study, because the two nominal groups can be seen as in paratactic relationship. Huddleston makes three points here. Firstly, he shows that Halliday’s own analyses are not always consistent. For instance, in the example from Halliday given below, whether it’s a he or a she is analysed as a paratactic clause complex rather than involving a paratactic nominal group complex: (431) (Halliday 1985a: 200, repeated in 1994a: 223) Our teacher says that if your neighbour has a new baby and you don’t know whether it’s a he or a she, if you call it ‘it’ well then the neighbour will be very offended. Huddleston’s second and more important point is that the minimal bracketing of SFG imposes more ellipsis than is necessary in an IC type of approach, where what would usually be called VPs can be coordinated. Thirdly, Huddleston shows that in some cases, restoring the putatively ellipted material results in semantic problems. (432) (= Huddleston’s (17), 1988: 153) you can’t join a debating society and not speak He points out that the non-ellipted version you can’t join a debating society and you can’t not speak has a quite different meaning from (432). The natural solution, to conjoin join a debating society and not speak, is not available within a rank-based grammar. In countering Huddleston’s claims, Matthiessen & Martin (1991: 36–37) first point out that coordination can occur between clauses of different transitivity types, so that different first participant roles might be required for the two clauses (e.g. an Actor and a Senser), so making the VP-conjoining analysis problematic for a SFG even if such conjoining were allowed in other respects. In order to explain the difference between (432) and the non-ellipted version, they point out that the latter is perfectly grammatical, and claim that “[t]he issue is systemic, not structural” (p. 36, original emphasis). As is often the case, they see the solution as involving grammatical metaphor: (432) is a metaphorical version of the congruent form if you join a debating society you can’t not speak, just as conditions can also be implied by conjoined clauses in which the first has imperative mood (Make another move and I’ll shoot) – examples which, they claim, show that the issue is not one of ellipsis. Huddleston (1991: 85) regards this explanation as “completely lacking in credibility”. He demonstrates that there are other examples, such as (433), where filling out the ellipsis leads to semantic problems, but where there is no plausible explanation in terms of metaphor.

 Structure and Function

(433) (= Huddleston’s (19i), 1991: 86, see also 1988: 146, fn. 8) Who went out and left the gate open?

.... The relationship between lexicogrammar and semantics in the area of the clause complex. In §8.3.1.1 of Part 1, I commented that the new account of ideational semantics in Halliday & Matthiessen (1999) leaves us in a position of considerable uncertainty as to the relationship between this semantic account and the lexicogrammatical picture painted in Halliday (1994a). It is unclear whether the concepts of process, participant and circumstance belong to the semantics, the lexicogrammar, or both, and if both, then what aspects are to be accounted for at each level. We are in a similarly unfortunate position with regard to the logical metafunction, as manifest in the clause complex. We have seen that at the upper level of semantics, a series of related figures, made up of configurations of process, participants and circumstances, can form a sequence. When Halliday & Matthiessen (1999: Chapter 3) discuss the ‘natural logic’ of sequences, they give an account of the relationships of expansion and projection which, as we have seen, also form the basis for the lexicogrammatical account given in Halliday (1994a). Certainly, on reading the new account, the reader has the impression that the semantic aspects are being foregrounded, but the relationship between the 1999 and 1994 accounts is never made fully explicit. It appears to be suggested that some categories are recognised on both levels. For instance, in a discussion of temporal sequences, we find the following: From this we could derive a wide range of more complex enhancing relations: variations on the simple temporal sequence (‘after, before, at the same time, immediately after, &c.’) and further circumstances such as cause, condition, concession, and their subcategories. We shall not try to enumerate these here; they are familiar as categories at the level of lexicogrammar . . . (Halliday & Matthiessen 1999: 117)

These ‘categories at the level of lexicogrammar’ are to be found, say the authors, in Halliday (1985a: Chapter 7) and in Matthiessen (1995a: Chapter 3). So are categories such as ‘enhancement’ and their sub-categories intended to be semantic, lexicogrammatical or both? Their designation as ‘logico-semantic’ categories in IFG suggests they may indeed belong at the upper level. Interestingly, although logico-semantic relations are discussed as organising principles for sequences, the parataxis/hypotaxis distinction is not. Are these, then, to be seen as lexicogrammatical? The following might be taken to suggest that this is the case: Relations of expansion are typically realized in the grammar by conjunctions or conjunctive expressions linking a pair of clauses, either paratactically or hypotactically . . . (Halliday & Matthiessen 1999: 118)

But remember that taxis and logico-semantic relations are presented as cross-cutting categories, with the implication of being at the same level, in IFG. And this seems reasonable: whether a secondary clause is presented as of equal status or as dependent is surely no less a semantic matter than whether the relationship is one of expansion or of projection. The

Complex sentences 

Chapter 3

following quotation from Halliday & Matthiessen’s review of ‘modes of meaning’ suggests that at this point, they are indeed seeing taxis as at the same level, though now as semantic: Probably some such system of logical relationships between processes will be found in all languages, though as always there is great variation in the formal resources that are deployed, and also in the systematic semantic organization of the relationships themselves. In English, and many other languages, the grammar makes a systematic distinction in the relative status that is accorded to the two processes entering into such a logical nexus. Either the two are construed as being equal in status, or one is construed as being dependent on the other. In principle, any particular type of expansion or projection can be interpreted in either way, either as ‘paratactic’ or as ‘hypotactic’; but in fact there is some degree of partial association: . . . (Halliday & Matthiessen 1999: 521)

The construction of this passage could be taken as indicating that the ‘relative status’ signalled by the grammar of English and many other languages is part of the ‘systematic semantic organisation’ of the relationships. In the days when it was simply being claimed that the lexicogrammar was itself pushed towards the semantics, this indeterminacy could have been seen as part of the indeterminacy of the level of patterning itself, but now that we have a model with an upper semantic and a lower lexicogrammatical level, we need not only to be persuaded of the justification for such an evidently extravagant account, but also to know exactly what belongs where.

.. Complex sentences in the Cardiff grammar I had occasion in Part 1 to mention major differences between the Sydney and Cardiff grammars in relation to the analysis of complex sentences. In §7.6 we saw that while Halliday treats constructions such as ‘want to + infinitive’, ‘try to + infinitive’, ‘keep + -ing form of verb’, as verbal group complexes, the infinitive or participle is considered in the Cardiff grammar to belong to a non-finite clause acting as Complement to want/try/keep. In §8.3.2.4 we found that the that-clause which can occur after verbs such as know is regarded in the Cardiff grammar as a Complement of the verb, whereas we have seen that Halliday treats it as a separate, hypotactically related clause. The Cardiff reanalysis exemplifies a crucially important general difference between the two versions of SFG, which I commented on briefly in §5.7 of Part 1: in the latest incarnation of the Cardiff model, the concept of rank is dispensed with, there being no general expectation that elements of a particular unit (for example, a clause) will be filled by units of the rank of unit next below (in this case, group). Embedding, rather than being heavily restricted as in Halliday’s grammar, is seen as one of the main sources of complexity in language, and is taken to include not only complement that-clauses, but also clauses acting as Adjuncts in the structure of other clauses (again treated by Halliday as hypotactic), and relative clauses. The Cardiff analysis thus avoids the criticisms of Halliday’s position on hypotaxis and embedding made in Huddleston’s review. Let us examine in a little more detail the complementation of verbs such as know. Consider the following:

 Structure and Function

(434) . . . he knows Spanish. (BNC HGH 192) (435) He knew that his master must have paid dearly for such a magnificent beast . . . (BNC C98 434) As we saw earlier, under the Hallidayan view, Spanish in (434) is the Complement of knows, and acts as Phenomenon in the mental process clause; but the that-clause in (435) is a separate, hypotactically-related clause, rather than constituting a participant in the mental process clause itself. For Fawcett, on the other hand, both are Complements (since both are predicted by know), and both represent a Participant Role in the mental process clause (Fawcett 1996: 309). The system network for transitivity in mental process clauses (see §8.3.2.4.1 of Part 1) includes features which label the underlying semantics of knowing that something is the case (as in (435)), knowing when/where/why/how something happened, knowing whether it happened, and so on. Each of the options concerned with a dependent situation as Phenomenon has an associated realisation rule which gives preferences for the preselection of features in the ‘dependence’ network, which specifies the options within the internal structure of the dependent clause. Because it is a separate network, entry to which can be controlled by combinations of features from any other relevant part of the semantics, it can be used to handle not only the structure of Complement clauses, but also those of other types of dependent clause, such as relative clauses, adverbial clauses, etc. The effect of this mechanism is to show how a wide range of types of meaning can be realised through just a few distinctions in the internal make-up of dependent clauses. The features in the dependence network specify, for example, whether the dependent situation is simply a propositional situation (i.e. that something is the case), a relative situation (corresponding to a relative clause), a situation with polarity sought (if/whether something is the case), and so on. The attached realisation rules then specify, for instance, that a [propositional situation], if [overt], is realised through the complementiser that, and if [covert] by a zero complementiser; a [situation with role sought] is realised by a clause with whether (if the tenor of interaction is specified as formal) or if (where the tenor is informal), and so on. This network, together with its associated realisation rules, would thus deal with the complementiser structures of the clauses in bold type in the following examples: (436) Everyone knows that both sexes work with horses . . . (BNC ASH 143) (437) Everyone knows he is not as good as The Smiths were . . . (BNC AT1 2080) (438) I also asked whether he would be giving his information to the police . . . (BNC ASN 2924) (439) . . . he asked if he might come too. (BNC ASC 1237) (440) Now it is not my intention here to criticise any particular type of food or the individual who wishes to consume it. (BNC AYK 33)

Chapter 3

.

Complex sentences 

Comparison of approaches In this final section, I shall compare the treatment of complex sentences in FG, RRG and the Sydney and Cardiff versions of SFG, under three main headings: the units involved in complexing, in relation to the layered structure of clauses; the nature of the relationships between the units; and the relationships between semantics and syntax in this area. Matters relating to language typology will emerge along the way. The chapter ends with a description of four example sentences in terms of each approach.

..

Units and layering in complex sentences The accounts of complex sentences in FG and RRG, in particular, are very closely bound up with the underlying structures proposed for the clause in the two theories. We have seen that FG makes distinctions, within structures involving complex terms, according to the level in the underlying structure of the clause at which the embedded complement functions: some predicates, such as say and ask (whether/if), require their second argument to refer to a speech act, and so take embedded clausal terms; others, such as believe, persuade, know, take embedded propositional terms; yet others, such as request, ask (someone to do something), force (someone to do something), manage (to do something), are claimed to take predicational terms; some types of predicate (e.g. perception verbs such as see) can take either propositional or predicational terms, depending on the meaning. The account of complex sentences in RRG is also crucially dependent on the conception of underlying clause structure in the theory. We have seen that three main kinds of juncture are proposed, in which the units combined correspond to the hierarchically arranged components of the layered syntactic structure of the clause: clause, core and nucleus. A further, minor type of juncture involves the highest syntactic unit, the sentence. The fact that mainstream FG has no explicitly syntactic level of description complicates the search for parallels between the FG account of complex sentences and what is accounted for in RRG in terms of nexus type. Furthermore, we saw in §6.2.1.1.1 of Part 1 (see especially Table 6.1) that although the semantic predicate in FG corresponds to the (semantic) predicate and to the (syntactic) nucleus in RRG, there is no one-to-one correspondence between the RRG core and any of the semantic units of FG: the RRG core consists of the FG predicate and arguments, but also certain elements which would be treated as satellites in FG. We might therefore expect to find some parallels between FG clause combining and RRG clausal junctures, and between FG predicate combining and RRG nuclear junctures, but we would predict that FG would have no unified treatment of the phenomena which fall under core juncture in RRG. Let us follow up this suggestion in a little more detail.

 Structure and Function

Table 3.5. Clausal junctures in RRG and their analysis in FG and SFG Example

RRG analysis

FG analysis

Sydney SFG analysis

His face collapsed with relief, and then he took her arm again. (BNC AN7 3643) I persuaded him that we should go away together, . . . (BNC G2V 1459) The conditional bail had been granted after she had been arrested for shouting ‘scab’ at working miners. (BNC ASB 1677) . . . the landlord came up again shouting abuse through the door. (BNC HH5 313) Bandeira walked to a chair and sat down in it. (BNC APY 2694)

Clausal coordination

Coordination of full finite clauses

Clausal subordination

Embedding of propositional complex term Embedding of finite clause as satellite

Paratactic enhancement, temporal Hypotactic projection, proposal

Clausal subordination

Hypotactic enhancement, temporal

Clausal cosubordination

Embedding of non-finite clause as satellite

Hypotactic extension, additive

Clausal cosubordination

Coordination of finite clauses with zero anaphora

Paratactic extension

As expected, all the types of clausal junctures in RRG discussed in §3.3.3.1 are dealt with in terms of relationships between clauses in FG, as can be seen from Table 3.5.69 However, the table also demonstrates that complex sentences falling under the clausal juncture type in RRG are not given a unitary treatment in terms of the underlying structure of the clause in FG: the FG analyses range from coordination of full finite clauses, with or without zero anaphora in the second conjunct, through the embedding of propositional terms, to the embedding of finite or non-finite clauses as satellites. Let us, then, see whether we can find any closer parallels at the level of the FG predicate and RRG nucleus. In §3.2.2.3, we came across examples in which Dik (1997b: 211) postulates coordination of two predicates into a complex which behaves like a single predicate. Dik gives examples with go and get (for a similar example, see example (21), given earlier) and try and explain ((441) below). Dik points to restrictions on such constructions, such as the lack of independent tense choice and the non-negatability of the second predicate, as evidence for the unity of the complex predicate. (441) (= Dik’s (86b), 1997b: 210) I’ll try and explain the rules to you. It is, however, not clear how this would be analysed in RRG (recall from §3.3.3.3.3 that English is regarded as having only one kind of nuclear juncture, the cosubordination type illustrated by examples such as ‘make + intransitive predicate’). Note also that the semantic relationship between the predicates seems to differ in the two examples from Dik: go and . For now, I shall deal only with the FG and RRG columns of this table and the next; the SFG column will be discussed later.

Complex sentences 

Chapter 3

Table 3.6. Core junctures in RRG and their analysis in FG and SFG Example

RRG analysis

. . . she must tell him to Core coordination leave, . . . (BNC CKD 1234)

FG analysis

Sydney SFG analysis

Embedding of predicational complex term Embedding of predicational complex term

Hypotactic projection, proposal

. . . you can watch a Core coordination Seminole Indian wrestle an alligator . . . (BNC AL3 1455) . . . she resented his breaking Core subordination Embedded the mood. (BNC H8X 2405) nominalisation

Embedded clause as nominalisation (act), related to expansion

Embedded clause as nominalisation (act), related to expansion That it came to this shows Core subordination Embedded finite clause Projected clause as fact how involved Priestley was with Subject function in the religious disputes and politics of his day. (BNC B71 1363) He must try not to faint . . . Core Embedding of Single clause with (BNC B20 2160) cosubordination predicational complex hypotactic verbal group term complex (conation) One can sit leafing through Core Embedded non-finite Hypotactic extension, glossy English magazines, . . . cosubordination clause as satellite additive (BNC AHK 1788)

get is close in meaning to go (in order) to get, and while try and explain is near to try to explain, this is not a purposive relationship. Let us turn now to core junctures in RRG. The examples discussed in §3.3.3.2 are given in Table 3.6, and reanalysed in FG terms. All the FG analyses involve embedding, but as with analogues to the clausal junctures of RRG, the nature of what is embedded varies widely, and there is no consistent distinction which marks off all the examples in Table 3.6 from those in 3.5. It seems, then, that FG does not recognise a class of constructions which is parallel to the core junctures of RRG. We must conclude, then, that because of the different natures of the proposed layered clause structures in FG and RRG, the two theories give quite disparate accounts of relationships within complex sentences, as far as the nature of the combining units is concerned. In SFG, we have a model of underlying clause structure which differs even more from those of FG and RRG than these do from each other. The recognition of several strands of functional structure in the clause is certainly reflected in the Sydney account of the clause complex: we have seen that Halliday regards the relationships of clauses in complexes as constituting part of the logical (sub)function of the grammar. This, however, is a blanket categorisation of the whole set of possible relationships within clause complexes, rather than differentiating the various types, as is the case with the layered clause structures of FG and RRG.

 Structure and Function

We can, however, find a role for other metafunctions within Halliday’s account of the clause complex. Recall from §3.4.1.4.3.3 that within the area of projection by verbal and mental processes, Halliday distinguishes between the projection of ‘propositions’ (statements and questions) and of ‘proposals’ (offers and commands), these being categories at the interpersonal level. I also noted in §2.4.1.2.5 and §3.4.1.3 that clauses within hypotactic clause complexes can occur in different orders, this constituting a kind of thematic patterning, at the textual level.

.. The nature of the relationships between the units The classifications of examples given in Tables 3.5 and 3.6 remind us that the proposed categories of relationship between the units involved in complex sentences also differ considerably in the three theories: FG uses the categories of coordination and embedding;70 RRG those of coordination, subordination and cosubordination; the Sydney version of SFG recognises, in addition to embedding, relationships of parataxis and hypotaxis, as well as the logico-semantic relationships of expansion (with subtypes) and projection; and the Cardiff grammar works with coordination and embedding. From this brief summary, it seems that the closest parallels may be between FG and the Cardiff grammar, so this time I shall start with a comparison of FG and SFG. Both the Sydney and Cardiff versions of SFG recognise relationships which are parallel to the coordination category of FG: the Cardiff grammar actually calls it coordination, while Halliday factorises out the components of parataxis and types of expansion. As we saw in §3.4.2, there is a much more extensive role for embedding in the Cardiff grammar than in the Sydney version. Adverbial clauses, rather than being hypotactically related to the main clause as in the Sydney grammar, are treated as embedded in Adjunct positions in the clause, and this is precisely analogous to the embedding of clauses to satellite positions in FG. Furthermore, the treatment of ‘complement clauses’ is broadly similar in the Cardiff and FG accounts, in that they are again seen as embedded, rather than hypotactically related as in the Sydney grammar. Both versions of SFG coincide with FG in treating restrictive relative clauses as embedded.71 The situation with regard to nonrestrictive relative clauses is rather more complicated. We saw in §3.2.3.3 that a number of proposals have been made within FG: Dik (1997b) proposes that non-restrictive relatives should be analysed as parenthetically adjoined open clauses attached to complete terms; Hannay & Vester (1987) propose a combination of core and non-core predications; while van der Auwera (1990) modifies slightly the version on which Dik’s account is based in order to answer some of Hannay & Vester’s criticisms of this version. All, however, agree that non-restrictive modifiers, though attached to the term they modify, should be given . Though we shall see shortly that cosubordination, in the RRG sense, has been discussed in relation to FG by van der Auwera (1997). . McGregor’s Semiotic Grammar, however, departs from the systemic framework from which it originated, in analysing restrictive relatives as dependent, within the logical semiotic, on nominal units within other clauses (see McGregor 1997: 198–199).

Chapter 3

Complex sentences 

an analysis different from that of restrictive modifiers. The Sydney SFG account of nonrestrictive relative clauses (§3.4.1.4.2.1) not only proposes that these clauses should be given a quite different status from the restrictive type (being treated in terms of hypotactic elaboration rather than as embedding within a nominal group), but also that they relate not to the nominal group itself, but to the whole of the main clause. We have seen that there are various problems with this latter claim. The Cardiff grammar treats both restrictive and non-restrictive relatives as embedded within the nominal group, but recognises the semantic distinction between them, and also the realisational differences in terms of intonation and punctuation. There is clearly nothing in FG (or, indeed, in RRG) which parallels the Sydney logicosemantic relations of expansion and projection – but then, these categories have no place in the Cardiff version of SFG either. This is one of the considerable number of points at which the Cardiff grammar is more similar to FG and RRG than to the Sydney grammar, and it clearly reflects the rather different priorities involved: Halliday’s grammar is always oriented towards what the speaker or writer is doing in the discourse (in this case, expanding on a previous meaning, projecting one meaning through another, etc.); the Cardiff grammar, like FG and RRG, gives an account of the semantics which is more oriented to the effects on formal realisation than to the contribution made to the discourse.72 Turning now to RRG in relation to the other two theories, it is crucial to emphasise that the term ‘coordination’ in this theory refers to a purely abstract relation at the level of juncture, defined in terms of the equivalence and independence of the related units. Van Valin & LaPolla (1997: 454) emphasise the importance of distinguishing between coordination, as an abstract relationship, and conjunction, a formal construction of the general form ‘X conjunction Y’. This formal construction type can realise the abstract relation of coordination, as in the first example in Table 3.5, but also that of cosubordination, as in the last example in that table. It is hardly surprising, then, that RRG treats as coordination relationships which would not be so categorised in either FG or SFG (see, for instance, the first and second examples in Table 3.6). The most innovative aspect of the RRG nexus relations, of course, is the recognition of the category of cosubordination, intermediate between coordination and subordination. Table 3.7 is a reminder of the properties of these three types of nexus. As we saw earlier, this proposal derives from work on switch-reference and serial verb constructions in Papuan languages, and reflects the importance given in RRG to the study of a very wide range of languages, in the pursuit of typological adequacy. Given the relatively low priority accorded to typological matters in the development of SFG, we would perhaps not expect systemicists to focus attention on the kinds of construction which most clearly call for a proposal of the RRG type. We might, however, expect that the considerable emphasis on typological adequacy in FG would lead to serious consideration of such matters, and indeed van der Auwera (1997) has discussed how the phenomena analysed in RRG in terms of cosubordination might be handled in FG. . This is not to say, however, that discourse structure is neglected in the Cardiff model – see Chapter 4.

 Structure and Function

Table 3.7. Properties of the three nexus types in RRG Nexus type → Properties ↓

Coordination

Independent Dependent

Subordination

Cosubordination

+ Structural dependence Operator dependence

+ +

Van der Auwera (1997: 5) notes that there have been occasional references to the RRG concept of cosubordination in the FG literature: de Vries (1992) agrees with the RRG view on serial verb constructions, and Hengeveld (1989) also mentions the RRG work. Van der Auwera’s own starting point is the definition of cosubordination in terms of units which are dependent but not embedded. He argues that the extraclausal constituents discussed in FG conform to such a definition, and furthermore, that we can find other constructions (e.g. correlative and extraposed structures) which fit the definition and yet have not been considered as extraclausal constituents. With regard to the Papuan type of cosubordination, he argues that in FG terms, the units so joined can be either Level 4 (clausal) or Level 2 (predicational) entities. He also claims that the relationship between the main and cosubordinate clause is, in FG, coordinative, in that “it expresses what English expresses with the conjunction and” (1997: 19): this, however, is to fall into the error which Van Valin & LaPolla have warned us against, viz. that of equating the abstract relation of coordination with the formal construction type of conjunction. The RRG concept of cosubordination is also mentioned in the SFG literature: Martin (1988: 241) suggests that the three-way distinction proposed by Olson (1981), on which the RRG scheme is based, is “partly parallel” to the SFG distinction of parataxis, hypotaxis and embedding. Martin goes on to point out that the embedding interpretation of what in Sydney SFG is treated as hypotaxis is favoured by an approach from the experiential metafunction, where structures are organised in terms of constituency, while the hypotactic interpretation itself is favoured by the dependency structuring characteristic of the logical function. He points out that the two approaches are combined in Halliday’s analysis of the nominal group, and that such an analysis could be extended to the clause complex “if reasons were found for not wanting to draw too sharp a line between the hypotaxis and embedding solutions” (p. 243). He compares this situation to that in RRG, where cosubordination is characterised in terms of dependence (cf. logical function) but no embedding (cf. experiential function), and subordination as both embedding and dependence. Unfortunately, he does not pursue the comparison any further. The discussion and examples presented earlier in this chapter in fact show that any parallels which can be drawn are far from exact. In §3.3.3.1.3 I looked at one example (155) of clausal cosubordination in RRG which would clearly be analysed as hypotactic and another (156) which would be paratactic in SFG. Furthermore, clausal subordination (with embedding) in RRG, as in example

Chapter 3

Complex sentences 

(146), would be treated as hypotaxis in SFG. The SFG classification simply does not make the same kinds of distinction as the RRG one. Finally, it is of interest, in relation to the issue of embedding vs. hypotaxis, to note that in a typological study of speech reports in 40 languages representing all phyla, de Roeck (1994) concludes that there is a great deal of linguistic variation in behaviour regarding the complement status and embedding of speech reports, and that there was no clear dividing line between direct and indirect reports. However, the number of languages in the sample where speech reports showed clear signs of embedding was far smaller than the number in which such constructions appeared to be paratactic or hypotactic.

.. The relationship between syntax and semantics in complex sentences We saw throughout §3.2 that Dik’s account of complex sentences has a dual perspective: consistently with the rest of the theory, the underlying semantics is emphasised, but due attention is also given to the formal realisation of the various types across a diverse range of languages, and typologically relevant generalisations are made about word order, structural types of embedded construction, and so on. We have also seen that correlations between position in the lexical hierarchy and the availability of different complementation types have been proposed within the Functional Lexematic Model. However, FG practitioners have not so far presented a systematic account of the expression rules linking underlying semantics and surface syntax for complex constructions. In this respect, the RRG account of this area offers a considerable advance, in that detailed algorithms are proposed for linkage from semantics to syntax and vice versa, distinguishing those steps which appear to be the same across a diverse range of languages from those which are language-dependent. Furthermore, explicit predictions are made, within RRG, about the relationships between semantically and syntactically-based hierarchies of relationships in complex sentences. With regard to SFG, as pointed out in §3.4.1.7.4, we have two types of account of the clause complex. That presented in Halliday (1994a) appears to situate distinctions of taxis and of logico-semantic relations within a lexicogrammar which is itself oriented towards the semantics, while that discussed in Halliday & Matthiessen (1999) proposes an account of logico-semantic relations at a higher, explicitly semantic level, the relationships between the two accounts remaining unclear. In the Cardiff grammar we have a very detailed set of systemic networks and realisation rules for one part of the area of complex sentences, that of complementation with mental process verbs of cognition, giving explicit rules not only for the paradigmatic organisation of meaning in this area, but also for the realisation of the meanings at the level of form.

 Structure and Function

.. Some final examples In order to emphasise some of the differences alluded to above, I shall end this chapter by looking briefly at how two further pairs of examples would be handled in FG, RRG, and the Sydney and Cardiff versions of SFG. First, consider (442) and (443). (442) Toby was persuading a buxom young waitress to bring him a bottle of champagne from the supper room. (BNC ANL 3905) (443) They must also persuade local officials that they, too, must be involved . . . (BNC ALF 402) In FG, (442) is analysed in terms of the predicate persuade taking a predicational complex term: the persuading involves a State of Affairs, i.e. bringing him a bottle of champagne from the supper room. In (443), on the other hand, the predicate takes a propositional complex term: (that) they too must be involved is something which is presented as an arguable claim. The two examples also receive different analyses in RRG. (442) is an instance of core coordination: the relationship is between the two cores Toby was persuading a buxom young waitress and bring him a bottle of champagne from the supper room; furthermore, a deontic modal operator, acting at the core level, modifies only persuade, not the second core, in a sentence such as Toby was having to persuade the waitress to bring him a bottle of champagne, showing that we are dealing here with coordination of the cores, not cosubordination, which would require deontic modification of the whole, complex core. (443), on the other hand, is an example of clausal subordination. In SFG, however, no distinction is made between the the types of clause combining in the two examples, both having a hypotactically related clause of projection involving a proposal, though obviously the difference in finiteness between the two dependent clauses would be recognised. I am also unable to find any distinction between the two types in the underlying networks provided by Matthiessen (1995a), though this could, of course, be a matter of the delicacy to which the description has so far been pursued. In the Cardiff grammar, both examples would involve embedding of the complement clauses and again, to my knowledge, no relevant systemic distinction has yet been published, though one would in principle expect such a distinction, on a par with those for cognition verbs, when networks are elaborated for this part of the semantics. Now let us look at examples (444) and (445). (444) I was going with someone and he was going with someone . . . (BNC AP0 1334) (445) She was in a coma at first, and then she suffered complications because her blood pressure became unstable. (BNC AS0 1140) FG, RRG and the Cardiff grammar would analyse both examples in terms of clausal coordination. The Sydney grammar, however, allows a more delicate analysis, since although both show the relation of paratactic expansion, (444) is an instance of extension, while (445), because of the explicit indication of sequence (then), is analysed as enhancement.

Chapter 3

Complex sentences 

Such examples serve to emphasise the important general point that while FG and RRG make more use of their model of layering (predication vs. proposition, core vs. clause) in their analysis of complex sentences, and pay more attention to matters such as scoping, Sydney SFG prioritises the detailed analysis of types of meaning relationship, seeing these as part of what the speaker or writer is achieving within the discourse.

Chapter 4

Discourse, text and context

.

Introduction In Chapter 1 of Part 1, it was argued that since we do not normally communicate through the utterance of single sentences, a truly functional theory of language, which places the communicative properties of language centre stage, cannot limit itself to the study of the sentence and its parts, but must also have a model of discourse. It is with this aspect of linguistic patterning that the present chapter is concerned. In any discussion of discourse phenomena, we come up against the problem of defining terms, the main difficulties being the meaning(s) of the term ‘discourse’ itself, and the relationship(s) between ‘discourse’ and ‘text’. This is not the place to go into a detailed discussion of this complex area, and in any case some of the issues will emerge again during later discussion, so that I do not want to prejudge them here. It would, however, be as well to establish preliminary working definitions at this point. One view simply treats ‘discourse’ and ‘text’ as alternative terms with the same meaning. The following quotation appears at the beginning of a chapter on the processing of discourse from a textbook on psycholinguistics. Discourse refers to a “lengthy discussion of a subject, either written or spoken” (American Heritage Dictionary, p. 376), and text is defined as “any passage, spoken or written, of whatever length, that does form a unified whole” (Halliday & Hasan, 1976, p. 1). Thus, the two terms are synonymous. (McCabe 1998: 277)

We shall see later that McCabe is wrong to equate Halliday’s conception of text with the dictionary definition of discourse she quotes, but from our present of view, the important point is that she regards the two terms as equivalent. This is not uncommon in the literature: for instance, Halliday (1994a: 366) himself appears to equate ‘text linguistics’ with ‘the study of discourse’, and Chafe (1992a: 356), while recognising that the terms are used in various ways in the literature, states that “[b]oth terms may refer to a unit of language larger than the sentence: one may speak of a ‘discourse’ or a ‘text”’. These views are noted by Seidlhofer & Widdowson (1999: 205) who, however, themselves argue that it is misleading to treat the terms ‘text’ and ‘discourse’ as synonymous. For these authors, “[d]iscourse [. . . ] is the process of conceptual formulation whereby we draw on our linguistic resources to make sense of reality”, and “text is the linguistic product

 Structure and Function

of a discourse process” (1999: 206). The discourse process, then, is a dynamic, constantly changing activity in which communicating language users are engaged, each of these users operating within a context which is an internal construct of concepts, continually modified as individuals relate to the world and to their interlocutors. Text, in this model, can be seen as a very imperfect and at times unreliable trace of what happens during such a discourse process, and as Seidlhofer & Widdowson observe, establishing solid grounds for relating the text to the discourse is a key problem of discourse analysis.1 Seidlhofer & Widdowson’s discussion raises several other issues. One such issue is the relationship between static and dynamic perspectives. Discourse, as they see it, is clearly a dynamic process, and a text can be viewed as the static product of such a process. We shall see later that both static (or ‘synoptic’) and dynamic approaches have found a place in systemic functional accounts. The question of medium is also relevant here: Halliday, for instance, comments as follows: The process/product distinction is a relevant one for linguistics because it corresponds to that between our experience of speech and our experience of writing: writing exists, whereas speech happens. A written text is presented to us as product; we attend to it as product, and become aware of its ‘process’ aspect as a writer but not as reader or analyst, unless we consciously focus on the activities which led to its production. Spoken language on the other hand is presented to us as process; . . . (Halliday 1994a: xxii–xxiii)

This aspect has led, in the work of some writers, to a usage in which ‘discourse’ is confined to the spoken language, ‘text’ to the written mode, though Halliday himself does not follow this usage, and neither shall I. A further issue is the relationship between the text and the sentence. Seidlhofer & Widdowson (1999: 207) point out that under their definition, a text does not necessarily consist of more than one sentence: indeed, a single word (e.g. PRIVATE) or even a single letter (e.g. P indicating a parking place) can constitute a text in the sense of the record of a discourse process. The text/sentence dichotomy also surfaces in discussion of ‘text linguistics’ (or ‘discourse analysis’, depending on the orientation of the writer) in relation to ‘sentence linguistics’. Cook comments: We have, then, two approaches to language: sentence linguistics and discourse analysis. It is not a question of setting these two up as irreconcilable enemies, trying to make one a hero and the other a villain, for both have an invaluable contribution to make to the understanding of language, and both ultimately need each other. The distinction, though convenient for us at the moment, is not absolute, and just as we cannot com. See also Cornish (2002: 472), who defines discourse as “the hierarchically structured, situated sequence of utterance, indexical, and illocutionary acts carried out in pursuance of some communicative goal, as integrated within a given context”, while text is “the connected sequence of verbal signs and nonverbal signals in terms of which discourse is coconstructed by the participants in the act of communication”.

Chapter 4

Discourse, text and context 

municate with only the rules of semantics and grammar, so we just as surely cannot communicate very well without them. (Cook 1989: 12, emphasis in original)

Cook goes on to contrast the two approaches in terms of a set of differences between the data they use: the data of sentence linguistics is isolated, grammatically well-formed sentences, decontextualised and often invented or at least idealised; the data of discourse analysis, on the other hand, consists of observed stretches of language which achieve meaning in context, and which are perceived as constituting some kind of unity. In what follows, I shall, of course, respect the usage of the authors whose work I am describing, even where this leads to some indeterminacy. However, I shall attempt in my own discussion to use the term discourse consistently, in three ways,2 Firstly, as an uncountable noun, it refers to the ongoing negotiation of meanings in an interaction – including the interaction between writer and intended reader which we can take to underlie the process of writing. Secondly, again as an uncountable, it refers to the area of a linguistic theory (which may, but need not, be a separate component or level) in which the discourse process and/or its imperfect reflection in text is handled. Thirdly, as a count noun, it can be used to refer to a particular bounded speech event: as Werth (1999: 1) puts it, “a discourse is a complete language event, i.e. one with a perceived beginning and end”. The term text, as has just been implied, will be used, as in the work of Seidlhofer & Widdowson, to refer to the written or spoken trace (not necessarily multi-propositional) of the discourse process which we can record and analyse, either simply to investigate language use (e.g. in corpus analysis), or in an attempt to reconstruct (aspects of) the discourse it partially represents. It can thus be used as either a count noun (we can speak of ‘a text’ as the record of ‘a discourse’) or as a mass noun (‘text’ as referring generically to the record of ‘discourse’). In conformity with the overall orientation of the present work, discourse and text will be viewed here primarily in relation to the resources of the (‘sentence’) grammar: that is, I shall give an account of this area which is slanted towards the interface between the sentence grammar (i.e. the form and meaning of sentences and their parts) and discourse. This is not to say, of course, that the model of discourse and/or text proposed should necessarily be merely a continuation of the grammar ‘upwards’, though this is, as we shall see, one of the possibilities. Rather, what is excluded from the present perspective is any account of discourse which is not explicitly and firmly related to the grammatical and lexical resources on which the organisation of discourse must ultimately depend. This means, for example, that any work which, although inspired by Systemic Functional linguistics, pays little attention to the grounding of discourse and text in the grammar itself, will be taken to lie beyond the scope of the present account. Nevertheless, because of the long history of work on text and context by systemic linguists, discussion of this work will inevitably occupy a very large proportion of this chapter. There is one more terminological issue which should be mentioned before I embark on an exploration of our three theories in relation to matters of discourse and text. In . This systematic ambiguity will not, I hope, present problems to the reader, since the co-text of use should clearly indicate which sense is intended.

 Structure and Function

many (perhaps most) models, a close relationship is assumed between an often undefined concept of discourse and that of pragmatics. Brown & Yule, for instance, comment as follows: Any analytic approach in linguistics which involves contextual considerations, necessarily belongs to that area of language study called pragmatics. ‘Doing discourse analysis’ certainly involves ‘doing syntax and semantics’, but it primarily consists of ‘doing pragmatics’. (Brown & Yule 1983: 26)

It is frequent to find the term ‘discourse pragmatic(s)’ referring to a range of phenomena which, depending on the approach concerned, may or may not be regarded as falling outside the scope of the grammar. I shall retain this term where it is used within the theory under discussion at the time. I have, of course, already discussed a number of concepts, such as those involved in the analysis of information structuring and illocution, which are of the greatest relevance in the construction of discourse and so in the textual records of discourses: indeed, the subtitle of this volume was chosen in order to emphasise the close relationships between grammar and discourse. This chapter, while referring back to previously analysed ideas at the beginning of each major section, will concentrate on certain additional aspects of discourse and text.

.

Discourse, text and context in Functional Grammar

.. Introduction In view of the line taken by Dik in most of his writings, it is not surprising that in the years since the publication of the first major exposition of FG, most work in this framework has been concerned with semantic and morpho-syntactic issues. There has, however, always been a section of the FG community whose interests extended into matters concerned with text. The growing importance of pragmatics and discourse within the theory was recognised at the 5th International Conference on Functional Grammar, held in Antwerp in 1992, and it was decided that the 6th International Conference, held in York in 1994, should take as its main theme ‘Discourse and pragmatics in Functional Grammar’. A collection of papers from that conference, under the same title, gives a good idea of the kinds of work which began to appear in these areas (Connolly et al. 1997). This collection is mentioned at the very end of the final chapter of Dik (1997b), which reflects Dik’s own recognition of the importance of discourse for FG. It is possible, at the risk of oversimplifying a complex picture, to discern several strands in FG approaches to issues relating to texts and their underlying discourses. •

The work of Classical scholars in Amsterdam, prominent among whom are Bolkestein, Kroon and Risselada, has made major contributions to the study of textual phenomena in Latin and, to a lesser extent, Greek. The discourse-related work of Bolkestein, largely in relation to Latin, goes back to the early years of the development of FG.

Chapter 4

•

• •

•

•

Discourse, text and context 

Recurrent themes include: cohesion (see e.g. Bolkestein 1985, 1986); the discourse functions of subordination and embedding (e.g. 1987, 1991a); pragmatic functions of word order (e.g. 1995, 1996); anaphora and participant tracking (e.g. Bolkestein 1992b; Bolkestein & van de Grift 1994). Bolkestein’s work always attempted to push forward what she saw as an important and attractive feature of Dik’s functional theorising, “. . . to reconcile the potential advantages of a more formal approach with the ideals of functionalism” (Bolkestein 1991b: 109). Kroon’s work on discourse has been largely in the area of connectives and particles in Latin texts (see Kroon 1994, 1995, 1997), while Risselada’s contribution, again chiefly in relation to Latin, is mainly in the textual study of illocution, as we saw in Chapter 1. As we saw in Chapter 2, the work of Mackenzie, Hannay and Keizer, separately or together, has considerably expanded the FG treatment of pragmatic phenomena in relation to English texts, especially in the areas of Topic and Focus, nominalisation, existential constructions and reference. The work of Downing and of Martínez Caro on information distribution in English and Spanish was also mentioned in Chapter 2, as was the work of de Vries on the function of Topic and Focus in the Papuan languages Wambon and Kombai. The work of Nuyts, leading to his Functional Procedural model, was outlined in §3.6 of Part 1 and has been mentioned at various points throughout our discussion. We saw in §1.2.2.4.4 and §2.2.2.2.1 that recent work in FG has postulated a modular approach within a theory which is expanding to accommodate the need for an account of discourse-related phenomena. Van den Berg (1998) proposes a tripartite arrangement of grammatical, pragmatic and message modules, the last of these being a rather more detailed version of the interface between grammatical and pragmatic modules postulated by Vet (1998a). The central controlling module is the pragmatic one, in accordance with Dik’s assertion that in FG the syntax is subservient to the semantics, and the semantics subservient to the pragmatics. Pérez Hernández & Ruiz de Mendoza (2001) also propose a modular scheme, intended to increase the levels of pragmatic and psychological adequacy in FG, which builds in the concepts of prototype and idealised cognitive model. Both Dik (1997b) and Hengeveld (1997, forthcoming a, forthcoming b) have proposed expansions of the existing FG model to accommodate certain aspects of text structure. Kroon (1997) has proposed an alternative model, which is in some ways similar to that of Vet (1998a). Mackenzie (1998, 2000, forthcoming) proposes a model (Incremental Functional Grammar) which seeks a compromise between the two types of account. Finally, recent contributions suggest that ideas from other approaches to discourse and text are now finding their way into FG accounts.

In what follows, I shall concentrate on those aspects which have not been dealt with in detail in earlier chapters.

 Structure and Function

.. A classification of approaches Mackenzie (forthcoming) provides a useful classification of approaches to the relationship between grammar and discourse in FG. Firstly, there are approaches which model grammar and discourse separately, but link them by means of an interface of some kind: Mackenzie mentions Kroon (1997) and Vet (1998a) as examples, but we could also add the models of Liedtke (1998) and van den Berg (1998). Secondly, we have attempts to model discourse by analogy with the grammar: here, Mackenzie mentions the work of Dik (1997b), Hengeveld (1997, forthcoming a) and Moutaouakil (forthcoming). Thirdly, there are approaches which attempt to model the production of discourse, and concomitantly the expression of the clause, as a dynamic process which occurs in real time: Nuyts’ FPG is clearly a forerunner here, and the recent work of Mackenzie (forthcoming) and of Bakker & Siewierska (Bakker 1999, 2001; Bakker & Siewierska, forthcoming) also takes this line. In what follows, I shall expand slightly on Mackenzie’s classification to include, as a fourth category, some recent approaches which attempt to reconcile the upward layering accounts of Dik and of Hengeveld (1997) with the modular proposals of Kroon and Vet. I deal first with Dik’s account and the early model of Hengeveld, which essentially attempt to model the structures of discourse by analogy with those of the grammar, since these are the basis for the reactions which followed. I shall then go on to look at the modular approaches of Kroon and Vet. There follows a section on the various accounts which try to integrate the approaches discussed so far, and here I shall include Hengeveld’s latest proposals since, as we saw briefly in §3.7.1, these do involve an element of modularity as well as analogies with grammatical organisation. Part of the motivation for Hengeveld’s scheme is the aim of providing greater psychological adequacy for FG, and I shall end by discussing recent work which prioritises this aspect by attempting to provide accounts angled towards processing considerations. A theme which will emerge frequently during the following discussion is the openness of discourse-related work in FG to developments in other areas. An idea of this permeability can be obtained by scanning the index of names at the back of Connolly et al. (1997). For instance, Gulla (1997) proposes a combination of FG with Rhetorical Structure Theory (Mann & Thompson 1987, 1988; see also §4.4.3.4.2 and §4.4.5.2) in the context of a computational system which produces paragraphs of coherent text. Other major contributors to the study of discourse, such as Longacre, Keenan, Prince and Givón are also well represented in the bibliography to this collection of articles.

.. Modelling discourse by analogy with grammar ... Dik’s model Dik recognises the importance, for FG, of an account of (what he refers to as) discourse, but is characteristically wary of the difficulties which such an account might pose: . . . the theory of FG, if it is to live up to its self-imposed standards of adequacy, should in the long run account for the functional grammar of discourse. In other words, it

Chapter 4

Discourse, text and context 

should show how clauses can be combined into coherent stretches of talk, conversation, or written text. At the same time, it is evident that this is a very high aim for a theory of grammar to strive for, and that we have only the bare outlines of what a theory of discourse should look like. (Dik 1997b: 409)

The first point of note here is the equation of ‘the functional grammar of discourse’ with ‘how clauses can be combined into coherent stretches of talk, conversation or written text’. In other words, although Dik’s conception of discourse embraces both spoken and written language, it appears to be limited to the study of clause combinations, so, at least implicitly, ruling out single words or phrases which could, in the terms I defined earlier, be seen as constituting whole texts. His account, in Chapter 18 of TFG2, of the “bare outlines” referred to in the above quotation builds on work concerned with the development of a modular ‘model of the natural language user’ (MNLU), for use in a computer implementation of FG, the ProfGlot system (Dik 1989b, 1992; see also §3.2.3 of Part 1). He first sets up a model of the knowledge base which the user needs in discourse production (Dik 1987, 1989b: 11–15, 1997b: 411–412). Long-term knowledge is divided into linguistic (lexical, grammatical, pragmatic) and non-linguistic, and short-term knowledge into situational and textual. Non-linguistic long-term knowledge and textual short-term knowledge are split into three types: referential (knowledge about entities), episodic (concerned with states of affairs in which entities are involved), and general (rules and principles which apply in the ‘real’ world and in possible worlds). Such categories are clearly capable, in principle, of enabling links to be made between linguistic form and both contextual and co-textual factors. Dik himself comments: In discourse production and interpretation each of these types of knowledge may play a crucial role. Usually, many of these types of information interact in determining the correct interpretation of a discourse, or the correct formulation of what the Speaker is going to say. (Dik 1997b: 412)

Unfortunately, despite lip-service to an eventual synthesis within a modular framework, contextual factors still remain, in Dik’s discourse framework, at the level of programmatic suggestion and untried hypothesis. Dik (1997b: 412–413) proposes that as a discourse develops across time, the participants call upon their long-term knowledge, but also build up a short-term, partial and dynamic mental representation of the discourse itself, which he terms a Discourse Model. The role of co-textual information3 is recognised: . . . later parts of the discourse may rely upon contextual information which has been provided in the preceding context. Following context, however, also plays a crucial role: each step in the discourse typically projects structure onto the discourse that is yet to come; each move creates an expectation pattern about the further steps that are yet to be taken. (1997b: 413) . Dik himself uses the term ‘contextual’ for what I have called ‘co-textual’ information (that available within the text itself).

 Structure and Function

Dik’s further discussion is organized in terms of three perspectives: global discourse decisions (1997b: 415–422); the global structural patterns which can be seen in a discourse seen as a finished product4 (pp. 422–432); and the factors which make for coherence in discourse (pp. 433–441). By ‘global discourse decisions’, Dik means: . . . such settings as are relevant to the whole discourse or to one of its subparts, rather than accidentally to the wording of a single clause. (1997b: 416)

The highest level of decision is whether to engage in a particular discourse event at all. A discourse event, for Dik, is defined in similar terms to the ‘speech event’ of Hymes (1971/1972): A discourse event is a social, interpersonal event defined by conventions and institutions regulating at least the following parameters [. . . ]: (i) the participants (S(s) and A(s)) and their mutual relations. (ii) the rights and duties of the participants, both with respect to interaction (who may speak when and where?), and with respect to content (who can say what when and where?) (iii) the time and place and setting of speaking. (1997b: 416)

A further high level discourse choice is that of genre, defined according to parameters of medium (spoken/written), participation (monologue/dialogue/polylogue), participant relation (degree of directness, from face-to-face to the production and reception of a written text), formality, and communicative purpose (e.g. narrative/argumentative/aesthetic, etc). Among the examples of genre listed by Dik are conversation, lecture, telephone call, meeting, fairy tale. The choice of genre constrains further aspects of the discourse: the style in which the interaction occurs, the kind of discourse world which is created (e.g. a fictional world, that of a dream, etc.), the default illocution (e.g. declarative for narratives, though the default can of course be temporarily suspended), time specification decisions affecting whole sequences of clauses, and the degree of topic continuity in the discourse. Dik’s discussion of global structures in discourse ranges over the nature of discourse structure, the units into which it may be divided, and the relations between these units. The model proposed is one in which there are close parallels between the structure of discourse and that of the clause. Just as a clause has a hierarchical, layered type of underlying structure, so does a discourse, this structure being constantly monitored by interactants through markers of transitions between phases, features of form and meaning (e.g. tense) which are characteristic of particular sections, and explicit metacommunicative elements which refer to the hierarchical structure of the discourse itself. The higher level discourse units are claimed to show functional layering of a similar type to that found in the clause: a discourse event has an interpersonal layer, with interactional and attitudinal components, . That is, a text, in our terms. I shall continue to use the term ‘discourse’ since this is the term Dik uses throughout.

Chapter 4


and a representational layer, concerned with organisation of content and the elements which transmit that content. Thus Dik takes over for his description of discourse the labels used by Hengeveld for levels within clause structure. Corresponding to these functional layers are various strategies, of interaction management, attitude specification, discourse organisation and discourse execution, which the speaker may use in order to create the discourse. A further parallel between discourse and clause structures is that both are considered to involve recursion: for instance, sequences can contain (side)-sequences within them, just as a clause can contain another clause. Corresponding to the two functional layers are two sets of units, again hierarchically arranged. At the interpersonal layer, individual speech acts, represented by single clauses (either simple or complex) combine to form speech act sequences which show dependency relations; single speech acts or a sequence of them make up a turn, seen as one stretch of language by the same speaker, and turns can again combine into sequences with dependency between the turns. At the representational layer we have propositions and predications in simple or complex clauses, which combine to form episodes (which may have sub-episodes in them). The relationships between units of the two layers need not be one-to-one, though Dik (p. 430) proposes that a turn sequence normally coincides with an episode, such as ‘establishing agreement on a dinner invitation’. The discourse can viewed not only from a structural viewpoint, but also in terms of the functional relationships between units. Here, Dik appears to favour the correlation between rhetorical structures in discourse and the functional organisation of complex clauses, proposed by the Rhetorical Structure Theory account of Matthiessen & Thompson (1988), mentioned in §3.4.1.7.1.1. When this approach is discussed in greater detail in §4.4.3.4.2, we shall see that it proposes that clause combining in the grammar arises from the grammaticalisation of rhetorical structures in discourse. Dik, however, while appearing to consider himself in agreement with Matthiessen & Thompson, talks of the projection of relations within the complex clause on to those of discourse, and this is, as we have seen, just what his own model attempts to do. As Kwee (1999a: 31) observes, Dik in fact clearly reverses the direction of the RST proposal. Let us now turn to Dik’s discussion of discourse coherence.5 He believes that the same linguistic devices are used to create coherence at both local and global levels, giving the example of connectors, which can be used to join two clauses, or a clause and a higher discourse unit. One source of coherence can be captured through the notion of the frame, defined as “a structured mental representation of acceptable actions and speech events in relation to a given institutional setting” (Dik 1997b: 434). Frames can be concerned with structure (e.g. the permissible number of lines, rhyme schemes, and so on, in a sonnet) or with content (e.g. what sorts of things can be said within the conventions of a love poem). Such frames, which are assumed to be part of our long-term general knowledge, can be used to . It is interesting to note that when introducing the concept of coherence, Dik gives references not only to the work of Longacre, but also to that of Halliday and Hasan. As we shall see later, their work is actually concerned primarily with linguistic resources used for cohesion, rather than with coherence as such.






evaluate the coherence of a discourse, or to create that coherence by means of inference. A second source of coherence is iconic sequencing, for instance the placing in the discourse of earlier events before later ones, causes before their effects, events before their results, conditions before their consequents, or actions before their purposes. Also important in establishing coherence is topic continuity, achieved by mechanisms including anaphoric reference, syntactic parallelism, switch reference and obviation phenomena. Relationships between Given Topics and Sub-Topics (see §2.2.1.2) can also play a part in the creation of coherence. Dik furthermore observes that the placement of focus in discourse sequences also affects the degree of coherence. A further mechanism is what is referred to as ‘TailHead linking’, in which “a clause starts with a constituent which briefly summarizes a crucial part of the preceding clause or context” (1997b: 438). This clearly has much in common with the type of thematic development discussed in systemic linguistics and also in Prague School linguistics, in which what SFG would label the Theme of one clause takes up the Rheme of the preceding clause (see §2.4.1.7.2). Finally, Dik mentions connectors as a source of coherence, and points out that these are not coterminous with coordinators, which function within the sentence grammar, although sometimes the two may be identical in form (as, for example, with and, but, or). Before we leave Dik’s account, a little more should be said about Dik’s account of anaphoric relations, mentioned above as one important factor in establishing coherence in a text. Dik gives the following characterisation of anaphora and its elements: I speak of anaphora when an element of underlying clause structure refers to an entity which has already been established, directly or indirectly, in the preceding discourse (discourse anaphora) or is being established in the same clause (sentence anaphora). The element which so refers will be called an anaphorical element (anaphorical term if the anaphorical element has term status). The expression with which the entity in question has been or is being established in the discourse is the antecedent of the anaphorical element. Notwithstanding its etymology, the antecedent may in certain cases follow the anaphorical element in the linear order of the sentence. The relation between anaphorical element and antecedent will be called an anaphorical relation. (Dik 1997b: 215–216)

Dik points out that anaphorical elements are not always coreferential with their antecedents: for example, the anaphorical element may refer to a member of a set evoked by the antecedent, or to a Sub-Topic which can be inferred from the entity invoked by the antecedent; furthermore, the antecedent may itself be a non-referring expression. Dik stresses (1997b: 217) that strictly speaking anaphorical elements do not themselves refer to their antecedents, since it is speakers, rather than expressions, that can be said to refer. Furthermore, speakers when using anaphors do not normally refer to antecedents themselves (the linguistic expressions), but rather to entities established by means of those antecedents. According to Dik, all anaphorical elements have some antecedent in the discourse. The concept of anaphorical relation is deliberately defined abstractly, since from a functional viewpoint the important thing is whether, from a particular position in a clause,

Chapter 4


it is possible to refer anaphorically to some entity defined by an antecedent. It is then possible to ask what forms an anaphorical element can take, and here Dik (1997b: 220–221) postulates that both structural and pragmatic factors are involved. Structurally, the expression type depends on the order of the antecedent entity6 and, in the case of first order entities, the type of anaphorical relation and the distance between anaphorical element and antecedent in underlying clause structure. Even in the expression of anaphorical reference to first order entities, however, a wide range of forms may be involved, ranging from items with nominal heads, though pronouns of various types, to inflections and even zero realisation. These realisations form a scale of explicitness, from nominal terms at one end to zero at the other. Dik cites the work of Givón (1983a) on the correlation between explicitness of anaphor coding and topic continuity in discourse. He also refers to the work of Bolkestein & van de Grift (1994) mentioned earlier in §4.2.1. Dik goes on to examine briefly the ways in which anaphorical reference can be made to zero, second, third and fourth order entities: see the examples given in Chapter 3 of Part 1, where the possibility of referring anaphorically to various types of linguistic unit is discussed as evidence for the need for variables representing the different types of unit in the underlying structure of the clause. Dik acknowledges the debt owed by his account of anaphora to the work of Cornish (1986). More recently, Cornish (2002) has offered a constructive critique of Dik’s (1997b) account. He points to what he perceives to be a basic contradiction in Dik’s (1997b: 215– 216) characterisation of anaphora, cited earlier. In the first part of this quotation, an anaphor refers to the mental representation of an entity established in the previous discourse, but in the second part the relationship is between the anaphor and a linguistic expression, the antecedent. Thus Dik appears to view anaphora as at once a “quasigrammatical”, text-based phenomenon involving the co-indexing of textual antecedent and anaphor, and as a means of accessing relevant (parts of) existing discourse representations. Furthermore, Cornish disputes Dik’s claim that all anaphors have an antecedent in the discourse:7 he shows that there are many instances where some referent, mutually assumed by the discourse participants, is evoked by an anaphor without there having been any previous mention of that referent in the text itself. All that is needed is what Cornish calls an ‘antecedent trigger’8 which enables the addressee to retrieve an appropriate referent, which may, for example, be obtained from mutually available stereotypical framebased knowledge, or from specific knowledge shared by the participants in the interaction. Anaphora is thus seen as a semantic-pragmatic relationship between the antecedent trigger, a salient discourse representation and an appropriate anaphor. . For the concept of entity order, see §7.2.1.1.2 of Part 1. . Cornish reasonably assumes that by ‘discourse’, Dik means what Cornish himself refers to as text, that is the physical trace of the discourse (see the note in §4.1). As noted earlier, Dik himself does not make this distinction. . For discussion and justification of this concept see Cornish (1999: §2.4.1).



 Structure and Function

Cornish also criticises Dik for postulating an overly neat correlation between the expression types of anaphors (definite or demonstrative NPs, various types of pronoun, zero expression, etc.) and the orders of entity they denote. Cornish demonstrates that the correlations Dik proposes are nothing more than preferences, which can be overridden by other factors. Prominent among such factors is the nature of the predicating element in the clause. For instance, although in English the pronoun it most usually has a first-order referent, when used with a verb such as look or sound (as in Cornish’s example (8): Mary said she felt weak and ill. She certainly {looked/sounded} it.) it has a zero-order referent, the property of being weak and ill. In Cornish (1999: 70–83) the effects of the predicator on anaphor interpretation are considered in greater detail. The sense which the predicator has, in its context, selects some sense property which is then transferred to the anaphor it governs: for instance, when the French pronoun y is used anaphorically in a clause with a predicator formed from the verb assister (à quelque chose) [to witness (something)], the anaphor is assigned a second order denotation type, since what is witnessed must be an event of some kind; on the other hand, if the predicator is s’attendre (à quelque chose) [to expect (something)], the anaphor receives a third order interpretation, since what is expected must be at the propositional level. Cornish (1999: 83–98) also documents the effects, on the interpretation of an anaphor, of the aspect, tense and mood/modality of the indexical element’s immediate co-text. These various contextual effects are shown to be more important, for the interpretation of the anaphor in context, than the properties of the antecedent trigger itself. Finally, Cornish (2002) takes issue with the representation of anaphors in Dik’s account, arguing that since determination of the referent of an anaphor requires access to the discourse (in Cornish’s own sense of the term) rather than just to the text itself, anaphoric terms should not be indexed in the linguistic representation itself; rather, the determination of the referent is a matter for the process by which a clause becomes integrated, not only with other clauses but also with the context, in a representation of the discourse of which it forms a part.

... Hengeveld’s 1997 model Hengeveld has also attempted to expand the FG model to cover certain discourse-related phenomena. As we saw in §3.3 of Part 1, he first proposed a further level (numbered 5) in the underlying structure of the clause, to accommodate a satellite slot occupied by adverbials which relate the clause to its discourse context: . . . in order to account for textual relations, there is a class of clause satellites (σ5 ), which has no grammatical equivalent. Satellites of this class capture the lexical means through which the speaker locates his utterance within the context of the discourse and thus restricts the set of potential perlocutions of this utterance. (Hengeveld 1990: 12–13)

As an example, Hengeveld gives the satellite expression in bold type in (1) below:

Chapter 4


(1) (= Hengeveld’s (25e), 1990: 13) Honestly, you certainly danced beautifully yesterday, if I may say so. through which, he claims, the speaker comments on the felicity of the speech act, as expressed within the communicative setting of the utterance. In a later paper, Hengeveld (1997), building on insights provided by Kroon (1995), presents a programmatic sketch of a model of discourse grammar, which is then used for the description and classification of cohesion phenomena. Hengeveld demonstrates that in a narrative text taken from Koryak (a Chukchi-Kamchatkan language), the discourse as a whole and the episodes (which Hengeveld calls ‘moves’) and changes of scene, are all marked off by specific linguistic elements which are typical of narrative rather than other types of discourse. He concludes from this that . . . one should be able to represent three different units: (i) the discourse as a whole, (ii) the components parts of a discourse, i.e. moves, and (iii) the type of discourse involved. (1997: 3)

This model is organised on two axes, the hierarchical and the relational: The hierarchical axis concerns the segmentation of discourse into successively smaller units. The representation of this axis results in a layered description of discourse structure. The relational axis concerns the connections obtaining between layers of one and the same level. The representation of this axis results in a linear description of discourse structure. (Hengeveld 1997: 1)

His elaboration of the hierarchical axis with respect to former models involves the postulation of a Rhetorical level in addition to the existing Interpersonal and Representational levels. This new level has variables for the discourse itself (D), the type of discourse (T) and the moves (M) which constitute the discourse, as shown in (2), which also shows the relationship between the new level and those of his previous model. (2) (= Hengeveld’s Figure 1, 1997: 4) D1: [(T1: TYP (T1)) M1: [

(E1: [(F1: ILL (F1)) (S) (A) (X1: [

] (M1)) … (MN)] (D1) Rhetorical level

] (X1))] (E1)

(e1: [(f1: Predâ (f1)) (x1) … (xn)] (e1))

Interpersonal level

Representational level

As before, the basis of the representational level (symbolised by (e)) is the predicate frame, in which the relationships between arguments (x) are specified; and the basis of the interpersonal level (E) is the illocutionary frame (F), in which the relationships between speaker (S), addressee (A) and the content of the speech act (X) are specified; similarly the basis of the new rhetorical level (D) is the discourse frame (T), in which the relationships between moves are specified. The variable M designates a move, whose underlying unit is



 Structure and Function

a paragraph; the variable T designates a discourse type, for which the underlying unit is the discourse frame; and the variable D designates a discourse, for which the underlying unit is the text. Unfortunately, no definitions are provided for key terms such as discourse frame, move and paragraph. Mackenzie (2000: 31) regards Hengeveld’s ‘discourse’ as equivalent to Dik’s ‘discourse event’, ‘move’ as approximately equivalent to Dik’s ‘turn’, and ‘speech act’ to Dik’s ‘clause’. The term ‘paragraph’ is particularly problematic. It would appear that Hengeveld intends it to apply to spoken as well as written language, since he uses it in referring to structure in a spoken monologue. It is not, however, entirely clear what he means by the term. No definition is given, and the few examples provided do not enable the reader to deduce one with any certainty. In order to move the model in a direction which will accommodate dialogue, Hengeveld suggests a modification of the basic structure of the interpersonal level to indicate which participant is acting as speaker at any one moment: in (3), the participant labelled as P1 is the speaker, whereas P2 is the addressee. (3) (= Hengeveld’s (3), 1997: 5) (E1 : [(F1 : ILL (F1 )) (P1 )S (P2 )A (X1 )] (E1 )) This type of formulation enables us to account for, for example, the use of the correct gender forms according to the identities of the participants in a language such as Spanish, and also shifts between person forms in dialogue, as illustrated in (4), where the feminine ending on the adjective contenta is conditioned by the fact that the addressee is female, and we have second person verb forms in the first utterance, but first person in the reply. (4) A. ¿Estás contenta de como llevas be-pres.2sg.familiar happy of how carry-pres.2sg.familiar encauzada la vida? channel-past.part the life ‘Are you happy with the direction in which your life is going?’ B. Yo vivo muy al día ¿sabes? (HCM 4, 84) I live-pres.1sg very to-the day know-pres.2sg.familiar ‘I live very much from day to day – you know?’ On the relational axis, Hengeveld recognises two kinds of relationship: combining (basically, paratactic and hypotactic), which is a relation between layers of the same level within the boundaries defined by the next level up in the hierarchy; and chaining (e.g. the setting up of topic chains in the discourse), which is a relation which operates across the boundaries of the next higher level. Finally, Hengeveld (1997: 9–14) considers cohesive relations in texts. Like Halliday (see §4.4.2), he describes cohesive relations in terms of the kinds of linguistic phenomena which realise them; also, however, he classifies them in terms of level, nature and domain. Topic chaining, for example, is accounted for at the term level, while lexical cohesion belongs to the predicate level (f). Temporal chaining and event foregrounding or backgrounding are seen as involving the predicational level (e), while chains of argumentation are at the level of the proposition (X). The sequencing of illocutionary acts in, for

Chapter 4


instance, question-answer pairs is a matter for the illocutionary level (F), while the way in which one speech act can be seen as the motivation for a second concerns the utterance level (E). What was labelled ‘tail-head linkage’ in the summary of Dik’s model given earlier is a matter for the paragraph level (M). Cohesive phenomena can also be classified according to whether they are of a combining or a chaining nature. Finally, we can specify the domain of such relations: that is, Hengeveld sees his model as providing the means of specifying the domain of application of cohesive relations such as anaphora or serial verb forms. There are clearly similarities between Hengeveld’s and Dik’s models of discourse, in that both attempt to extend the clausal hierarchy in an upward direction; there are, however, also important differences. As Mackenzie (2000: 30) has pointed out, Hengeveld’s model postulates a single hierarchy with no fewer than nine different layers, grouped into three levels, while Dik, as we have seen, views the grammatical and discourse hierarchies as separate, though related; furthermore, Dik’s model sees the structure of discourse itself as containing representational and interpersonal levels, while Hengeveld’s simply adds a rhetorical level to the other two.

... Moutaouakil’s generalised parallelism hypothesis Moutaouakil (forthcoming) represents what is perhaps the most extreme attempt to model discourse structures on those of the grammar. He proposes that discourse is formally mediated through the categories of text, clause, term phrase and word, with the possible addition of the sentence as a category between text and clause. He also takes over the representational, interpersonal and rhetorical levels of Hengeveld’s proposal. Moutaouakil takes his inspiration from three sources: Dik’s (1997b: 424) view that the hierarchical nature of discourse is comparable to that of the clause; the element ordering principles, which in Dik’s work are said to apply to both clauses and term phrases; and the work of Rijkhoff on parallels between the structures of propositions and terms (see §7.2.1.3 and §7.2.1.5 of Part 1). On the basis of these antecedent suggestions he proposes a ‘generalised parallelism hypothesis’ according to which each of his discourse categories is organised along similar lines. At the representational level, the claim is that texts, as well as clauses and term phrases, can be seen as modified by locational, quantitative and qualitative operators and satellites, with scoping in the order just given. At the interpersonal level, there is again a tripartite set of operators and satellites, this time involving an interactional type (covering, for instance, the function of expressions such as listen/look clause-initially, regarded as grammaticalised interactional devices), phenomena concerned with discourse illocution, and with modality. At the rhetorical level, the three sets of operators/satellites are concerned with choices in Dik’s categories of discourse event, discourse type (e.g. conversation, narrative) and discourse style (formal/informal, etc.). Unfortunately, the rather restricted extent of the exemplification provided means that Moutaouakil’s proposals are as yet little more than programmatic suggestions.



 Structure and Function

.. Modular approaches ... Kroon’s model Hengeveld’s (1997) model dispenses with the term ‘clause’ as used in Dik’s approach, replacing it by ‘speech act’. Mackenzie observes that this introduces an element of doubt concerning the continuity of grammar and discourse: Whereas clause, proposition, predication, etc. are concepts used to identify various aspects of the formal constructs that result from linguistic activity (the product), speech act, move, turn and discourse event can only be understood as naming instances of the linguistic activity itself (the process). (Mackenzie 2000: 31–32)

This, as Mackenzie notes, has led to the proposal of alternatives to the Dik/Hengeveld upward layering models. One important characteristic of Hengeveld’s 1997 model is that it is based on the putative equivalence of the highest unit in the layered clause structure (the speech act) and the lowest in the discourse structure: in other words, as we saw above, what Hengeveld is attempting to do is extend the grammatical model upwards. Kroon (1997), who refers to the lowest unit in the discourse structure as a ‘discourse act’, takes a very different view: In my opinion a discourse act should be defined as the smallest identifiable unit of discourse whose specific communicative function is largely determined by its position within a larger communicative structure. A speech act, by contrast, is defined in Functional Grammar in strictly intrasentential terms, that is, its specific illocutionary features are determined by the lexical and grammatical properties of the isolated clause. (Kroon 1997: 27)

This is an important distinction, which we shall come across again, in a rather different guise, later in our discussions. Kroon discusses three types of problem for the upward layering approach of Hengeveld. Firstly, there are elements, such as Theme and Tail ‘extraclausal constituents’, which can be assigned a function as discourse acts, in the sense defined above, but which do not have their own speech act function. For instance, Kroon would regard (5) below as constituting two separate discourse acts: (5) That Paisley, he’s a terror! (BNC ADM 1419) As evidence for this, Kroon cites the fact9 that in a sequence of two independent clauses, which constitute two discourse acts, a NP from the first can be referred to in the second not only by using an anaphoric pronoun, but alternatively by means of a definite expression, whereas this is not possible when the second clause is embedded in the first, and so cannot constitute a separate discourse act. Examples are given in (6) and (7). (6) Faith returned, driving the caretaker before her. The poor man looked terrified. (BNC H9P 249–250) . Noted originally by Roulet (1991), on the basis of work by Berrendonner (1990).

Chapter 4

Discourse, text and context 

(7) But Anne decided that the woman must be exaggerating. (BNC G16 168) In (6), consisting of two independent clauses realising two separate discourse acts, it is perfectly possible to use the NP the poor man to refer to the person previously referred to as the caretaker. In (7), on the other hand, the NP the woman in the complement clause must be interpreted as referring to a woman other than Anne, suggesting that a construction consisting of a main plus a subordinate clause, which constitutes a single discourse act, does not allow the use of a coreferential full NP, though a pronoun could indeed be coreferential (if we substitute she for the woman, then it is possible for the pronoun to refer to Anne herself). Kroon argues that a NP acting as extraclausal Theme (in the FG sense) can be picked up using a definite NP in the clause itself, and that the extraclausal constituent thus constitutes a separate discourse act. As an example she gives the sentence in (8). (8) (= Kroon’s (18c), 1997: 28) My neighbour, he/the poor guy is incurably ill. My intuitions as a native speaker of English are, however, that it is rather odd to recapitulate a Theme using a full NP as with the poor guy in (8). I have also been unable to find an example in the British National Corpus.10 On the other hand, in Spanish it is indeed perfectly possible to do this, as shown by (9) below: (9) . . . ese, por ejemplo, concejal que le machacaban ayer, that for example councillor that him beat-up-imperf.3pl yesterday el pobrecillo lleva toda la noche también allí . . . the poor-dim carry-pres.3sg all the night also there ‘. . . that, for example, councillor that they were beating up yesterday, the poor thing has spent all night there too . . . ’ (Referencia ACON026A.ASC) It would seem that Kroon’s claims in this area need to be investigated rather more thoroughly before we can reach any firm conclusion as to their validity. A second problem for the upward layering model commented on by Kroon is that, as is well known from other studies of discourse structure, exchanges can be embedded, for instance as ‘side sequences’, inside the structure of a complex move,11 and this would seem to be a problem for any FG discourse model which postulates straightforward upward layering. Thirdly, Kroon cites data from her work on the Latin discourse marker at (a partial equivalent of English but), showing that it can be used to simulate dialogue within monologue, where the speaker uses an ‘embedded voice’, against whose supposed views s/he argues. Such examples underline the separation between the grammatical structure (here, the linking of a subordinate and a main clause) and the discourse structure (two alternative moves in a simulated interactional exchange). . It is, however, difficult to search for such examples by computational means, in view of the minimal formal clues available, so it is possible that I have missed data which would conform to Kroon’s pattern. . The terms ‘exchange’ and ‘move’ are being used here as in the work of Sinclair & Coulthard (1975): see below.

 Structure and Function

She concludes: . . . discourse act and illocutionary/speech act (as the latter is defined in the FG clause model) are conceptually different items which belong to different systems of structure: the first to a discourse system, the second to a sentence system. (Kroon 1997: 28–29)

In Kroon’s model, then, there are two separate modules, one concerned with sentence structure, the other with discourse structure, which are related via the speech act (in the first module) and the discourse act (in the second). The discourse module, like the rhetorical layer in Hengeveld’s model, shows both hierarchical and relational structuring. The hierarchical structure is assumed to be modelled in terms of the rank scale of act, move, exchange, transaction and interaction proposed by Sinclair & Coulthard (1975).12 The relational structure involves at least three kinds of relationship between units of equal rank: discourse units may be coordinated; one unit may be subordinated to another (e.g. one act may act as a preparation, or introduction, to another, main act; a central move may be expanded by a subsidiary move); or two moves in an exchange can be in what Kroon calls an interactional relation, which specifies the functional relationship between the two in the interaction (e.g. invitation + acceptance). Kroon (1997: 23) emphasises that interactional relations are quite different from rhetorical relations, in that the former are assigned at what she calls the interactional level of discourse, while the latter are assigned at the presentational, or rhetorical level: for example, in a single move acting as an invitation at the interactional level, there may be two acts, the first of which functions, at the presentational/rhetorical level, as a preparation for the second. Both of these types of relationship are different from the illocutionary function, which is a property of the individual utterance rather than of the relationship between a discourse unit and its discourse context. In order to accommodate the data from her Latin study, Kroon (1997: 24–26) also postulates two further factors relevant to discourse structuring: relations between discourse units and the extratextual context, and thematic structure as evidenced in topical chains. She shows (the most detailed exposition being in Kroon 1995) that all of the above factors are needed for an adequate account of discourse markers in Latin texts.

... Other modular accounts Similar to Kroon’s model in their postulation of separate grammatical and discourse modules are the models of Vet (1998a), Liedtke (1998), van den Berg (1998) and Pérez Hernández & Ruiz de Mendoza (2001),13 already discussed in relation to illocution in §1.2.2.4.4 and §1.2.2.7, where we saw that van den Berg, in particular, has gone some way towards a specification of the interface between modules. These approaches, though extremely interesting, are highly programmatic and I shall add nothing further about them here. . For discussion of this model, see §4.4.3.2.1. . As we saw in Chapter 1, the account of Pérez Hernández & Ruiz de Mendoza (2001) stands out from the others in having a stronger cognitive orientation; it also sketches how illocution might be handled during language production and reception.

Chapter 4

Discourse, text and context 

.. Reconciling the upward layering and modular approaches ... Gómez Soliño’s extension of Hengeveld’s proposals Gómez Soliño (1996: 54–64), writing in response to the proposals made by Hengeveld at a 1994 conference, which were later published as Hengeveld (1997), points to the question of whether a text/discourse14 is the result of a bottom-up accumulation of utterances, with their respective local values, or the product of a top-down implementation of discourse structural patterns, both interpersonal and representational. Gómez Soliño’s view is that both are important, so that the bottom-up view taken in previous FG work needs to be supplemented by a top-down approach, in which the discourse itself imposes representational and interpersonal values on the utterances of which it is composed. This suggestion gives rise to a hierarchical structure in which both the discourse dimension and the utterance dimension are characterised in both representational and interpersonal terms, each of the four cells in this matrix being divided into three layers as in Hengeveld’s more restricted proposal. The characterisation of the utterance dimension corresponds exactly to Hengeveld’s representational and interpersonal levels. Within the representational level of the discourse dimension, utterances are organised into text blocks, designating moves, by means of which the addressee forms macrostructural combinations or complies with the requirements of a particular text frame, designating a textual relation, and taken from a set of such frames available in the linguistic and cultural environment in which communication is taking place. The instantiation of such text frames gives rise to textualisations, by means of which the addressee designates a particular state of the world. An example of a textualisation type cited by Gómez Soliño is the narrative structure which Labov & Waletzky (1967) characterised in terms of orientation, complication and resolution. Each text block fulfils a rhetorical function, which Gómez Soliño sees as similar to those proposed in Rhetorical Structure Theory. Where a text block offers additional, non-essential information, we may recognise the expansion of a ‘core textualisation’ into an ‘extended textualisation’, by analogy with the core and extended predications postulated in the underlying structure of the clause. Some of the text blocks of which a textualisation is composed will have textual functions which characterise the way in which a particular state of the world is being presented: in this way, phenomena such as foregrounding/backgrounding can be handled. At the interpersonal level of the discourse dimension, Gómez Soliño’s model handles the discourse as a communicative act, rather than as a textual representation of a state of the world. The lowest unit here is the message, which designates a part of the discourse content and which is one of the arguments of a discourse frame, designating a genre. Other arguments in the discourse frame include the participants in verbal interaction and any relevant bystanders (in Rijkhoff ’s sense – see §1.2.2.3). The highest unit at the interpersonal level of discourse is the discourse itself, realising a communicative act. The nature of the social relation between participants, and in some cases the presence of particular types of bystander, may determine the ways in which the discourse is realised. . Gómez Soliño himself uses this dual characterisation in his presentation.

 Structure and Function

Gómez Soliño offers a brief analysis of a short narrative text in terms of the model summarised above.

... Steuten’s model of dialogue As we saw in §4.2.3.2, Hengeveld’s 1997 model is concerned with monologue, although he also contemplates one change which would be needed if it were extended to cover dialogue. Steuten (1998) suggests modifications to the model in order to make it applicable to dialogic discourse, as exemplified by business conversations.15 She notes that while monological discourse consists of a single move, within which acts or complexes of acts are linked by rhetorical functions, dialogic discourse consists of initiating and reactive moves linked by interactional functions. She replaces Hengeveld’s rhetorical level by what she calls the interactional level, the structure of which, like that of the hierarchical component of Kroon’s model, is based on Sinclair & Coulthard’s (1975) model of classroom discourse: a dialogical discourse (D), corresponding to the structural unit ‘business transaction’, consists of one or more exchanges (T), corresponding structurally to an ‘exchange frame’; exchanges, in turn, consist of acts (M), corresponding to the unit ‘interactional act’.16 Steuten regards this level as corresponding to the pragmatic module in the proposals of Vet (1998a), and refers to this module in her model as the ‘communicative unit’, while the interpersonal and representational levels together form the ‘grammatical unit’. ... Hengeveld’s Functional Discourse Grammar In his account of the Functional Discourse Grammar model, described in §3.7.1 of Part 1, Hengeveld (forthcoming a) explicitly claims that it represents an integration of the layering and modular approaches. In actual fact, the model would seem to be a compromise between the two approaches rather than embracing both. The modules to which Hengeveld refers are the interpersonal, representational and expression levels of the linguistic component of the model, the other components in this presentation of the model being cognitive (long-term linguistic and non-linguistic knowledge)17 and communicative (short-term knowledge derived from the discourse itself and the situation of commu. For further discussion of FG, and also of conversation analysis, in relation to the structure of business conversations, see Steuten (1997). . Sinclair & Coulthard’s model has the rank of ‘move’ between ‘exchange’ and ‘act’. Steuten’s proposal is perhaps intended to stay as close as possible to the tripartite pattern of Hengeveld’s model. There is, however, some confusion here, as Steuten (1998: 71) says that “[t]he interactional level determines the functional relationship between the constituent moves of an exchange”. . Inchaurralde (forthcoming) differentiates between (i) the knowledge of external reality that we obtain through sensory and bodily experience, internalised as representations of spatial and temporal interactions between entities, the properties of and relationships between these entities, and the causal structure of events, and (ii) knowledge of word classes and other grammatical categories. He assumes that long-term experiential knowledge is mapped on to categorial linguistic knowledge within the cognitive component of Hengeveld’s model. Inchaurralde also puts forward an analogical model of the interactions among the various components of Hengeveld’s scheme, based on the layer model of computer systems architecture.

Chapter 4

Discourse, text and context 

nication). These modules are thus rather different from the pragmatic and grammatical modules proposed by other scholars. In the latest presentation of FDG (Hengeveld, forthcoming b), modified in response to reactions to the initial model, the components are restyled as grammatical (consisting of interpersonal, representational and structural levels), conceptual (concerned with the development of communicative intentions and their combination with appropriate conceptualisations), and contextual, with the further addition of an acoustic component or its equivalent in non-vocal modalities. Perhaps here we can see rather more clearly the possible links with other modular approaches. The changes to the model will be taken up again in §4.2.6.3. The linguistic/grammatical component builds in discourse structure as the outermost layers of the interpersonal level. A move in discourse expresses the communicative intention of the speaker through one or more discourse acts, each of which corresponds to an expression with its own illocution, functioning over a communicated content which may involve ascriptive acts, referential acts, or both. Thus the act, which needs to be defined in terms of the discourse structure, is still the unit which bears illocution as coded in the expression, a position which, as we have seen, has been rejected by Kroon.18 Hengeveld (forthcoming b) provides a clue to the nature of the difference between these approaches when he states that an interpersonal representation corresponding to a discourse act does not represent the act itself, but rather the interpersonal function of the linguistic unit which performs that act. It will be interesting to see how the dialogue between the various positions develops, but clearly we need a much more detailed exposition of this model, with complete analysis of whole stretches of authentic discourse, in order to be able to evaluate it properly. Hengeveld also notes that in addition to the downward layering which is now proposed for both the interpersonal and representational levels, upward layering will be required at all levels in a more adequate model. At the interpersonal level this may involve discourse units such as turns and exchanges; at the representational level narrative units such as episode and story; and at the expression level units of formatting such as sections and chapters in writing.

... Hannay’s model Hannay (1998) stresses that whatever the form of the grammatical and discourse/pragmatic components of an overall model may turn out to be, they will need to be compatible. He attempts to establish the conditions for compatibility by means of a top-down approach rather than the bottom-up route which characterises, for example, the thinking behind . We may also note here that Harder (forthcoming) has argued for a rather more clearly modular approach than in Hengeveld’s model. Analysing data on comment clauses in English and Spanish, he concludes that a perspicuous account requires an interpersonal level which is more clearly oriented towards the relationships between discourse elements, as well as a representational level in which all linguistically represented content, including that involved in realising choices at the interpersonal level, is fully specified. These modifications to Hengeveld’s model would, Harder believes, allow maximum profit to be made from the interfacing of the two modules.

 Structure and Function

Hengeveld’s (1997) model. Following Roulet (1997), Hannay assumes that each discourse act introduces or activates some idea, which he regards as much the same as Halliday’s (1994a) information unit. Such units are realised by intonational units in spoken language, and by punctuational units in writing (Chafe 1994). Discourse acts may convey substantive information or they may be regulatory (Chafe 1994; Stenström 1994), the latter type often corresponding to the functions of Dik’s extraclausal constituents. Again following Roulet (1997), segmentation of acts in accordance with contextual and co-textual factors leads to ‘periodical movements’, seen as the basic units of texts, and equatable with orthographic or prosodic sentences. There follows a formulation phase, during which choices are made in intonation, clause type, types of subordination, and other syntactic areas, as well as in terms of particular lexical items. Hannay adopts Kroon’s definition of a discourse act as: . . . the smallest unit of linguistic activity undertaken by a language producer which entertains a rhetorical relation with another act. (Kroon 1995: 75)

As a model of the rhetorical relations involved, Hannay cites Rhetorical Structure Theory (see §4.4.3.4.2). He then goes on to demonstrate that such discourse acts cannot always be taken as corresponding to intonation units, but that there is nevertheless a strong correlation between the two types of unit. Hannay stresses that the message units may, but need not, have the form of predications: here, he cites Mackenzie’s (1998) work on holophrastic expressions, reviewed briefly in §3.7.2 of Part 1. Finally, Hannay examines the implications of his proposal for the analysis of clause combining, non-restrictive relative clauses and illocutionary satellites. All of these, he suggests, can insightfully be analysed as a combination of two different message units rather than in terms of the underlying structure of the clause itself. The result of these proposals, as Hannay observes, is to put less of a burden on the grammatical module and more on the discourse/pragmatic component of the model. This model is developed further in work on orientational devices at the beginnings of sentences in written English (Hannay, forthcoming), already mentioned in §2.2.2.1.1 and §3.2.3.3. Here, Hannay assumes a modular approach, such as those already described, in which, in the productive mode, the output of the discourse module specifies certain properties of the utterance to be generated, including which discourse acts will be performed and what relationships obtain between these acts. The acts will include those with orientational functions.

... Connolly’s eclectic model of discourse representation Connolly (forthcoming) discusses the various proposals which have been made in FG for the representation of discourse, and suggests a model of representation which covers the various types of information relevant to discourse structure and function, including sequencing, hierarchical structure, different levels of analysis, and relational phenomena such as adjacency sequences and rhetorical relations. Concepts are brought in from approaches other than FG where appropriate: Situation Theory (see Connolly (1998) and the references given there), Firth, Hymes and Searle are all influences which are acknowl-

Chapter 4

Discourse, text and context 

edged by Connolly. Although his paper is intended as a contribution to the study of discourse representation as such, it actually constitutes an interesting proposal for a model of discourse in its own right. Connolly proposes four levels of representation: contextual, interpersonal, representational and expression. The contextual level is meant to reflect Dik’s distinction between the discourse itself and the discourse event, seen as a social construct. This level in Connolly’s model is very rich, covering a wide range of factors: the identity, attitudes, statuses and backgrounds of the participants; any other ‘voices’ (in the sense of Bakhtin) which may be relevant, for example in the reporting of speech or in adopting the stance/voice of some other institutionalised role; the presence of any bystanders (see Rijkhoff 1995, also §1.2.2.3); the non-linguistic characteristics of the medium, or media, used for communication; any non-verbal communication which accompanies the language used; time, place and other features of setting; the cultural, social and institutional conventions relevant to the interaction; the referents of terms employed in the interaction; and any preconditions, postconditions and results of discourse acts. The interpersonal level is hierarchical in structure, and as with Kroon and Steuten, Connolly takes the Sinclair & Coulthard model as a basis. Each unit is marked off by a pair of delimiters (e.g. enter transaction tr3 , leave transaction tr3 ). At the rank of transaction, the model first specifies the topic of the transaction, and its overall illocutionary force (cf. Dik’s ‘discourse illocution’). There follows the (sequence of) exchange(s) which constitutes the transaction. For each exchange, the topic is specified, and the (series of) move(s) of which the exchange consists is then set out. For each move, the speaker and addressee are specified, followed by a statement of the essential characteristics of the move – for example, to convey two messages, by means of two acts. For each act, the essential characteristics are given (e.g. asserting a particular message), together with the illocutionary force of the act (expressed in Searlian terms), and a specification of acts of reference and ascription and the referents (given in the contextual level) to which the linguistic expressions refer. Other information, such as rhetorical function (e.g. elaboration of a previous act), relationships within adjacency pairs (e.g. functioning as a response to a question), or attitude, can also be specified for any act. The representational layer, which is not discussed in detail in Connolly’s paper, contains the underlying structure for each utterance in the discourse. Connolly also discusses how the full structure of a discourse segment can be represented on paper in an economical, clear and legible manner.

.. Models oriented towards processing ... Nuyts’ Functional Procedural Grammar Nuyts’ FPG has already been dealt with in some detail in §3.6 of Part 1 and in Chapters 6 and 9 of that volume, and I shall therefore not say any more about it here.

 Structure and Function

... Mackenzie’s Incremental Functional Grammar Mackenzie (2000: 34) claims that his Incremental Functional Grammar is a compromise between the layering and modular approaches, and it could therefore have been dealt with in §4.2.5. We also saw in §3.7.2 of Part 1, however, that it is Mackenzie’s intention to bring FG closer to work in the modelling of production and comprehension and thereby to increase its claim to psychological adequacy. (Mackenzie 2000: 34)

Mackenzie (forthcoming) gives a more detailed account of how this might be done. He, like Hengeveld, takes the speaker’s move as a point of departure. Each move consists of one or more acts, and each act corresponds, in the unmarked case, to a single intonation unit, though many factors can intervene to motivate other alignments. Consider the following example: (10) Oh, God, please help her. (BNC CR6 3734) We can analyse this as a move consisting of two acts: the first, A1 , is realised by oh, God, expressing shock, and the second, A2 , is characterised as a request.19 A1 is a simple act, in that it consists only of a single focused element; A2 , on the other hand, is a complex act, involving a subact of reference (to an unspecified but definite female human being)20 and one of predication, treated as a type of attribution as in Hengeveld’s latest model. Each act, as we have seen, must contain at least an expression with Focus function, realised intonationally in the spoken language: in the first act, God would receive intonational prominence, in the second the prominence would normally fall on help. It is Mackenzie’s contention that the focused element corresponds to the cognitive element which is activated first during production: it is, after all, the getting across of the focused element which justifies the production of the utterance. Associated with the subact in focus (rather than with the entire act) is an ‘illocutionary stance’: in the case of A1 there is just the one element, and the associated illocutionary stance is that of expressing shock or surprise; in A2 , the focused subact of predication is associated with the force of a request. The focused part is supported here by the production of the subact of referring to the textually given referent of her. At the interactional level, then, we may represent the second subact of (10) as in (11) below: (11) (pol M1 : (request A2 : (SA2:1 : (T: help)Foc ), (SA2.2: (R: )))) In this representation the numbered elements labelled SA represent the two subacts, T represents an ascriptive subact and R a referential subact; elements in small capitals represent concepts; the items in bold are operators for politeness and illocutionary stance. The representation of the various acts and subacts at the interactional level is thus linear and intended to reflect the sequence in cognition: Focus subact first, then any sup. Conceivably three acts, if Oh and God are seen as expressing two different acts indicating shock, as could be suggested by the commas which are presumably intended to reflect intonation. . Although the addressee is clearly implicated in the requestive speech act, s/he is not actually referred to in the utterance.

Chapter 4

Discourse, text and context 

porting subacts. The production of the final utterance through the expression component can also be modelled as a linear process, in real time, as shown by the work of Bakker & Siewierska on expression rules (see §3.4 of Part 1, also §4.2.6.3 in the present chapter). Mackenzie holds that some elements of the interactional structure can be sent straight to the expression rules, bypassing the grammar itself: in our example, oh, God is one of a group of stock expressions for expressing shock, while please conventionally realises request status. Mackenzie assumes that such acts do not involve the lexicon, but rather that there is a stock of forms in the expression component which provide the realisation directly. On the other hand, the subacts of reference and predication in A2 need to call upon the representational component, and so do involve the grammar. Mackenzie’s claim is that whereas the interactional and expression components are dynamic and procedural, generating structures in real time, the representational component is static and declarative, providing a set of constraints on the way in which intentions are translated into articulations. In order that the various constraints of the representational component may be satisfied, it will not always be possible to realise cognitively activated elements immediately; instead, they will need to be placed into a buffer until such time as tensions between the various constraints can be resolved. For act A2 in our example, the first cognitively activated element is the predicate HELP. In the lexicon, this is associated with an Agent and a Patient. There is the possibility of using the predicate with an unspecified Patient (giving the utterance Help!), but then there would have been ambiguity as to who needed the help. The speaker’s intention thus requires the explicitation of the Patient. The Agent, though present in the underlying representation, can remain implicit in the final structure, and this is handled by the expression rules for English, as are, for example, the tenseless nature of the imperative and the ordering of the constituents. Mackenzie points out that the contrast between the cognitive priority of focused information and its often late placement in the clause can be understood in terms of the fact that the cognitive identification of material to be focused, and the appropriate selection of lexical items, requires time, while topical information, being already available, can be more quickly accessed and so is naturally generated earlier in the production process.

... Bakker & Siewierska’s speaker model of Functional Grammar Bakker & Siewierska (forthcoming) present a critique of Hengeveld’s Functional Discourse Grammar as presented in Hengeveld (forthcoming a) and suggest modifications which permit the synthesis of this model with Bakker & Siewierska’s own model of the expression component (see §3.4 of Part 1), to give a model of discourse production by the speaker. In what follows, Bakker & Siewierska’s critique will be interleaved with Hengeveld’s (forthcoming b) response to both Bakker & Siewierska’s paper and other reactions to the original FDG proposals. Bakker & Siewierska note that Hengeveld’s original proposals for FDG combine aspects of a model of the grammar (specifying the components of the grammar and their interaction) and of the speaker (offering an account of the process of discourse production). They point out that nothing is said about the genesis of the structures proposed

 Structure and Function

within the linguistic component, or about the psychological status of these structures. Furthermore, the grammar, taken to encompass the interpersonal, representational and expression levels, is seen as separate from the cognition and communicative context components,21 while the communicative competence of the language user is in the cognitive component. Bakker & Siewierska deduce that the interpersonal, representational and expression levels are therefore just levels of representation. On the other hand, the cognitive component contains the entire store of the speaker’s knowledge in long-term memory, and the communicative context component deals with aspects of the ongoing discourse stored in short-term memory, with a link to the cognitive component to facilitate feedback during monitoring of output, enabling certain features of past discourse units to be available to units under planning. Furthermore, the interpersonal level, which Bakker & Siewierska characterise as pragmatic, and the representational level, seen as semantic, have independent links to the final output via the expression rules, so making it possible to test the model in terms of its performance properties, via the pragmatics/expression link. On these grounds, then, Bakker & Siewierska see Hengeveld’s proposals as, at least in part, a model of the speaker. Hengeveld (forthcoming b) makes it clear that FDG is intended as a model of linguistic patterning rather than of the processes of language production and understanding, although it can be given a dynamic interpretation which is intended to reflect the language production process. Bakker & Siewierska go on to make a number of modifications to FDG whose aim is to increase its plausibility as a model of discourse production by the speaker. They point out that as there is, in principle, no limit to the complexity of a speaker’s move, because of the possibility of recursion, it is unlikely that all individual moves will fit, in their entirety, into short-term memory, since this has been shown to be capable of holding information relevant to only a short stretch of language, taking a few seconds of time. Bakker & Siewierska in fact prefer to use the more dynamic concept of ‘working memory’, and assume that this is where information from the three linguistic levels is at least partially held, together with the rules required to work on this information. The grammar and lexicon, together with the various mental models needed, are stored in ‘semantic memory’ and information on events in ‘event memory’, both being components of long term memory storage. Bakker & Siewierska also suggest that a preliminary version of the content to be communicated is present in semantic memory, but that there is a feedback loop from the semantics of the utterance, at the representational level, which updates the version stored in semantic memory. Bakker & Siewierska also observe that although the representations at the representational and expression levels can be fairly clearly characterised, the first in terms of the FG underlying structure of the clause up to the propositional layer, the second in terms of Bakker & Siewierska’s own proposals for expression rules, representations at the interpersonal level are less clear. Hengeveld models them in much the same way as the representa. Bakker & Siewierska refer to the cognitive and communicative context components as ‘modules’, but as we saw in §4.2.5.3 Hengeveld uses this term to refer to the three levels of the linguistic component. I shall continue to use the term ‘component’ here.

Chapter 4

Discourse, text and context 

tional structure, in terms of variables and operators, together with reference to speech act participants. The acts of reference and ascription which form the core of an act, however, achieve semantic status only through being projected on to the representational level, and it is the nature of this relationship which Bakker & Siewierska feel to be unclear. They themselves propose that utterance planning proceeds in terms of abstract concepts which are highly independent of the particular language being used, and that mapping between the interpersonal and representational levels involves the translation of these concepts into predicates of the language by means of the meaning definitions of the lexicon. As we saw in §4.2.5.3, the revised FDG model in Hengeveld (forthcoming b) takes on board the abstract concepts involved in utterance planning, in the form of the new conceptual level in the model. Bakker & Siewierska’s own speaker model is based on the hierarchy from pragmatics, through semantics, to form. They propose that in the production of a move, information on the pragmatic aspects begins to be sent from the interpersonal level to working memory, at which point the semantic (representational) level begins to operate on this information. At the same time, the interpersonal structure is further developed. When the first packet of information, probably corresponding to something of the size of an information/intonation unit (or perhaps even smaller on occasions), has been processed semantically, the expression component begins to work on this material, while the semantics starts work on the second packet delivered from the pragmatics. These ideas are reflected in the dynamic implementation of the revised FDG model in Hengeveld (forthcoming b), in which the different levels of the model operate simultaneously, though with lower levels lagging slightly behind upper levels: for instance, only when a particular choice at the interpersonal level has been made can the representational level be activated to select appropriate elements at that level; similarly, the structural level is activated when there is enough information from both the interpersonal and representational levels to allow the formation of grammatical structures. In Bakker & Siewierska’s scheme, information from the interpersonal and (especially) the representational level is fed back into semantic memory, where it is used by a process which builds up a picture of the whole discourse. However, very little information from the expression level is fed back to the store, since it is known that language users tend to remember the content rather than the form of what is said. Bakker & Siewierska point out that their model is perfectly compatible with the idea that much of what we say, at least in conversation, is incomplete, both in terms of move and act structure, and in terms of the ‘normalised’ grammar. It thus fits well with, for example, Mackenzie’s claim for the holophrase as a basic unit from which fuller utterances can be derived. The tendency towards incompleteness can be seen, in processing terms, as arising from the limitations of working memory. Bakker & Siewierska provide a detailed illustration of how their proposals might work, on the basis of a single move from authentic conversational data.

... Gómez-González’s Functional Cognitive Discourse Grammar model Gómez-González (forthcoming), building on Hengeveld’s Functional Discourse Grammar, Nuyts’ Functional Procedural Grammar and Mackenzie’s Incremental Functional

 Structure and Function

Grammar, but also incorporating elements from Langacker’s Cognitive Grammar, proposes a further model of discourse production in which packets of information are generated incrementally. Such packets of information are, in the unmarked case, coextensive with intonation units, and are seen as contextually and co-textually delimited events organised along the two dimensions of conceptualisation and expression. The expression level involves expressive devices of all kinds: segmental, suprasegmental, paralinguistic, kinesic. At the conceptual level is modelled the interlocutors’ perception of what, borrowing from Cognitive Linguistics, Gómez-González calls the ground, including the speech event itself, the speaker(s) and addressee(s) and the immediate circumstances surrounding the speech event. Also part of the conceptual level is the Cognitive Discourse Space, representing all those entities and relations regarded as shared by the interlocutors at a particular moment in the progression of the discourse, including the context of speech, at the centre of which is the ground as defined above. As the discourse proceeds, so the focus of attention of the participants changes, so that the ‘camera angle’ from which the discourse is viewed alters, and the discourse is structured in terms of separate attentional units or episodes. There may be unmarked and marked choices of attentional framing. One important area of the ‘mental scanning’ involved in such processes is the information structuring choices made. Gómez-González’s proposals in this area were reviewed in Chapter 2.

... The separation of pattern and process: Fortescue’s account Mackenzie’s Incremental Functional Grammar can be seen as an attempt to remodel the (discourse) grammar itself in such a way that it is sensitive to processing considerations. Fortescue (forthcoming), on the other hand, believes that it is important to maintain a clear separation between what he calls ‘pattern’ and ‘process’ perspectives on FG.22 He bases this claim on data from the Nootka language of Western Canada, which shows an allpervasive effect of context on form. For instance, the element chosen as the main predicate in a Nootka clause, which is placed initially and receives a certain degree of emphasis, can be something corresponding to an adverbial or even a quantifier, the choice being determined by the degree of ‘newsworthiness’ in the discourse context, which is not reducible to a simple dichotomy of Focus vs. non-Focus pragmatic function. In this and other respects, discourse pragmatics penetrates right down into the linguistic structure, even determining the choice of basic predicates and arguments, so that treatment in terms of discourse and grammatical modules would either have to assign an uncomfortably large proportion of the morphosyntax to a discourse module, or allow factors such as ‘newsworthiness’ to determine low-level grammatical phenomena such as predicate selection. Fortescue maintains that a more acceptable solution is to recognise separate pattern and process interpretations. In terms of pattern, Nootka can be described in terms of the grammatical templates it allows, taking account of the fact that the link between individual lexical predicates and the types of States of Affairs in which they can be used is much looser in Nootka than, for example, in English. However, the selection of a partic. For further discussion of pattern and process as complementary perspectives, see Fortescue (2000).

Chapter 4


ular element to act as main predicate is a matter of process, subject to a complex set of contextual factors which we may encapsulate in the term ‘newsworthiness’. Process is seen in terms of actual entities rather than variables, and as conditioned by a complex, interlocking set of communicational intentions. Fortescue sees pattern and process in terms of complementarity rather than as aspects of a unitary model or separate modules on the same ontological plane.

.

Discourse, text and context in Role and Reference Grammar Although no model of discourse or of text structure as such has been developed within RRG, Van Valin & LaPolla assign a key role in the theory to discourse pragmatics: . . . one of the things our inquiry has revealed is how discourse-pragmatics, often but not always in the guise of information structure, literally permeates grammar. That is, factors relating to information flow, the cognitive status of referents, and other aspects of discourse pragmatics can interact with and affect grammar at all levels. (Van Valin & LaPolla 1997: 428)

This interpenetration of discourse pragmatics and grammar was evident throughout the discussion of information structuring in §2.3. In the present section I shall endeavour to bring together the main areas of RRG where discourse-related factors are crucially involved. The discussion will follow the lines suggested in Van Valin & LaPolla’s Figure 7.35 (1997: 429), intended to illustrate the pervasive part played by discourse pragmatics in grammar. In §2.3.1 we saw that RRG has taken over, and expanded, Lambrecht’s model of the cognitive status of referents in the speaker’s mind (see Lambrecht 1994; LaPolla 1995). Referents are, at any particular moment in the ongoing construction of the discourse, unidentifiable (either anchored to some more easily identifiable referent or not) or identifiable, and if the latter, then active, accessible (textually, situationally or inferentially) or inactive (see Van Valin & LaPolla’s Figure 5.1, 1997: 201). The activation status of referents can have effects on focus structure, the selection of Privileged Syntactic Arguments (controllers and pivots), the choice of syntactic templates, and lexical choice. Consider the following example: (12) What did you give her? (BNC BNG 612) The constituent and focus structure projections for this sentence are shown in (13). Note that since it is the function of this type of wh-question to ask for information about a referent whose identity is unknown, the referent of what must be unidentifiable (UNID) to the speaker. In other words, the cognitive status of the referent is part of what determines the selection of the particular syntactic template for this construction. Furthermore, activation status affects the selection of items from the lexicon to fill the NP positions: a pronoun can be selected only if its referent is at least accessible (ACS), if not currently active as the focus of consciousness (ACV). The addressee is a situational given, so the most



 Structure and Function

normal form of reference is the second person pronoun you; but in order for her to be used as the second argument of give, its referent must also be accessible. (13)

SENTENCE

Syntatic inventory

CLAUSE PrCS

CORE ARG

NUC

ARG

PRED NP

WhatUNID

NP

did youACV  

V

NP

give

herACS

Lexicon

Focus structure

As an example of the interaction of focus structure with constructional templates and with the lexicon, and the relationship of both with the structure of the discourse, we may take presentational constructions, used in the discourse to present a referent as new on the discourse scene, as illustrated from English in (14) and (15) below. (14) But there came a point when beautiful stories and analogies wore thin. (BNC A0L 2475) (15) Into this climate came Channel 4, . . . (BNC ATA 249) This type of construction obligatorily takes sentence focus, so that the constructional template must reflect this (see Van Valin & LaPolla 1997: 235). As Lambrecht (1987: 193, cited in Van Valin & LaPolla 1997: 429) observes, many languages impose constraints on the kinds of verb which can appear in presentational constructions: came in the above examples is one of a small range of intransitive verbs which have as part of their meaning the appearance or disappearance of some referent in relation to the discourse setting. The interaction of focus structure, constructional template and lexicon for example (15) is shown in (16).

Discourse, text and context 

Chapter 4

(16)

SENTENCE

Syntatic inventory

CLAUSE CORE AAJ

NUC

ARG

PRED PP

V

NP

Into this climate

came

Channel 4

speech act

Lexicon

Focus structure

A further example of the importance of activation status in relation to grammar and discourse can be seen in the area of voice choices. Consider example (17): (17) The buildings derived their interest from these towers and from the complex interrelationship of the elements. In architectural detail they were austere, with surfaces rendered in adobe and roofed in tiles. The style was given a powerful fillip by the expositions held at San Francisco and San Diego in 1915 to celebrate the opening of the Panama Canal. As a result, a new interest in the Latin American world led to the Spanish style finding favour until the 1930s. (BNC AR0 871–874) The choice of the passive voice for the main clause of the sentence in bold type is motivated by the need to adapt the information structure to the flow of the discourse. The referent of the style is to be found in the description of architectural details from the previous sentence, and is activated in the writer’s mind, acting as the primary topical participant. The passive construction not only allows this topical participant to be coded as Privileged Syntactic Argument, but also permits focus on the by-phrase, serving to mark this as the most salient information. The consequences flowing from this information are then taken up in turn in the following sentence. As Van Valin & LaPolla (1997: 429) point out, a device such as that in (17) would not be possible in a language such as Lakhota, in which Privileged Syntactic Argument modulation of this kind, with a Recipient as pivot/controller, is not allowed. In such a language, a lexical alternative would have to be found, e.g. an equivalent of the style received a powerful fillip. As a final example of the interaction of grammar and discourse patterning, let us look briefly at reference tracking devices in different types of language. Van Valin & LaPolla (1997: 287) distinguish two types of reference tracking systems: switch-function and switch-reference. In a switch-function system, one participant is tracked by being re-

 Structure and Function

alised as syntactic pivot throughout a stretch of discourse and any change in semantic function is indicated through the verbal system. An example from English is given in (18). (18) Drew became less punctual, he muffed his lines, and was often replaced by an understudy. (BNC ANK 550) The topical Privileged Syntactic Argument of the first clause, Drew, is taken up again by an anaphoric pronoun as the PSA of the second clause, and then by zero anaphora in the third; since English is an accusative language, the active voice in the second clause indicates that the PSA is the Actor, while in the third clause the passive shows that the PSA is the Undergoer. In an ergative language such as Dyirbal, the default is for the Undergoer to be the PSA, and when there is a switch to the Actor as PSA, this is marked by the verbal system. In switch-reference systems, usually found in verb-final languages, a morpheme at the end of one clause indicates whether the PSA of the next clause will have the same referent as that of the current clause. Van Valin & LaPolla give an example from the Native American language Zuni, which is reproduced below. (19) (= Van Valin & LaPolla’s (6.58), 1997: 287) proi kwato-p proj An lelonal-kwin proi te’ci-nan lelo-nan arrive-SP box-inside enter-DfP his box-at an-alt-u-nan proj iteh-k’aia-kae indirective-be-closed-cause-SP throw-river-past ‘Hei came to where the box was lying; hei entered the box and hej (the other) closed it for himi and proj threw it into the river.’ The suffix -nan in the first and third clauses indicates that the following clause has the same pivot (SP), while -p on the verb of the second clause shows that the next clause has a different pivot (DfP). Van Valin & LaPolla (1997: 288–289) also discuss languages, such as the Algonquian group, in which third person referents are assigned different degrees of topicality by means of morphological devices which mark one such referent as being topical. They also mention languages such as Yateé Zapotec which use noun classification systems to help track referents. Although Van Valin & LaPolla do not deal in any detail with the discourse functions of grammatical systems for reference tracking, such functions have been explored in detail in other frameworks (see, for example, the work of Givón (e.g. 1983a, 1990, 1995) and other West Coast Functionalists23 ).

. Although such approaches, for reasons explained in Chapter 2 of Part 1, lie outside our present remit, a comparison with RRG would be an interesting exercise.

Discourse, text and context 

Chapter 4

.

Discourse, text and context in Systemic Functional Grammar

.. Introduction We have seen throughout Parts 1 and 2 of this work that the highest priority in SFG is to give an account of the resources available to speakers and writers for the construction of texts. This concern permeates the whole of systemic thinking, and strongly conditions the kind of analysis proposed, just as the concern of FG and RRG for typological adequacy greatly influences the nature of the proposals in those theories. We can nevertheless pick out a few areas, from the discussion so far, where there is a particularly clear orientation towards discourse as manifest in text. •

•

•

As shown in §1.4.1.1, the account of mood and its underlying semantics in Hallidayan SFG is explicitly related to the construction of spoken text, in that the four basic types of speech function recognised (statement, question, offer, command) are related to the speech roles set up in dialogue, and sets of what in other theories would be called ‘adjacency pairs’ are formed by the pairing of each primary speech function with its expected reaction (e.g. question + answer), or with a dispreferred (e.g. challenging) reaction (e.g. question + disclaimer). As discussed at some length in §2.4.1.7, the meanings of the categories of Theme and Rheme, also Given and New, are closely bound up with the functioning of these elements in the construction of texts. Also strongly linked with the structuring and typology of texts in Sydney SFG is the concept of grammatical metaphor, which has been mentioned at various points in our discussion, but is perhaps seen at its clearest in Halliday’s treatment of nominalisation (see §7.2.3.6 of Part 1).

In what follows, I shall concentrate on further aspects of discourse and text, grammar and meaning in Sydney SFG. I shall first make some brief general comments about work on cohesion, starting with a book which has been highly influential in later studies, Halliday & Hasan’s Cohesion in English (1976). I shall then look at SFG work on discourse and text under two broad headings: discourse and text in relation to metafunction (experiential and logical components of the ideational function, interpersonal and textual), and relationships between discourse, text and context. I shall then give a brief summary of work on discourse and text in the Cardiff version of SFG.

.. Texts and cohesion: An initial orientation The work of Halliday & Hasan (1976) is still widely regarded as a very important contribution to our knowledge of how cohesion works in English texts. A text is defined there as “any passage, spoken or written, of whatever length, that does form a unified whole” (Halliday & Hasan 1976: 1). The authors are at pains to point out that the text is a semantic unit, and that texts do not consist of, but rather are realised by, clauses or sentences

 Structure and Function

(p. 2). Cohesion is seen as one of the two factors24 which confer on a stretch of English the property of ‘texture’, that is, of being a text rather than just a concatenation of sentences. Halliday & Hasan claim that since readers are able to judge whether a particular stretch of English does indeed constitute a text, there must be linguistic properties which serve to distinguish texts from non-texts. Cohesion is thus seen as a semantic relation within the language system itself and is defined as follows: Cohesion occurs where the interpretation of some element in the discourse is dependent on that of another. The one presupposes the other, in the sense that it cannot be effectively decoded except by recourse to it. (Halliday & Hasan 1976: 4, emphasis in original)

The relationship between two units which show this kind of dependence is known as a (cohesive) tie. As cohesion is concerned with what distinguishes a text from a non-text, it is clearly part of the textual metafunction. It differs, however, from other aspects of the textual function, such as Theme/Rheme or Given/New, in being non-structural: cohesive ties are not confined to some grammatical unit such as the clause or even the sentence, but can occur between as well as within sentences, and may indeed involve items which are quite far apart in the text. Halliday later expresses this as follows: . . . a very wide range of semantic relationships is encoded through the clause complex. But in order to construct discourse we need to be able to establish additional relations within the text that are not subject to these limitations; relations that may involve elements of any extent, both smaller and larger than clauses, from single words to lengthy passages of text; and that may hold across gaps of any extent, both within the clause and beyond it, without regard to the nature of whatever intervenes. This cannot be achieved by grammatical structure; it depends on a resource of a rather different kind. These non-structural resources for discourse are what are referred to by the term cohesion. (Halliday 1985a: 288, repeated with minor variation in 1994a: 309)

Halliday & Hasan themselves normally discuss examples of cohesion between, rather than within, sentences, arguing that “cohesive ties between sentences stand out more clearly because they are the only source of texture, whereas within the sentence there are the structural relations as well” (p. 9, emphasis in original). Halliday & Hasan (pp. 18–19) observe that although cohesion is defined as a potential, a set of devices which constitute one factor in making a text hang together, the actualisation of these devices in the creation of an actual text is a dynamic process. This is echoed in Halliday’s later comment that “[c]ohesion is, of course, a process, because discourse itself is a process” (Halliday 1985a: 290, 1994a: 311). Several types of cohesive device are recognised:25 . The other factor involved in texture is coherence with respect to the context of situation, and will be discussed later. . For further comments on these types of cohesive device within the framework of Semiotic Grammar, see McGregor (1997: 311–339).

Discourse, text and context 

Chapter 4

• • • • •

Reference: by means of personal pronouns, demonstratives, comparatives (a semantic relation).26 Substitution: the replacement of one item (nominal, verbal, clausal) by another (a grammatical relation). Ellipsis: omission of an item, nominal verbal or clausal (equivalent to substitution by zero). Conjunction: by conjunctions and adverbials (therefore, nevertheless, on the contrary, etc.) Lexical cohesion: reiteration by means of the same word, a synonym or near synonym, a superordinate or a general word (e.g. thing); collocation.

I shall refer to each of these types at appropriate points in what follows. For now, though, it should be noted that Halliday & Hasan’s proposals, though eagerly taken up by many whose interest lay in the description of texts, also attracted criticism from various quarters. A summary of criticisms which arose after the publication of Cohesion in English can be found in Butler (1985a: 183–188). We shall meet some of them in our discussion of particular types of cohesion. One aspect of Halliday & Hasan’s account of cohesion which has been queried even from within SFG is the line they draw between grammar (structural) and cohesion (nonstructural). We shall see, especially when examining conjunctive relations, that there are very clear and close parallels to be drawn between intrasentential and intersentential types of relationship, so that, as Martin has pointed out, their account “fails to bring out the continuity between the structural [. . . ] and non-structural [. . . ] resources” (Martin 1992a: 19). As we shall see, Martin’s own discourse semantics model is able to generalise across environments to include structural and non-structural relations.

.. Discourse and text in relation to metafunction In examining the relationship of grammar and meaning to discourse and text in SFG, a useful framework is the metafunctional organisation which, as we have repeatedly seen, pervades both the lexicogrammatical and the semantic levels.27 Lexical cohesion is predominantly related to the experiential content of a text; on the other hand, the organ. Halliday’s use of the term ‘reference’ clearly differs from the uses to be found in the majority of the literature – see later. . The idea that the discourse semantics is metafunctionally organised goes back to the early 1980s work of Hasan on a semantic network for the analysis of mother-child interaction, summarised in Hasan (1996). Hasan postulates a rank scale of semantic units consisting of the whole text, ‘rhetorical units’ within the text (see Cloran 1994), message, and what Cloran calls ‘message component’, which Hasan characterises as a ‘text radical’. At message rank, she distinguishes, in what she calls ‘progressive’ messages (those realised through a major clause in the lexicogrammar), four types of system: classification (realised through, for example, transitivity), seen as experiential; amplification (realised through, for example, expansion), regarded as logical; role allocation (realised through mood), which is interpersonal; and continuation (realised through, for instance, cohesion), labelled as textual.

 Structure and Function

isation of, say, a conversation or a school class discussion into units such as discourse acts, moves and exchanges, is related to the interpersonal function. Questions of reference, substitution and ellipsis are concerned with ways in which discourse referents are represented, so orienting these areas towards the textual function; conjunctive devices, on the other hand, are by and large those which can also operate within the clause complex, as part of organisation within the logical function. This way of organising the discussion will inevitably ‘leak’, in that particular areas can often be seen from more than one functional viewpoint, but this is only to be expected in view of the fact, amply demonstrated throughout our discussions of SFG, that the metafunctions themselves cannot be regarded as watertight compartments into which the lexicogrammar and semantics can be conveniently parcelled.

... Discourse and text in relation to the experiential function .... Experiential cohesive relations in Halliday & Hasan’s Cohesion in English. Although cohesion itself is seen by Halliday & Hasan as belonging to the textual component, the items on which it operates themselves have ideational meaning. In this section I shall deal with cohesion in relation to the experiential component of ideational meaning; §4.4.3.4 will deal with the logical component. Below is a passage from an article in the travel section of The Sunday Times, cited as part of the British National Corpus. The topic of the article is a Tibetan ‘sky burial’. (20) At this point the butcher, turning to the vultures, calls: Shoo- Tzshoo - At the signal about a dozen vultures, the vanguard, leave the mountains and swoop onto the rock. The butcher throws them bits of flesh as they gather around him. They are huge beautiful birds with white necks and legs, and speckled tan and white bodies. Their wings flutter and spread to reveal white undersides and dark brown tips. Some are so close that we can see their bright blue eyes. The boy bundles the chopped organs into a cloth. Several vultures try to steal bits of flesh from the boy. The butcher chases them off the rock with kicks and abusive shouts, as though punishing them for bad behaviour. The boy carries the bundle off the rock, the two men accompany him. Then the butcher, facing the mountains, addresses the vultures in a shrill sing-song voice, calling, Tria- soya - tria- Suddenly hundreds of birds fill the sky, hover in a quivering cloud above our heads, their wings beating a nervous fluttering sound, and descend on the rock, completely covering it. As the vultures vie for space, the ravens cling to the edges. The butcher serves the preparation of flesh, bones and tzampa. The tzampa has been added to make the mixture more palatable, for it is a bad omen if anything is left uneaten. The vultures eat greedily, fighting over scraps, slipping off the rock in their haste to consume. The ravens, uninvited guests, must be content to scramble at the outer edges, snapping up any morsels the vultures accidentally drop. At this point several Westerners attempt to photograph the vultures. The butcher becomes incensed. Leaping off the rock, he rushes at two German girls, brandishing his knife and shouting. He points the knife at the heart of one of the girls. Livid with rage, he grabs their cameras and rips the film from them, tearing it to shreds and

Chapter 4

Discourse, text and context 

throwing it in the fire. The other cameras are quickly hidden. The birds finish eating but do not leave the rock. They flutter about nervously in staccato hops. I wonder why they linger. The answer comes quickly. The bundle of organs is returned to the rock. They have been waiting for these choice morsels – dessert. They voraciously consume every last bit. Finally the feast is over. The vultures take to the sky bearing the deceased with them, upwards to the heavens. The rock is empty. An hour ago there was a body on the rock; now there is nothing. The butcher sits with the other Tibetans around the fire in animated discussion. There is no sign of mourning, no tears, no wailing, no prayers. Except for the two men, there are no family or friends present. Attending a sky burial for a Tibetan must be the equivalent of going to the morgue for a Westerner. (BNC ARB 2311–2348) In this passage, we can find examples of most of the types of lexical cohesion discussed by Halliday & Hasan. Exact lexical repetition is evident in the many occurrences of items such as butcher, vulture, boy, rock; the use of words of very similar meaning is illustrated by eat/consume, sky/heavens and bits/scraps; the superordinate birds is used to refer to the more specific vultures.28 In many cases, the relevant nominal groups have the same referent, as in the case of the reiterations of the butcher; in other cases, there is no identity of referent, and yet cohesion is still achieved because the referents are from the same class of entities, as is the case with, for example, their cameras/the other cameras and the other Tibetans/a Tibetan. We also have a number of examples of collocational patterning in which reference is made to members of related sets, e.g. the necks, legs, wings and eyes of the vultures (which are parts of their bodies), the tips and undersides of the wings. There are also collocations between items with rather looser semantic links, such as mourning, tears, wailing, prayers, burial, morgue. Halliday & Hasan (1976: 286) observe that “[i]t is very common for long cohesive chains to be built up out of lexical relations of this kind”. I shall examine such chaining in the next section. First, however, we must deal with a criticism of the Cohesion in English account which, although actually relevant to the whole question of cohesion and its importance, can be discussed most easily in relation to lexical cohesive relations. Halliday & Hasan insist that patterns of lexical cohesion do not exist by virtue of any referential relationship, but rather that “cohesion exists as a direct relation between the forms themselves” (1976: 284). They explicitly reject any implication that cohesion is nothing more than the result of a tendency for consistency of topic (p. 288). This claim is disputed by Morgan & Sellner (1980: 181), who see cohesion as “an epiphenomenon of coherence of content”, effects rather than causes of coherence. Counter-arguments are, however, possible: in Butler (1985a: 187) I point out that Halliday & Hasan (1976: 289) are right in saying that the foregoing lexical . Although the hyponym/superordinate relation is treated as one kind of ‘repetition’ in Cohesion in English, and synonymy or near-synonymy as another, Halliday later treats both of these, and also meronymy (part–whole relations), as types of synonymy, reserving the term ‘repetition’ for repeated occurrence of the same lexical item (which may take different morphological forms) (Halliday 1985a: 310–312, 1994a: 330– 333).

 Structure and Function

environment of an item “frequently provides a great deal of hidden information that is relevant to the interpretation of the item concerned”. If I walk into a room where a conversation is going on, and I hear, in fairly close proximity, the words bowl, run, over and gully, the collocation of these items orients me quickly towards the field of cricket, even though each of the isolated items would give little away, having other meanings unrelated to the game of cricket. It is, however, doubtful that the hearer or reader is dependent on overtly signalled cohesive devices in order to find coherence in a text, as Halliday & Hasan appear to believe. Brown & Yule (1983: 196), for instance, give convincing examples of sequences of sentences which are readily interpreted as texts but contain no explicitly marked cohesive ties, and others which, despite a rich network of such ties, are not easily perceivable as coherent. They articulate what seems to be a very reasonable view, that “[t]exts are what hearers and readers treat as texts” (p. 199) and that in trying to interpret a passage, we “try to build a coherent picture of the series of events being described and fit the events together, rather than work with the verbal connections alone” (p. 197, emphasis in original).

.... Lexical chains. In later work by Hasan (see especially 1984a, 1985a) on ‘cohesive harmony’, the original categories of cohesion are extended and refined.29 Cohesive relations are categorised as either componential (concerned with the parts of messages) or organic (concerned with relationships between messages). Organic relations include conjunctives (conjunction in the earlier model) and also adjacency pairs in the textual trace of a discourse. Componential relations are grammatical or lexical. Grammatical componential relations can involve coreference (usually realised through the cohesive device termed ‘reference’ in the 1976 model, though it can also involve lexical reiteration) or coclassification, a relationship between items whose referents are different but belong to the same class (usually realised by ‘substitution’ or ‘ellipsis’). Lexical componential relations can also realise the category of coextension, in which two items belong to the same semantic area. Lexical relationships can be general to the language under analysis, or instantial, arising only through the local conditions within a text (e.g. the possible use of an equivalence between my mother and Mary in a text written by me, but not in one written by someone whose mother’s name is not Mary). General relations are exact lexical repetition and the frequently discussed semantic relations of synonymy, antonymy, hyponymy and meronymy; instantial relations are divided into those of equivalence, naming and semblance (e.g. as set up by similes in the text). Hasan (1984a) goes on to use the above classification in an exploration of the concept of lexical chain which, as pointed out earlier, was mentioned in the 1976 account. Relations of coreferentiality give rise to identity chains, and those of coclassification and coextension to similarity chains. A preliminary step in analysis is the replacing of pronouns by the lexical expression with which they form a tie, and the similar filling in of substitutions and ellipsis, these processes being known as ‘lexical rendering’. Items participating in lexi. The following summary is based on that given in Butler (1989).

Discourse, text and context 

Chapter 4

cal chains are relevant tokens, others are peripheral tokens. Hasan demonstrates that the proportion of relevant tokens in a text is not a sufficient predictor of readers’ judgments of text coherence, but that we can obtain interesting correlations with coherence judgments if we look at properties connected with the interaction between chains. Two chains interact if there are at least two items in one chain which stand in the same transitivity relation to items in the second chain, for instance in terms of Actor – material Process – Goal, or Senser – mental Process – Phenomenon. An example of a simple chain interaction is given in (21). (21) You like coffee? Or you prefer something stronger? (BNC FPM 1076–1077) The relationships involved may be diagrammed as in (22): (22)

Senser Mental process Phenomenon you like coffee you prefer something stronger

Relevant tokens which are members of interacting chains are labelled as central, others as non-central. Any chain which interacts with a large number of others is focal. Hasan proposes and tests several hypotheses about the relationship between perceived coherence and the various ratios of central, peripheral, relevant and total tokens in a text. The results emphasise the importance of the central/total and central/peripheral ratios in the achievement of coherence. The work of Parsons (1990, 1991) tests and, where necessary, modifies Hasan’s claims in relation to written production by native and non-native writers of English. Fries (2002b) also examines lexical chains and their interaction, as well as relationships between type of Theme (person, time, thing, etc.) and ‘information type’ (event, potential event, setting, evaluation), in a discussion of aspects of conversational coherence. Hoey (1991) seeks to provide a complementary perspective to Hasan’s work on coherence and cohesive harmony. He investigates interactions between sentences which form part of interacting chains in a passage of political philosophy and a newspaper item, and finds that sentences which are connected by a number of ties which is above the average for the text have related messages. Hoey postulates a number of coherence processes which create the cohesion of sentences with significant cohesion. He also raises the question as to whether the chains postulated by Hasan have any psychological validity as part of a mechanism for processing during reading and writing.

.... Martin’s ‘ideation’. Martin (1992a: Chapter 5) presents an extremely detailed account of ideational lexical relations, both systemic and structural, in English text, building on the work of Halliday and of Hasan. The following comments are of necessity extremely brief, and readers are recommended to read Martin’s original work for further detail. Martin (p. 293) sets up a semantic unit of message part, which underlies the lexical item and enters into cohesive lexical relations. The concept of message part is linked to the contextual parameter of field, which will be discussed further in §4.4.4: for now, let us take the definition by Halliday from which Martin (p. 291) himself starts:

 Structure and Function

The field of discourse refers to what is happening, to the nature of the social action that is taking place: what is it that the participants are engaged in, in which the language figures as some essential component? (Halliday 1985b: 12)

This concept of field is developed by Martin in terms of “sets of activity sequences oriented to some global institutional purpose” (p. 292), these sequences being further decomposed as follows: i. ii.

taxonomies of actions, people, places, things and qualities configurations of actions with people, places, things and qualities and of people, places and things with qualities. iii. activity sequences of these configurations (Martin 1992a: 292)

A message part is then seen as realising one of the taxonomising features, one of the actions entering into activity sequences, or one of the associated qualities. Consider (23): (23) The batter hit the ball well. (BNC CGA 281) Here, we have simple expression of the message part ‘person’ as batter, ‘action’ as hit, ‘thing’ as ball, and ‘quality’ as well. More complex lexical realisations of message parts are also possible (e.g. cricket ball instead of just ball). Martin uses these three main categories to develop his networks for lexical relations, with examples mainly from texts where the language mirrors iconically the action which is going on. Taxonomic relations (pp. 294–304) are divided into a superordination types, based on subclassification, and a composition type, based on the relationship between the whole and its parts. For instance, the overall category of classical music might be divided into various cross-cutting subcategories (e.g. orchestral, chamber, solo; mediaeval, baroque, classical, romantic, impressionist, etc.), and these subcategories, or combinations of them, into finer categories (e.g. chamber music into duos, trios, quartets, quintets, etc.; orchestral music of the romantic period into tone poems as well as the symphonies, overtures and other genres which it shares with the classical period; and so on). Such relationships are of the superordination type. On the other hand, composition relationships organise people, places and things, still in relation to a particular field such as that of classical music, by means of part/whole rather than class. An example of such a relationship would be that of the organisation of a classical orchestra: we might first distinguish between those with management functions and the players themselves, and within players between those in the string, woodwind, brass and percussion sections, arranged in particular conventional spatial configurations, with more delicate subdivisions within each category. Superordination relationships are divided into those of classification, contrast and similarity. Classification involves relations of hyponymy, superordinacy and the like (e.g. flute and clarinet are co-hyponyms of the superordinate woodwind instrument). Contrast can be binary (e.g. converses such as buy/sell, gradable antonyms such as long/short or complementaries such as male/female) or non-binary (scales such as that from hot, through warm, etc., to cold; or non-gradable ranks such as morpheme, word, group, clause in SFG). Similarity can be subdivided into synonymy (and here Martin distinguishes

Chapter 4

Discourse, text and context 

an experiential type (e.g. big/large) and an attitudinal type (e.g. beat/trounce)30 ), and repetition of the same lexical item, with or without morphological variation. Composition relationships (pp. 294–325) are, as we have seen, based on the part/whole relationship we call meronymy. Martin proposes three basic types: collective, constitution and consistency. Collective relationships are those which are concerned with aggregates (e.g. flock – sheep), while consistency relations are to do with the material of which an object is made (e.g. spoon – wooden). For constitution, Martin postulates two simultaneous subsystems: co-meronymy vs. meronymy, and alienable vs. inalienable. For instance, door and window name different parts of a house (co-meronymy), and a house may be part of a village (meronymy). The relationship of inalienability can be illustrated by means of the pair teapot – spout, while that of alienability is exemplified by bush – garden. Let us now turn to relationships involving configurations (pp. 309–325) which Martin terms nuclear. Martin’s strategy here is to attempt to penetrate further into what has usually been looked at in terms of collocation, by analysing the semantic relationships involved, making use of the general logico-semantic relations of elaboration, extension and enhancement (i.e. the three types of expansion which occupy such an important place as ‘fractal’ categories in SFG), as applied to the clause and to nominal and verbal groups. In the clause, this means showing how a process can be elaborated, extended or enhanced through combination with particular types of participant: examples of elaboration would include have – bath, play – chess, tell – tale, where the participant is a Range (see §8.3.1.3.3 of Part 1) which represents the process itself in another way; extension covers cases such as climb – hill, play – trombone, cross – road, where the Range represents an entity showing the extent of the process; enhancement is in terms of items representing circumstantial relations. Within the nominal group, elaboration is found in combinations such as white wine, silk scarf, noun phrase, the back of the building, a kind of spade; extension in structures with epithets which add qualities rather than classify, such as white jacket, square table, excellent meal; and enhancement in qualifiers representing place, time, etc. as in the table in the kitchen, the trouble with John. Elaboration in the verbal group takes the form of phrasal and prepositional verbs such as run over (a plan), look after (one’s children); extension is involved in verbal group complexes such as try to X, succeed in -ing; and enhancement in modification of the process expressed in a verbal group, by means of a manner adverb such as slowly. Relationships involving activity sequences (pp. 321–325) are concerned with expectancy or implication. Expectancy is involved in sequences of events such as those in a game: Martin illustrates this from tennis, in which a match consists of sets, and these of games, involving the scoring of points, which in turn entails the playing of shots. Implication is involved where one event is presented as conditional upon another, and such sequences may then build into more complex ones. Having presented the systemic part of his analysis, Martin (pp. 326–370) goes on to show how the relationships summarised above are involved in the formation of lexical . Note that we are dealing with interpersonal meaning here.

 Structure and Function

chain structures (or, as he calls them, lexical strings) in texts. He discusses the kinds of lexical rendering which are needed, expanding somewhat on Hasan’s procedure. Lexical strings are analysed in terms of a simplified subset of relations which collapses some of the more delicate distinctions discussed above. Each textual analysis involves three passes through the text, each corresponding to one of the three main areas of the systemic network: taxonomic, nuclear and activity relations. In the taxonomic analysis, bidirectional dependency links between message parts are labelled with the type of relation involved. Message parts are related back only to the nearest related message part, although Martin also presents briefly a lattice representation in which all links are shown. Although space does not permit the inclusion of full analyses, we can see that in the passage in example (20), there are numerous lexical strings formed by items in taxonomic relationships, only a few of which I shall comment on here. One consists of the various repetitions (in the lexically rendered text) of the item butcher. Another, more complex string involves repetitions of vultures and their co-occurrence with items in superordination or composition relationships with this term: birds is a hyperonym of vultures, while wings, necks, legs, bodies stand in meronymic relation to vultures, and tips, undersides, in meronymic relation to wings. Further chains are formed by repetitions of rock and of boy, and by the relationships between bits of flesh, scraps and organs. There are also strings involving action processes, such as flutter and eat/consume. These lexical strings interact to give rise to nuclear relationships entering into taxonomic relations with other such relationships: for instance, ‘vultures leave mountains’ and ‘vultures swoop onto rock’ can be regarded as nuclear configurations related as co-meronyms of the overall process of movement involved. Finally, we can recognise a number of activity sequences characterised by the density of particular lexical relationships: the beginning of the passage is concerned with the actions of the butcher and vultures in relation to each other; there follows a descriptive passage centred on the vultures and the parts of their bodies; after a short section centring on the actions of the boy, we return to the butcher and his actions in relation to the vultures; and so on. Martin (pp. 370–372) comments briefly on the similarities and differences between his analysis and Hasan’s work on cohesive harmony. He points out that the aims of the two studies are rather different, Hasan being concerned with developing measures of coherence in texts, while his own analysis is oriented towards exploring cohesion in relation to the field of discourse. Martin also observes that the nuclear relations of his analysis can be used as a measure of the chain interaction which is so important to Hasan’s model. An important difference between the two approaches is that Hasan’s analysis, rooted in lexicogrammar, is based on lexical items, whereas Martin’s account, being explicitly semantic, is concerned with message parts, which may, but need not, consist of individual lexical items. A further consequence of the semantic orientation of Martin’s model is that his nuclear relationships analysis can recognise semantic relationships between stretches of language which differ lexicogrammatically because of the occurrence of grammatical metaphor. Martin (p. 385) also points out that his own model includes collocation as a text-forming resource at the lexicogrammatical level, on the grounds that it is possible

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Discourse, text and context 

that such relations can contribute to texture independently of the semantic relationships which would be predicted by the field of discourse. Martin (p. 433) also points to what he perceives as some limitations in Hasan’s model. Firstly, cohesive harmony measures texture, but does not account for coherence arising from register and genre;31 secondly, it deals only with experiential aspects of texture, leaving out of account the text-forming resources related to other metafunctions; and thirdly, it focuses on Hasan’s ‘componential’ rather than ‘organic’ relations, leaving out relationships concerned with conjunction (see §4.4.3.4.3) and what Martin calls ‘negotiation’ (see §4.4.3.2.2). Martin also feels that coherence judgments, which cohesive harmony is intended to account for, are only one of the concerns of the discourse analyst, beside others such as “the effectiveness of a text in achieving it’s [sic] interlocutors’ social purpose”, and “a text’s role in sustaining culture as a dynamic open system” (p. 433).

... Discourse and text in relation to the interpersonal function .... The Birmingham school of discourse analysis. We saw in §1.4.1.1 that Halliday’s account of speech function proposes what are effectively adjacency pairs, such as Question/Answer or Offer/Acceptance. The principle behind Halliday’s proposal is that the initiating speech act predicts the response, either the default positive kind as in the examples just given, or a dispreferred response, as in Question/Disclaimer or Offer/Refusal. The idea that one discourse act predicts another is also at the heart of the much more sophisticated type of discourse analysis undertaken by the Birmingham school, pioneered in the well-known work by Sinclair & Coulthard on classroom discourse, which is concerned with “the level of the function of a particular utterance, in a particular social situation and at a particular place in a sequence, as a specific contribution to a developing discourse” (Sinclair & Coulthard 1975: 13). This work was clearly influenced by Sinclair’s earlier involvement with the Scale and Category type of Hallidayan linguistics,32 and it is no coincidence that it was carried forward by linguists such as Berry who, as we have seen, are very centrally placed within SFG. The debt to Scale and Category linguistics is particularly clear in the postulation of a rank scale for classroom discourse, consisting of the units lesson, transaction, exchange, move, act. The lower end of the discourse rank scale overlaps with the upper end of the grammatical rank scale, in that “[d]iscourse acts are typically one free clause, plus any subordinate clauses” (p. 23). Each rank of unit, except perhaps the highest, has various classes, each with a range of possible structures, elements of which are realised by members of next lower unit. Classification of a unit “depends on what linguistic items have preceded it, what are expected to follow and what do follow” (p. 34). As an example, a directive functions to request (and therefore expects) a non-linguistic response, whereas an elicitation requests a linguistic response. . See, however, §4.4.4.3. . This relationship is explicitly recognised in Sinclair & Coulthard’s (1975: 20) introduction to their system of analysis.

 Structure and Function

A lesson consists of a series of transactions with no fixed ordering. A transaction consists of at least an element of structure labelled as Preliminary and one labelled as Medial, and may contain a Terminal element. Preliminary and Terminal elements are realised by Boundary exchanges, while Medial elements are realised by Teaching exchanges. Boundary exchanges consist of the elements Frame and Focus, one of which may be missing: Frame elements are realised by Framing moves, and Focus elements by Focusing moves. At primary delicacy, teaching exchanges consist of an Initiation, followed optionally by Response and Feedback elements, though the detailed structures depend on the subclass of teaching exchange (e.g. Teacher Inform, Teacher Direct, Pupil Elicit, etc.). Initiations are realised by Opening moves, Responses by Answering moves, and Feedback by Follow-up moves. Teachers’ Opening moves consist of various specified combinations of the elements of structure signal, pre-head, head, post-head and select: signal elements are realised by the act Marker, pre-head moves by the act Starter, and head moves by Elicitation, Directive, Informative or Check; post-head elements are realised by either Prompt or Clue acts, and select elements by Nomination, optionally preceded by Bid and Cue. Pupils’ Opening moves have a head with optional select before it. Answering moves have a rather simpler structure, consisting of just three elements: optional pre-head, realised by Acknowledge; obligatory head, realised by Reply, React or Acknowledge; and optional post-head, realised by Comment. Follow-up moves have the same basic structure as Answering moves, the pre-head being realised by Accept, the head by Evaluate, and the post-head by Comment. Framing moves have the structure head (realised by Marker) followed by qualifier (realised by a ‘silent stress’). Finally, focusing moves consist of optional signal (realised by Marker), optional pre-head (realised by Starter), obligatory head (realised by either Metastatement or Conclusion) and optional post-head (realised by Comment). Each type of act is provided with a statement giving its functional definition and the types of realisation which are possible: for instance, an Elicitation is realised by a question and is defined as an act whose function is to request a response; a Prompt, on the other hand, is an act which is realised by the closed class go on, come on, hurry up, quickly, and functions to reinforce a previous directive or elicitation, by showing that the teacher is now expecting a response (pp. 40–41). Sinclair & Coulthard’s pioneering work was confined to classroom interaction, a socially important type of discourse with a fairly well-defined structure. It soon led, however, to attempts to apply a similar analytical system to other types of language, some of which were much less clearly structured and necessitated considerable revision and extension of the original model. These developments will not be discussed in detail here: readers are referred to the articles in Coulthard & Montgomery (1981) and Coulthard (1992) for further work on spoken English. I shall confine myself to just two areas which offer expansions of the Sinclar & Coulthard model, though in very different ways. The Sinclair & Coulthard work emphasises syntagmatic discourse relations, and this is perfectly understandable, for two reasons: firstly, it was partly a reaction to speech act theory accounts, one of the problematic aspects of which was precisely their failure to predict restrictions on syntagmatic combinations; secondly, the work was based on the Scale and Category model of grammar, which itself (at least in practice) paid more attention

Chapter 4

Discourse, text and context 

to syntagmatic relations than to paradigmatic patterning. In Butler (1985b) there is an attempt to redress the balance: paradigmatic relations in the area of directive discourse acts are formalised in terms of system networks, and the structural consequences spelled out as realisation rules, the framework being based on the adaptation of the types of rule proposed for syntax in Hudson’s (1976) Daughter Dependency Grammar.33 A further development which is worthy of special note is Berry’s (1981a) work on exchange structure in relation to the Hallidayan concept of metafunction. While I have assumed so far that structuring in terms of acts, moves and exchanges is essentially an interpersonal matter, Berry suggests that the other metafunctions can also be seen as relevant. Berry’s starting point is that there are aspects of the patterning of exchange structure which require that we recognise that exchanges can be alike in some ways, yet different in others. She then demonstrates that the differences can be related to metafunction. In terms of the interpersonal function, Berry (1981a: 126) picks up a statement by Coulthard & Brazil (1981: 101) that “the exchange is the unit concerned with negotiating the transmission of information”. She goes on to analyse this idea in some detail, recognising four possible functions involved in an informational exchange. Berry illustrates these four functions by means of the exchange in (24). (24) (= Berry’s (6), 1981a: 127) QUIZMASTER: in England, which cathedral has the tallest spire CONTESTANT: is it Salisbury QUIZMASTER: yes CONTESTANT: oh Berry distinguishes between the ‘primary knower’, in this case the quizmaster, and the ‘secondary knower’, here the contestant. There is always a slot in which the primary knower indicates that (s)he has the knowledge and confers the stamp of authority on it: this function is labelled k1, and is realised by the quizmaster’s yes in (24). The secondary knower’s attempt to demonstrate knowledge of the answer to the question is labelled k2: in the example above it is the reply is it Salisbury. In this particular case, the reply is tentatively interrogative, but it could have been declarative or moodless: the distinction represents a set of systemic options available to the speaker at k2. The quizmaster’s initial question is labelled dk1, a mnemonic for the function of delaying the primary knower’s revelation of the appropriate knowledge. The contestant’s final oh, is k2f, a follow-up. Of the four functions, k1 is, as pointed out above, obligatory; dk1 and k2 predict k1, and k2f presupposes k1 and is always optional. The four functions can occupy various slots, but they are always ordered such that if k2 occurs it comes before k1, if dk1 occurs it comes before k2, and if k2f occurs it comes after k1. The four functions also differ in their possible realisations: for instance, as Berry (p. 128) observes, only k2f can be realised as oh. The textual layer of structure consists of the turns taken by the participants in the interaction: ai, bi, aii, bii, etc. In order to motivate turn-taking as a separate layer of struc. For other aspects of this work, in relation to the semantics of mood and modality, see §1.4.4 of the present volume and §9.4.3 of Part 1.

 Structure and Function

ture, Berry (pp. 133–134) demonstrates that it can be mapped on to the interpersonal structure in different ways. The ideational layer of structure consists of the functions which Berry labels propositional base, propositional completion and propositional support. In (24), the quizmaster’s question is the propositional base, the proposition is completed by the contestant’s reply, and propositional support is provided by the quizmaster’s confirmation. Again, Berry (p. 142) shows that there are different ways in which the functions at this layer can be mapped on to those at the textual and interpersonal layers. In (25), the exchange in (24) is shown with an analysis in Berry’s terms. (25)

QUIZMASTER: CONTESTANT: QUIZMASTER: CONTESTANT:

in England, which cathedral has the tallest spire is it Salisbury yes oh

dk1 ai pb k2 bi pc k1 aii ps k2f bii

Berry’s work is further developed in papers relating to polarity and propositional development (Berry 1981b) and metafunctional layering in directive exchanges (1981c).

.... Expansions of Berry’s work by Martin and Ventola. In Martin (1985) it is recognised that Berry’s account was the most descriptively adequate available at the time, making predictions about the well-formedness of exchanges and pinpointing similarities and differences between types of exchange. Martin points out, however, that speakers have many more options than Berry’s account provides for, including interruption and repetition for the purpose of clarification. These aspects, though, are concerned with the dynamics of ongoing interaction, and are not easily handled within the static approach adopted by Berry. Martin therefore proposes a dual perspective on exchange structure, arguing that we need to look at discourse both synoptically (i.e. as a product) and dynamically (i.e. in terms of the process of text creation), the dynamics being represented by means of a flowchart notation showing possible omissions, recursions, and so on, an idea suggested by analyses of service encounters which were being developed by Ventola at that time. Martin (1985: 266–267) presents a flowchart showing the dynamic system underlying Berry’s dk1 function in an informational exchange. The work of Martin and of Berry is synthesised and extended in Ventola’s later work (see Ventola 1987: 96–104), resulting in a modified system network for the synoptic aspects of exchange structure (1987: 102), together with discussion of the dynamic systems needed to account for what actually happens in exchanges within service encounters. Ventola (1988) also proposes that the slots in exchange structures can be filled not only by simple moves, realised lexicogrammatically as a single independent clause plus any dependent clauses, but also by move complexes, realised by paratactic clause complexes. Elements in move complexes at the discourse level, just like those in clause complexes at the lexicogrammatical level, are shown to be related in terms of the logical relations of expansion (elaboration, extension and enhancement) and projection. Martin’s proposals are further elaborated in Martin (1992a: Chapter 2), under the heading of negotiation, glossed as ‘shaping meaning through dialogue’ (p. 31). Negotia-

Chapter 4

Discourse, text and context 

tion thus represents the interpersonal part of Martin’s model of discourse semantics, and brings in the categories of speech function and mood already discussed in §1.4.1.2, where we saw that speech function is handled by means of a set of systems at the rank of move in the discourse semantics, while mood is discussed in terms of a set of systems for the clause in the lexicogrammar. Martin (1992a: 46–76) also discusses the synoptic and dynamic aspects of the exchange. Synoptically, Martin first differentiates between ‘attending’ exchanges (‘calling’ and ‘greeting’) and ‘negotiating’ exchanges (‘reacting’ and ‘exchanging’). The exchanging class is then cross-classified according to Ventola’s extension of Berry’s proposals (see above). Combinations of systemic features at the discourse semantic level map on to mood choices at the lexicogrammatical level. Martin also proposes a network for the options which enable speakers to track the discourse, in terms of clarifying, challenging and the like, though he does not attempt to develop a dynamic model of the processes involved. Recently, as a result of work on literacy in the secondary school and the workplace, Martin has developed further his account of the interpersonal part of the discourse semantics, under the headings of appraisal and involvement, both concerned with evaluative language (Martin 1997, 2000). Appraisal consists of several subcomponents: affect, judgment, appreciation, engagement and amplification. Affect (Martin 1997: 20–23) is concerned with the expression of emotions, and consists of three major types: (in)security, (dis)satisfaction and (un)happiness. The variables here are whether the emotion is normally construed by the culture as positive or negative, whether we are dealing with an ongoing state (e.g. liking or hating) or a sudden burst of emotion (as in laughing or crying), whether or not the emotion is being directed at, or is reacting to, an external agency (as in being pleased by something), and what the intensity of the feeling is (e.g. adoring/loving/liking). Judgment is “the institutionalization of feeling, in the context of proposals34 (norms about how people should and shouldn’t behave)” (1997: 23–24). It thus deals with social esteem and the lack of it (admiring vs. criticising), also social sanctions of a positive (praising) and negative (condemning) nature. Martin also proposes subcategories of these basic categories. Appreciation is “the institutionalization of feeling, in the context of propositions (norms about how products and performances are valued)” (1997: 24). This involves matters of impact, reaction, judgment of balance, complexity and worthwhileness. Engagement brings together “systems for adjusting a speaker’s commitment to what they are saying”, while amplification deals with “systems for grading evaluations” (1997: 19). Choices in the affect systems are realised by a variety of selections in the lexicogrammar, including those of evaluative lexis, modal verbs and adjuncts, numeration and prenumeration, intensification, repetition, adjuncts of manner and extent, and also by choices in the sound system, in loudness, pitch movement and voice quality. Involvement systems are related to appraisal, but are “related resources for negotiating solidarity” (1997: 20). They involve systems of naming, choices in technicality, swearing, . Note that Martin uses the terms ‘proposal’ and ‘proposition’ in the same was as Halliday, to cover offers/commands and statements/questions, respectively.

 Structure and Function

and the use of ‘anti-language’ (see Halliday 1976), and are realised lexicogrammatically through systems of address, technical and other specialised lexis, slang and taboo words, secret scripts, and also through features of voice quality such as whispering. Detailed discussion of affect, judgement and appreciation, with extensive exemplification, can be found in Martin (2000). Work in this area has also been used as a basis for discussion of literary critical issues, and of the issue of objectivity in various types of discourse.35

... Discourse and text in relation to the textual function .... Reference, substitution and ellipsis in Cohesion in English. About half of Halliday & Hasan’s Cohesion in English (1976) is devoted to the resources in English for the three related types of cohesion which the authors label reference, substitution and ellipsis. The account contains a wealth of detail, and I can do no more than provide a very brief summary here.36 Examples of each type are given below. (26) An architect on holiday in the Scottish Highlands was out for an afternoon’s hill walking. In attempting to cross a small stream at the top of a waterfall he lost his footing, slipped and fell to his death. He was only 48. (BNC AYR 413–415) (27) Attracting candidates can often be easier than selecting the right one, . . . (BNC AYJ 130) (28) We’re out of drink and need to steal some. (BNC AE0 838) Reference, for Halliday & Hasan, is a property of items when “instead of being interpreted semantically in their own right, they make reference to something else for their interpretation” (1976: 31). Note that what is ‘referred to’ may be, and often is, a linguistic item in the text itself. For instance, each occurrence of he and his in (26) is an example of reference, since the interpretation of each needs a semantic link to be made back to an architect in order to find the referent. Substitution differs from reference in that rather than being a relation between meanings (i.e. semantic), it is a relation between wordings (i.e. lexicogrammatical) (Halliday & Hasan 1976: 89). In (27), the pronoun one substitutes for candidate. Ellipsis “can be defined as substitution by zero” (p. 89). In (28), the noun drink is ellipted, so that we have some rather than some drink. Reference can involve a link between two items which are both present in the text (endophoric reference, with the subtypes anaphoric, involving reference to preceding text, and cataphoric, referring to succeeding text), or between an item in the text and something outside the text itself, in the situation of utterance (exophoric reference). In (26) above, the personal pronouns and determiners are endophoric (more specifically, anaphoric), while the Scottish Highlands is an example of exophoric reference (of a subtype labelled . For SFG work on stylistics, see Chapter 5. . The account of cohesive devices in Halliday (1985a, 1994a) is much less detailed than that in Cohesion in English, and does not add substantially to it, except in the area of conjunctive relations. I shall therefore base most of what follows on the earlier account.

Chapter 4


‘homophoric’, in which interpretation does not require reference to the specific situation, but rather the referent is identifiable because unique – see Halliday & Hasan, p. 71). The exophoric type of reference “makes no contribution to the cohesion of a text” (p. 53), since it is not a relation between two items both of which occur within the text. Note that in the top of a waterfall the function of the is not cohesive, but structural, referring to an element in the same nominal group. Halliday & Hasan (p. 37) recognise three types of reference: personal, demonstrative and comparative. These clearly relate to the structures and systems of the nominal group discussed in §7.2.3 of Part 1. Personal reference is achieved through the use of personal pronouns and possessive pronouns and determiners (see §7.2.3.4 of Part 1). Examples were given earlier. Halliday & Hasan (p. 48) point out that only third person forms are inherently cohesive, normally referring anaphorically to some item in the preceding text; first and second person forms, on the other hand, are usually exophoric, referring to the speaker(s) and addressee(s) respectively. They also discuss the use of it to refer to any portion of a text, rather than just to a particular entity (pp. 52–53), and the use of one, we, you, they, it (the last in meteorological contexts) with generalised meaning (pp. 53–54). In demonstrative reference, “[t]he speaker identifies the referent by locating it on a scale of proximity” (p. 57). This type of reference is realised by the demonstrative pronouns and determiners this/these, that/those and by the parallel adverbial forms here and there, now and then, but also by the definite article the, which is regarded as ‘neutral’ rather than ‘selective’, and “merely indicates that the item in question is specific and identifiable; that somewhere the information necessary for identifying it is recoverable” (p. 71). The definite article is cohesive only when anaphoric. Halliday & Hasan (p. 66–67) also discuss the use of this/that to refer to extended portions of text (cf. it above). It is important to remember that only endophoric uses of the demonstratives are cohesive. Examples of demonstrative reference are given below. (29) Payments start from as little as £6.50 a month. That’s under 22 pence a day, . . . (BNC AYR 296–297) (30) The others got hysterical, but Nutty had to soothe him, pulling them up under his armpits and getting Nails to find a belt. The belt went round twice. (BNC AT4 3199–3200) In (29), there is a cohesive tie between that and £6.50 a month, and in (30) between the belt and a belt. In comparative reference, the relationship is one of similarity or dissimilarity. A ‘general’ comparison subcategory is concerned simply with identity (e.g. same, identical(ly)), similarity (e.g. similar) and difference (e.g. other, different(ly)). The ‘particular’ subcategory is concerned with comparison in terms of quantity and quality, and may be realised in a numerative (e.g. more, fewer) or an epithet (e.g. comparative adjective or adverb). (31) Agnes watched the young, plump, matronly lady look at the young man, whom she imagined to be the same age as his wife. (BNC AT7 411)



 Structure and Function

(32) Managers are frequently willing to transfer responsibility for performing certain tasks, particularly under supervision. There may be more reluctance, even strong resistance, to a transfer of role. Task delegation is thus more common, . . . (BNC AYJ 1960–1962) In (31), same in the same age relates to the age of his wife, and in (32), the first more refers back to transfer responsibility, and the second to a transfer of role. These examples, incidentally, illustrate the abstract, semantic nature of reference, and the fact that the item to which reference is said to be made need not even be nominal. In reference, then, the cohesive effect is achieved through a semantic relationship, relying on the recoverability of meanings from the text or situational environment; in substitution, on the other hand, we have a relationship between items at the formal, lexicogrammatical level, within the text: “[a] substitute is a sort of counter which is used in place of the repetition of a particular item” (p. 89), and this is reflected in the fact that there are formal restrictions on what can substitute for what. Whereas in personal or demonstrative reference the two linked items are referentially identical, substitution of a nominal is used either when there is no identity of reference, or when some new specification needs to be added (p. 95). Halliday & Hasan (pp. 90–91) distinguish three types of substitution: nominal (involving substitution of an item in a nominal group), verbal (involving substitution within a verbal group) and clausal. Nominal substitution (pp. 91–112) involves the forms one(s) and same. One(s) is always the head of a nominal group, and must substitute for another item which is also head of a nominal group. Halliday & Hasan discuss in detail the meaning of this substitution and the conditions under which it can be used. An example is given in (33). (33) . . . I’m sorry to say that Harold’s figure is the correct one. (BNC ASE 352) The item same can be used as a reference item (as in (31) above) or as a substitute (as in (34)). (34) Maggie said she’d have a half of shandy, Susan ordered the same. (BNC AN7 724) Here, the same refers to a half of shandy, but of course it is not the same half of shandy which is being talked about, as would be the case with the same half of shandy, which involves reference rather than substitution. Verbal substitution (pp. 112–129) involves the form do, acting as the head of a verbal group, as in (35), where do stands for express your views, showing that elements other than the verb itself can come into the domain of substitution. (35) And I wouldn’t like to be present when you express your views, if ever you do. (BNC AT7 308) Again, Halliday & Hasan provide a very detailed analysis of the meaning of, and constraints on, this type of substitution. Examples such as (35) can also be considered from the vantage point of the clause. As we saw in §1.4.1.1, the interpersonal structure of a clause consists of a Mood element

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Discourse, text and context 

(Subject and Finite) and a Residue (or, as Halliday & Hasan label them, Modal and Propositional elements: remember that ‘Modal’ here refers to mood, as defined in SFG, rather than specifically to modality). In (35) it is the Propositional element of the clause which is substituted by do. Clausal substitution proper (pp. 130–141) involves the presupposing, by a particular linguistic item, of a whole clause, as opposed to a single constituent or a combination of constituents which is less than a whole clause (as in (35)). The forms so and not are used in clausal substitution, as shown in the following examples. (36) “Are you feeling better?” “I think so.” (BNC ATE 438–439) (37) Did he stand up to be counted in the old days? I think not.” (BNC AAF 292–293) In (36), so stands for I am feeling better, and in (37) not substitutes for he didn’t stand up to be counted in the old days. Ellipsis, as we have seen, can be regarded as substitution by zero: rather than substituting some item by a ‘counter’ such as one or do, nothing is placed in the relevant position. Like substitution, ellipsis can be nominal, verbal or clausal. Examples of nominal ellipsis (see Halliday & Hasan, pp. 147–166) are given below. (38) All the photos were taken between 1980 and 1981 and nearly all were shot in the vicinity of Petticoat Lane. (BNC ARP 11) (39) As my flies touched the surface, two trout, each weighing about 10oz, greedily grabbed; and each successive cast brought two more. (BNC AS7 813) In (38), nearly all shows a deictic with ellipsis of the photos, and in (39) the indefinite quantifier more is used with ellipsis of trout. Ellipsis of other types of nominal group component is also possible, as Halliday & Hasan demonstrate. The following examples illustrate some types of verbal ellipsis (see Halliday & Hasan, pp. 167–196): (40) “Have you noticed?” “Yes, dear, of course I have.” (BNC AT4 3953–3954) (41) It might be true that Rose was the father. It might not. (BNC AP0 149–150) (42) It was bitterly cold and it was raining. No, snowing. (BNC ABX 3516–3517) In (40) and (41) we have ellipsis of the lexical verb: noticed in the first case, be (plus its complement true that Rose was the father) in the second. In (42), there is ellipsis of the finite operator was (as well as the Subject it). Halliday & Hasan discuss the possibilities for ellipsis of the material realising choices from the verbal group systems of polarity, finiteness and modality, voice and tense. Just as in the case of verbal substitution, we can also see verbal ellipsis in terms of the Modal and Propositional (Mood and Residue) constituents of the interpersonal structure of the clause. In (40) and (41) the Modal element is present in the second part, but the Propositional element has been ellipted. In (42), it is the Propositional element which is present, the Modal element being ellipted. There are also occasions on which a whole clause is ellipted, and this, of course, constitutes clausal ellipsis proper. This type of ellipsis is common in answers to questions and

 Structure and Function

other rejoinder sequences (see Halliday & Hasan, pp. 206–216), as in (43), where there is ellipsis of I have never tried one myself. (43) “Have you never tried one yourself?” “No.” (BNC AT7 963–964) Full clausal ellipsis is also found in cases such as the following, in which the clausal complement of tell is ellipted: (44) “Bob is going to fly to Finland. I can tell from his expression . . . ” (BNC CN3 2919–2920) Patterns of clausal ellipsis are also discussed by Matthiessen (1995a: 607–613). Before we leave the area of reference, substitution and ellipsis, we should note that Halliday & Hasan’s account raises a number of theoretically important problems. Some of these arise from the non-standard way in which the term ‘reference’ is used: as Morgan & Sellner (1980: 180) observe, the term is normally used in linguistics to label a relationship between a linguistic item and something in the world of discourse which it picks out on a given occasion of use; in Halliday & Hasan’s example Wash and core six cooking apples. Put them into a fireproof dish. (1976: 2), we can make sense of the notion of reference only if the cohesive tie consists in a relation of coreference between them and six cooking apples. However, as Huddleston (1978: 342), in his review of Cohesion in English, points out, six cooking apples is not even a referring expression, since it denotes any six cooking apples rather than six particular apples, so leaving the exact nature of the cohesive relation unclear. The difficulties caused by Halliday & Hasan’s idiosyncratic use of ‘reference’ are also evident, as Huddleston (1978: 336–337) observes, in the conflation, according to their definition, of endophora and exophora as subtypes of reference. In an example such as John didn’t come. – Was he ill? (Huddleston’s example (6)), the referent of he is the person John, but the antecedent is the noun phrase John. On the other hand, in his example (8), I have a headache, the pronoun I has a referent (the speaker), but no antecedent. The lack of a distinction between the concepts of antecedent and referent leads to conflation of two very different types of phenomenon. Brown & Yule (1983: 199–201) also question the endophora/exophora distinction, from a rather different viewpoint. Imagine a text of reasonable length, in which there is a succession of mentions of a particular referent: the reader or hearer would have to go back to the first mention in order to reconstruct the identity of the referent. Brown & Yule regard this as an unreasonable demand on the ability of the reader or listener; rather, they say, the processor of the text constructs a mental representation of the discourse, in which are embedded representations of the relevant referents, established on first mention, which can then be consulted on subsequent mentions of that referent. In the case of exophora, the relationship is with the world created by the discourse; but in either case, the reader or hearer has to relate language to something which is outside language, a mental representation, so that the boundary between endophora and exophora becomes indistinct. Both Huddleston and Brown & Yule raise questions about a further distinction which is central to the Cohesion in English model, that between reference (seen by

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Halliday & Hasan as a semantic relation) and substitution (a lexicogrammatical relation). Huddleston’s point (1978: 342) is concerned with the fact that although Halliday & Hasan present substitution as direct formal replacement, there are cases where the replacement must be inexact, because of changes needed in morphology, deictic shifts, and the like. This is not, however, a compelling argument, since what Halliday & Hasan actually say is that “as a general rule, the substitute item has the same structural function as that for which it substitutes” (1976: 89) rather than that the wording must be exactly replaceable. More serious, however, is the criticism made by Brown & Yule (1983: 203–204), who point out that we sometimes use substitutes such as one to pick up something which has been expressed non-nominally, as in their example (18): The child may set the pace. Since the literature is mostly anecdotal, we don’t mind offering one of our own., where one, interpreted as ‘an anecdote’, picks up anecdotal. We must leave criticisms of the Cohesion in English account of reference and substitution at this point: interested readers can find a slightly expanded treatment in Butler (1985a: 183–186).

.... Martin’s work on participant identification in discourse. In §7.2.3.5.2 of Part 1, I summarised the system networks presented by Matthiessen (1995a) and Martin (1992a) for textual aspects of the nominal group. As I pointed out there, because these systems represent choices in ways of identifying participants, they are relevant not just to structural realisation within the nominal group, but also to the role of nominal groups in the ongoing discourse. Indeed, Martin’s networks are explicitly situated on the level of discourse semantics. This work will therefore be taken up again here, but now in relation to the structuring of discourse rather than that of the nominal group itself. Martin (1992a: 121–129) discusses in some detail the ‘phoricity’ distinctions made by Halliday & Hasan (1976), relating them to Malinowski’s notions of context of culture and context of situation (se §5.1.1 of Part 1) and systematising them in the form of a network (1992a: 124). Homophora is seen in terms of reference to the context of culture for social institutions of varying sizes: for instance, the referents of the sun and the moon can be taken as ‘given’ within the contexts of culture of all English speakers; those of the president, the governor within the contexts of culture of particular nations; and those of the car, the baby, the cat within the context of a particular family (p. 122). Other types of phoricity are regarded as related to the context of situation for a particular utterance. Endophora is related to the preceding or following verbal context,37 exophora to the non-verbal context. Martin also discusses a number of other factors related to phoricity. There are cases where the identity of a referent has to be established by indirect means, or ‘bridging’, which “depends on experiential connections between presuming and presumed which facilitate the recovery of an implied identity” (p. 124). In other cases, the identity of the referent may not in fact be recoverable from the verbal or non-verbal context (e.g. when a . Martin uses the term anaphora for reference to preceding text, but reserves cataphora for reference to text which follows beyond the group in which the other member of the cohesive tie is found; reference to a later item within the same group is labelled esphora.

 Structure and Function

speaker mentions by name someone whose identity the addressee cannot work out), in which case the addressee may interpret the phoric item as newly introduced or may query the identity of the referent. Furthermore, there may be more than one possible referent for a phoric item, thus rendering that item ambiguous. Martin (p. 126) builds these refinements into a more developed network. He also notes that options for the retrieval of referents “broach upon a dynamic as opposed to a synoptic perspective on participant identification” (p. 126), but does not attempt to model identification dynamically (though see Martin 1985, mentioned earlier). Martin (pp. 136–137) also points to the part played by the lexicogrammar (as opposed to the discourse semantics) in the tracking of participants: for instance, identifying or appositional structures can be used by speakers to make explicit the relationship between presuming and presumed, as in (45) and (46) respectively. (45) You can write to Vincent at TIB plc (that’s the company who actually manufacture the drive). (BNC EB6 997) (46) Most of my clothes are chosen by Emilio, my husband, and my stylist . . . (BNC A7P 327) Furthermore, Martin treats Halliday & Hasan’s categories of substitution and ellipsis as lexicogrammatical rather than discourse semantic, for two reasons: firstly, “they are not a semantic resource with diversified lexicogrammaticalisations”, and secondly they “presume grammatical functions, not meanings” (p. 388). He also comments (pp. 138–140) on a further aspect of participants which I have noted elsewhere: the role of grammatical metaphor in creating participants, through the process of nominalisation (see §7.2.3.6 of Part 1). Finally, let us turn briefly to Martin’s discussion (pp. 140–153) of what he terms reference chains in English text, related to Hasan’s ‘identity chains’, discussed earlier. Reference chains are covariate sets of items linked by relationships of dependency between presuming and presumed. Consider the passage in (47): (47) Mick and I were sitting beside Paddy, who was driving, when there was a loud bang. We were thrown forward against the dashboard as the Land Rover crashed to a halt. Paddy jumped out and seconds later leaned into the cab through the open doorway. “It’s the rear off-side wheel. There’s an eighteen inch split in the inner tube and,” he paused, “you’re not going to like this, the bolts holding the split rim have all sheared. The wheel’s clean in two.” (BNC AT3 2025–2030) One reference chain involves the two occurrences of Paddy and the anaphoric he. The occurrence of the definite group the dashboard is motivated through a bridging link with driving earlier in the text, and there is also a link with the Land Rover, to which further items are then linked through bridging: the cab, the rear off-side wheel. There are then more bridging links connecting the inner tube and the bolts holding the split rim back to the rear off-side wheel. The final occurrence of the wheel also links back to the bolts holding the split rim and so, indirectly, to other mentions of the wheel and its parts. The item this

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links cataphorically to the stretch of text the bolts holding the split rim have all sheared. The wheel’s clean in two.

... Discourse and text in relation to the logical function .... Conjunctive relations in Cohesion in English. Conjunction, as a cohesive device, is concerned with “an abstract relation between one proposition and another” (Halliday & Hasan 1976: 13). It is different from reference, substitution and ellipsis in that it is a relation “which is no longer any kind of a search instruction, but a specification of the way in which what is to follow is systematically connected to what has gone before” (p. 227). As Halliday & Hasan go on to observe, this is perhaps rather too concrete a characterisation, in that conjunctive relations in themselves are not necessarily dependent on a particular ordering: for instance, in the expression of a temporal relation, the actual expressions indicating time may occur in the order ‘earlier time + later time’ or vice versa. Nevertheless, when describing conjunctive devices, the authors focus on “the function they have of relating to each other linguistic elements that occur in succession but are not related by other, structural means” (p. 227). Conjunctive relations as such are semantic, and are realised through various lexicogrammatical devices, both structural and non-structural. Consider the following, all of which encode the relationship of successivity between two events (nominalised in some cases): (48) Advances followed the development of the electron microscope. (BNC ARF 606) (49) Not until after the development and use of atom bombs did “radio-biology” become a recognised science . . . (BNC ARF 834) (50) During the 18th century there had been a slavish adherence to Isaac Newton’s methods and notation long after Continental mathematicians had developed more efficient techniques. (BNC B7N 1276) (51) The Russian Bear, the uneasy ally of the western powers against fascism, made its own bid for power. It soon developed the atomic bomb. Shortly afterwards both America and Russia developed a fusion bomb. (BNC CCE 1175–1177) A similar set of examples could be found with precede, before and previously instead of follow, after and afterwards (see Halliday & Hasan’s examples (5): 1a–d and (5): 1a –d , p. 228). Halliday & Hasan comment that in examples such as (51), “the time relation is now the only explicit form of connection between the two events, which in the other examples are linked also by various structural relationships” (p. 228). It is, then, somewhat confusing to find, in the very next sentence, the comment that “the time sequence has now become a cohesive agent, and it is this, the semantic relation in its cohesive function, that we are referring to as conjunction” (p. 228). The two statements appear to be contradictory: one asserts that structural relationships occur in sentences such as (48)–(50) in addition to cohesive effects, a stance which is compatible with that taken at the beginning of the book (see §4.4.2 above), whereas the other appears to claim that there is a cohesive

 Structure and Function

function only when the relationship is realised through two separate sentences. What, one wonders, should we do with examples such as (52)–(54)? (52) We had a great feast and lots to drink and afterwards there were recitations and a great singsong, and those that wanted to played poker. (BNC HTG 621) (53) All the lovely prickles and twists stopped and she was left with nothing but a feeling of panic, able to think of nothing but how she could stop him without making him angry. And afterwards there was just a feeling of let-down, of wanting him to hold her and kiss her and pet her like a little girl. (BNC BMW 2295–2296) (54) It was a noisy but not a violent affair, the clashes between the Blackshirts and the Red Front outside being mainly verbal. Afterwards there was a party at a Mayfair house, to which Joyce ensured that the visitor was invited. (BNC EDA 1170–1171) In (52), we have afterwards in a clause conjoined to the previous clause with and; in (53), we again have both and and afterwards, but now they begin a new sentence, and so would be taken by Halliday & Hasan as representing two kinds of cohesion (additive and temporal – see below); in (54), afterwards alone begins the new sentence. There is certainly a cline here, but it does not make sense to treat (53) and (54) as cohesive, but not (52), the distinction between (52) and (53) in this respect being particularly problematic. Halliday & Hasan (pp. 233–237) do, in fact, comment on the intersentential and intrasentential forms of the ‘and’ relation, claiming that the former relates just two sentences, which are irreversible, while the latter can relate several elements into a whole, and the order can be reversed (e.g. men, women and children vs. children, women and men). It is noteworthy, however, that their examples of intrasentential and are taken from coordination within the group, rather than between clauses in a clause complex, where the relationship is, as we saw above, much closer to the intersentential relation. As we shall see later, Martin (1992a) comments on the difficulty of generalising across environments in Halliday & Hasan’s account, and proposes a more adequate alternative. In the present section, however, I shall follow Halliday & Hasan’s account. Halliday & Hasan (pp. 238–239) postulate four types of conjunctive relation: additive, adversative, causal and temporal. We have seen that both additive and temporal relations occur in (53) above; (55) has examples of both additive and adversative relations (signalled by and and but respectively), while in (56) we have causal conjunction, signalled by so. (55) No, their lives weren’t dull. And they had suddenly taken the dullness out of hers. But the question was, when would she be able to wear those beautiful things? (BNC AT7 1258–1260) (56) Unpalatable truths are a threat to our self respect. So usually we avoid them . . . (BNC AYJ 521–522) A further important distinction made by Halliday & Hasan (pp. 239–240) is that between external and internal relations, which cross-cuts the four types of conjunction illustrated above. Consider (57) and (58):

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(57) Jock Lewes organized a primitive laboratory in a hut and set to experimenting with various mixtures of plastic explosive, thermite, oil and aluminium filings. Finally he perfected what became known as the Lewes bomb, . . . (BNC AR8 265–266) (58) There are many different ways to train for distance running, but here are some basic rules. You need long runs to build a base or foundation of aerobic strength. Hill running or intervals will improve your strength and leg power. Tempo runs or lowkey races increase your anaerobic threshold and give you experience running at race pace. Finally, you need enough rest to allow for adaptation to the training. (BNC AR7 1169–1173) In the first example, finally indicates the last in a series of events being described, i.e. in the content; in the second example, on the other hand, finally indicates the last in a series of statements, or linguistic events. The first is an ‘external’ use of the Adjunct, the second an ‘internal’ use. Halliday & Hasan (p. 240) claim that these uses are related to two different functions of language, the external to the experiential and the internal to the interpersonal, since it reflects the speaker’s own angle on the situation. Halliday & Hasan observe that this distinction is clearest for the temporal conjunctions, but also applies to other categories. In (59), for instance, causal so is external, since it relates two events; in (60), however, it is internal, relating the current speech act to the preceding discourse.38 (59) “I ask Rabin to make concessions,” Henry Kissinger wrote in 1975, “and he says he can’t because Israel is weak. So I give him more arms and he says he doesn’t need to make concessions because Israel is strong.” (BNC APD 276–277) (60) “You know, I’m to live differently now. I’ve been talking to Father O’Harte, and I’m come back. I go to Mass and all.” Franca was surprised. “I’m surprised. So you believe in God?” (BNC APM 2099–2104) According to the table provided by Halliday & Hasan (1976: 242–243), a wide range of conjunctive items can be either internal or external, while others are normally internal. Without further exemplification, however, it is difficult to assess this claim, particularly in relation to the additive and adversative types. . The distinction between external and internal conjunction is taken further by Verstraete (1998), who pursues two main lines of argument in relation to causal conjunction in English, taking his inspiration from both Halliday and Langacker. Firstly, he claims that the distinction is not simply semantic, but is semiotically significant in that the semantics of the distinction can be related to the syntactic ‘reactances’ (in a Whorfian sense: see §5.6 of Part 1) of the two types. External conjunction is related to the ‘instantiated type’ of the main clause (the lexical verb and its arguments), while the internal type is related to the ‘grounding’ of the main clause in tense, modality and illocutionary value. Secondly, Verstraete proposes to divide the internal type of conjunction into a speech functional subtype (where the causal clause gives a reason for the performance of the speech act) and an epistemic subtype (where the causal clause gives grounds for reasoning or knowledge). For a reinterpretation of Verstraete’s proposals within the Semiotic Grammar framework outlined in §5.8.2 of Part 1, see McGregor (1999), and for Verstraete’s reaction to these proposals, Verstraete (2000).

 Structure and Function

In Halliday (1985a, 1994a), the account of conjunction given in Cohesion in English is reworked in the light of developments in the grammar during the decade or so which separated the publication of Halliday & Hasan’s book from that of the first edition of Halliday’s An Introduction to Functional Grammar. The earlier categories are still there, sometimes renamed and extended, but are now subsumed under the more general categories of elaboration, extension and enhancement which, as we have seen at various points, pervade the grammar, and are particularly prominent in the area of clause complex formation. There is also, as we shall see, some realignment in membership of the original categories. Halliday (1985a: 303–304, 1994a: 324) postulates two subcategories of elaborating relation: apposition and clarification. In apposition, which was treated as an additive relation in Halliday & Hasan (1976: 250), we have re-presentation or restatement of an element by exposition (‘i.e.’) or example (‘e.g.’), as with in other words in (61) and for instance in (62), respectively. (61) Instead this second approach asks you to question in some depth your aims and objectives. In other words you start by asking the question “What are the most important things I have to do?”. (BNC AYJ 1626–1627) (62) Some behaviour patterns are learned. For instance, horses in a field on the side of a road will totally ignore traffic rushing by because the older horses show no fear and just continue grazing. (BNC AR5 1490–1491) Clarification is a relation in which “the elaborated element is not simply restated but reinstated, summarized, made more precise or in some other way clarified for purposes of the discourse” (Halliday 1985a: 303, 1994a: 324). There are various subtypes: corrective (e.g. or rather – see (63)), distractive (e.g. by the way), dismissive (e.g. anyway – see (64)), particularizing (e.g. in particular), resumptive (e.g. as I was saying), summative (e.g. in conclusion), verifactive (e.g. actually – see (65)). (63) I know what I’m talking about. Or rather singing about. (BNC AS7 364–365) (64) But she wouldn’t eat curry, would she? Anyway, the stuff had no taste. (BNC ASS 794–795) (65) Writers often mistakenly use such terms as “women spinning with their distaff ”. Actually, a distaff takes no part in the twisting of fleece or flax to produce thread. (BNC AP8 46–47) These relations come under a variety of headings in Cohesion in English: distractive under complex additive relations (de-emphatic, afterthought); corrective, dismissive and verifactive under adversatives; resumptive and summative under temporal relations; in particular and similar expressions are not mentioned, but might well be handled under emphatic additive relations. There are three types of extension: addition, adversative and variation (Halliday 1985a: 304, 1994a: 324–325). Addition can be positive (and, also, etc. – see (66)) or negative (nor). Adversatives include but, yet, on the other hand, etc. (see (67)). Variation can be replacive (on the contrary, instead – see (68)), subtractive (apart from that, except for that)

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or alternative (alternatively). In Cohesion in English, replacive variation is handled under adversatives, while subtractive and alternative types are not specifically mentioned. (66) When you view the houses on your shortlist note their age and the materials they are made of. Also, try to make a very rough sketch of the rooms on each floor. (BNC AS1 355–356) (67) The above indicates that there is far more to negotiating than sitting down opposite the other party and trying to bargain. On the other hand, it can be a great deal of fun even if the stakes are quite high. (BNC AYJ 1222–1223) (68) I gathered my courage, and turned, prepared to look myself in the face. Instead, I saw a smiling, though breathless, New Zealander. (BNC AT3 2161–2162) Enhancement (Halliday 1985a: 304–308, 1994a: 324–327) is divided into four types: spatio-temporal, manner, causal-conditional and matter. The spatio-temporal category is an expanded version of temporal conjunction in Cohesion in English. The spatial subtype is exemplified by the use of there in (69) below. (69) “No. No. Except I think I would like to get out, break away, as it were, and see the world. There’s so much that one doesn’t know about places and people, so much to find out.” “Yes. Yes, you’re right there.” (BNC AT7 983–988) Temporal conjunction can be simple or complex, the complex type being the simple one with some added feature of meaning co-present. Simple temporal conjunction can be following (e.g. then, next – see (70) and (71)), simultaneous (e.g. at the same time), preceding (e.g. before that, previously – see (72)) or conclusive (e.g. in the end, finally). (70) The important point is that you do make the attempt and gradually refine the questions to a point where you are reasonably satisfied with the answers. Next you begin breaking down the aims into individual goals. (BNC AYJ 1636–1637) (71) Both the particular rule it lays down and more important, the general principle it enshrines should be accepted as part of the English law also, though it may be debatable whether there is a need for it to be put into statutory form. Next, what is the law governing the situation when the respirator is turned off without the knowledge and consent of the chronically dependent patient? (BNC ASK 1858–1859) (72) At midday, with the tent and kit packed in the wheelbarrow, I was almost ready to begin the second day’s walk. Before that, though, I opened a can of whole chicken and ripped off a leg dribbling with jelly. (BNC AT3 241–242) Examples (70) and (71), as well as (57)/(58) and (59)/(60) given earlier, illustrate the ‘external’ and ‘internal’ uses of temporal conjunctive devices: in (70), next is concerned with a sequence of events which is being narrated; in (71), it marks the next step in the argument. Complex temporal conjunction is broken down by Halliday into seven subtypes: immediate (e.g. at once, thereupon – see (73)), interrupted (e.g. soon), repetitive (e.g. next

 Structure and Function

time, on another occasion – see (74)), specific (e.g. next day), durative (e.g. meanwhile, all that time – see (75)), terminal (e.g. until then), punctiliar (e.g. at this moment). (73) Agnes asked after Kathleen’s help. At once, Ray’s wife assumed a melancholy expression. (BNC ASE 815–816) (74) But every year, and often more than once, he made the pilgrimage to Kidlington in Oxfordshire and on one of those visits (I can not have been more than eight years old) took me to Thame and showed me his name on the board as head boy. On another occasion, walking across the water-meadows away from Kidlington church towards Hampton Poyle, he told me how (during one of the school holidays) he had read Thomas Hardy’s Jude the Obscure and, at the end of the day, had climbed a haystack. (BNC ARC 31–32) (75) The Chairman of the Federal Reserve Board recently warned that a three month war in the Gulf would send the US economy into depression. Meanwhile, grassroots opposition is growing. (BNC ARW 553–554) The manner type of enhancement is concerned with comparison (positive, e.g. likewise, similarly – see (76), or negative, e.g. in a different way) or means (e.g. thereby – see (77)); the former are assimilated to additive relations in Cohesion in English. (76) One parent families may come about because of death, divorce or separation in a two parent family or the ending of cohabitation or when a single woman has a baby on her own. Similarly, a one parent family may become a two parent family through marriage or remarriage, reconciliation or cohabitation. (BNC AP5 630–631) (77) Here, the critic is absolved from making judgements of his own by the need to report what a jury has decided about prizes. The critic’s standing is thereby reduced, . . . (BNC A04 1392–1393) Causal-conditional conjunction is treated very similarly to the causal category in Cohesion in English. Some expressions are general, as with therefore in (78); others are specific for result (79), reason (80) or purpose (81). (78) The advance of modern science had shown that science, even at its most theoretical level, is dependent on experiment, on practical doing as well as abstract thinking. Therefore the pre-Renaissance gulf between the “pure” and the “applied”, the thought and the action, had disappeared. (BNC ASY 75–76) (79) Operational statistics that deal with categories of employment make no distinctions within the self-employed group. As a result, chewing gum sellers and the successful carpenter who has his own furniture business, fall within the same category. (BNC AN3 1122–1123) (80) He’s a pied piper of sorts, being somewhat successful in drawing young people to the hate movement. For that reason, he is dangerous. (BNC AK9 707–708)

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Discourse, text and context 

(81) So instead he decided to climb Everest. With this in mind, he spent most of the last two years of peacetime, training in Switzerland and then in the USA. (BNC AR8 16–17) The conditional type can be positive (82), negative (83) or concessive (84). (82) In an extreme case, the government may insist on the surrender to it (or to the central bank) of all foreign exchange. In that case, it has to take responsibility for allocating all foreign exchange to the users by administrative methods. (BNC ATG 461–462) (83) From society’s point of view the only question is whether those who had the benefit of these excellent libraries in the forces will have the same access to books when they leave. If not, there will have been a real loss, which will no doubt add to the rising tide of semi-literacy. (BNC ARX 490–491) (84) The very existence of the idea of art, as much as that of language itself, distinguishes man from other animals. Nevertheless there is a distinction to be drawn between the value we must ascribe to language and that which we ascribe to art. (BNC ASY 716–717) Conjunction involving matter can be positive (e.g. in that respect) or negative (e.g. in other respects), and is illustrated by (85) below. It is assimilated to causal conjunction in Cohesion in English. (85) In a band’s career, two records are more important than any others; the first ever released and the first on a major label. In that respect “Kennedy” was as good as “Go Out And Get ’Em Boy”. (BNC AT1 1867–1868) Halliday (1985a: 308, 1994a: 326–327) comments that various types of conjunction overlap, both with each other and with reference, and that the categories he proposes “are those which have been found most useful in the interpretation of texts, and their schematization is such as to relate to other parts of the system of the language”. It is also noteworthy that Halliday (1985a: 308–309, 1994a: 327) recognises that conjunction may be implicit rather than signalled by explicit devices in the text. For instance, two events presented in succession in a text will often be interpreted as occurring in temporal sequence, or as having a cause-effect relationship. This point will be taken up again in the next section. Before we leave the area of conjunction in Halliday’s work, we should note that Matthiessen (1995a: 521–531) presents Halliday’s conjunction types as a system network of the clause itself, within the textual function, on the basis that “[t]he textual context of a clause is its logico-semantic relation to the preceding text as specified by conjunction” (p. 519). However, as we have seen, although cohesion itself belongs to the textual function, the various types of cohesive device are oriented towards different functions, and conjunction as a cohesive device is clearly very strongly related to the mechanisms for putting clauses together to form the clause complex, which, as Matthiessen himself recognises, belong to the logical function.

 Structure and Function

.... Clause complexes and rhetorical relations: Systemic linguistics and Rhetorical Structure Theory. Matthiessen (1995a: 169) observes that “[i]t is in the area of the clause complex that the grammar ‘makes contact’ with the rhetorical organization of text”. This idea is taken further in the work of Matthiessen & Thompson (1988), who set out to demonstrate two things: firstly, that it is impossible to characterise the notion ‘subordinate clause’ at the sentence level, without reference to discourse considerations; and secondly, that subordinate clauses in small written expository English texts can be seen as grammaticalisations of a general property of the hierarchical nature of discourse. Their paper is concerned with what, in Hallidayan terms, is called enhancing hypotaxis: as we have seen, this is the type of hypotactic relation in which the secondary clause enhances the primary clause by reference to some circumstantial meaning, of time, place, manner, and the like. Their strategy is first to outline a theory of relations in discourse structure, known as Rhetorical Structure Theory (RST), and then to show that the grammar of enhancing hypotaxis is a reflection of the hierarchical relations postulated in an RST analysis of a text. RST was originally developed, primarily by Mann and Thompson (see Mann & Thompson 1987, 1988), in the context of the need for a theory of structure and function in discourse, in relation to the computer-based generation of text.39 Through the analysis of a wide range of texts, it became clear that a text which is perceived by readers as coherent can be segmented into hierarchically structured parts, each of which has a function in the discourse. The relationships between the parts may be explicitly signalled by lexical or grammatical devices, or implicit. RST defines four types of object: relations, schemas, schema applications and structures. These are explained succinctly in the following quotation: Briefly, the relation definitions identify particular relationships that can hold between two portions of a text. Based on the relations, the schemas define patterns in which a particular span of text can be analyzed in terms of other spans. The schema application conventions define the ways that a schema can be instantiated, somewhat more flexibly than just literal part-for-part instantiation. The notion of the structure of an entire text is defined in terms of composition of schema applications. (Mann & Thompson 1988: 245)

Relations hold between two non-overlapping spans of text, usually but not always adjacent, related in such a way that one of them (the satellite) is less essential to the text than the other (the nucleus), the two having some specific functional relationship. Examples of functional relationships between satellites and their nuclei are Background (in which the satellite facilitates understanding of the nucleus), Elaboration (in which the satellite provides information additional to the basic information given in the nucleus) and Preparation (in which the satellite helps the reader to anticipate and interpret the nucleus). Some spans of text are related, not in terms of the central/ancillary type of relation, but by relations between units of equal status, linked in terms of, for example, contrast (present. See §5.3.1.2.2 for brief discussion of this area.

Chapter 4

Discourse, text and context 

ing two alternatives) or sequence (the content of one span being seen as preceding that of the other). Each relation has a definition, in terms of what the analyst (called the ‘observer’ in RST) must recognise about the text in order for that relation to be justifiably assigned. Around 25 relations are found to be sufficient to account for the discourse structures of a range of types of text; all are explicitly defined in Mann & Thompson (1987, 1988). The authors nevertheless stress that the list is intended to be open-ended, in that modifications are likely as new genres and cultural styles are analysed. Relations are said to be of two fundamental types: those relating to subject matter, and those which are presentational, or rhetorical, in function. For example, the relation of Elaboration is of the subject matter type, in that the information in the satellite expands on that in the nucleus; on the other hand, the Background relation is a presentational or rhetorical one, in that its function is to help the reader to orient to the following text, so facilitating its interpretation. In order to illustrate these ideas, I shall examine a short recipe text, which forms part of the British National Corpus and is given in (86) below. (86) [0] Pork & Olive Casserole Serves 6 . . . 25 g / 1 oz butter 2 x 15 ml / tbsp olive oil 1 large onion, finely sliced 2 cloves garlic, crushed 1,600 g / 3½ lb boneless shoulder of pork, cut into 4 cm / 1½ in dice 185 g / 6 oz can pimentos 200 g / 7 oz pack pimento stuffed olives, drained (approx 125 g / 4 oz) 400 g / 14 oz can chopped tomatoes 1 x 5 ml / tsp paprika 1 x 15 ml / tbsp tomato paste salt and freshly ground black pepper sugar to taste, if required 1. (1) Heat the butter and the olive oil together in a large heavy saucepan or casserole dish, (2) until the butter has melted. (3) Add the onion and garlic (4) and cook slowly, covered, for about 10min, (5) until well softened and browned. (6) Stir once or twice. 2. (7) Add the diced pork (8) and brown on all sides. 3. (9) Remove the pimentos from the can (10) and slice them. (11) Add to the pan with the juice from the can, the drained olives, chopped tomatoes, paprika, tomato paste, salt and pepper. 4. (12) Cover the pan (13) and simmer the casserole very slowly for 1-2hr, (14) until the meat is tender. 5. (15) If the casserole is still quite liquid, (16) remove the lid from the pan (17) and simmer more quickly (18) until the sauce is reduced.

 Structure and Function

6. (19) Season to taste (20) and add the sugar (21) if required. (BNC ABB 952–969) The numbers in brackets inserted into the text indicate the text spans into which I, as ‘observer’, perceive that the text can be divided in terms of their function. I have adopted the procedure used in Mann & Thompson (1988: 248), taking the clause as the fundamental unit.40 The diagram in (87), conforming to the conventions adopted in RST, represents my assessment of how the various text spans are related. I have taken the title, the indication that the recipe serves 6 people, and the list of ingredients as Background to the rest of the text, facilitating the interpretation of the central part, which is the series of instructions for making the casserole. I have then treated each numbered instruction as a separate unit, on the grounds that the writer clearly intended them to be seen as stages in the process. These parts are related in terms of a Sequence, as are some of the subparts (1–2 and 3–6, 7 and 8, 9–10 and 11, etc.). Another relation involved in this text is that of Circumstance, in which the satellite provides some kind of interpretive context for the nucleus, such as when, where or how it occurs or should occur. For instance, span 2 provides a temporal context (until the butter has melted) for the nuclear material in span 1 (Heat the butter and olive oil together in a large heavy saucepan or casserole dish); the relationship between spans 5 and 4, 14 and 13, 18 and 17, is the same. I have taken span 6 (Stir once or twice) as providing an Elaboration of the segment constituted by spans 4 and 5, since the stirring is not sequentially related to the cooking, but is clearly intended as information acting as an aid to the cook in the whole process of ‘slow cooking until browned’. Span 15 stands in a conditioning relationship to 16–18, as does 21 in relation to 20.

. Mann & Thompson consider clausal Subjects and Complements, also restrictive relative clauses, as part of the host clause. This is irrelevant to the text analysed here.

Discourse, text and context 

Chapter 4

(87)

[0–21] Backgrd [0]

[1–21] S

[1–6]

[1]

[9–11]

u

e

n

c

[12–14]

[7]

Condn

[8] [9–10] [11] [12] [13–14]

Sequence

Sequence

[2] [3] [4–6]

[9]

[10]

e [15–18]

Sequence Sequence Sequence

[3–6]

Circ

q

[7–8]

Sequence [1–2]

e

[15] [16–18]

Circ

[13]

[19–21] Sequence Condn [19] [20] [21]

Sequence Circ

[14] [16] [17] [18]

Elaboration [4–5] [6] Circ [4]

[5]

After this example, let us now return to the points Matthiessen & Thompson make about the relationship between discourse structure, on the one hand, and enhancing hypotaxis in the grammar, on the other. They make two main claims: firstly that . . . the relationships among the units coded by clauses in clause combinations in our texts are of exactly the same type as those among the higher-level rhetorically defined text spans. (1988: 300)

and secondly that . . . clauses also combine in the same two ways as the rhetorical units of a text. Both display a kind of structure where the elements are interdependent either as the members of a list or as a nucleus to a satellite. (1988: 300)

Furthermore, because of the structural similarities, the scoping relations shown by discourse units and by clauses are similar. They therefore hypothesise: Clause combining in grammar has evolved as a grammaticalization of the rhetorical units in discourse defined by rhetorical relations. (1988: 301)

 Structure and Function

then narrowing this hypothesis to one which concentrates specifically on enhancing hypotactic clause combining. They use this hypothesis to make a number of predictions about the properties of enhancing hypotaxis, based on the properties of the RST relations (1988: 302): • • •

• •

Hypotactic enhancement, like a satellite relation, should be present in a text only where it serves some particular function relative to the goals of the writer. The scoping of hypotactic enhancement clauses should mirror the fact that there is only ever one satellite per nucleus. Since the nucleus and satellite are rhetorically distinct, we would expect grammatical marking to be such that one clause can be identified as coding the nucleus, the other as coding the satellite. Since we find satellites both following and preceding their nuclei, we expect the same to be true of the corresponding clauses in an enhancing hypotactic relation. Nucleus-Satellite relations should be grammatically coded primarily as hypotaxis rather than as parataxis.

Matthiessen & Thompson go on to adduce evidence in support of each of these predictions. They observe that the textual evidence bearing out the final prediction removes any possibility of circularity in the argument, since although most Nucleus-Satellite relations are indeed found to be coded as hypotaxis in the texts they examined, a few are expressed by parataxis; similarly, although most listing relations are coded paratactically, a few appear as hypotaxis. Note that in the analysis of text (86) presented in (87), the sequence relations are expressed either through paratactic clause complexes (3/4, 7/8, 9/10, 12/13, 16/17, 19/20) or as separate orthographic sentences (1–2/3–6, 9–10/11) or paragraphs (1– 6/7–8/9–11/12–14/15–18/19–21) in sequential arrangement. The Nucleus-Satellite relations, on the other hand, are coded as hypotactically related clauses in clause complexes, except for span 6 which, if my analysis is correct, is an instance of a satellite coded in a separate sentence. The authors also claim that the formulation of the hypothesis they have tested rests crucially on the distinction between hypotaxis and embedding, as made by Halliday. I shall return to this claim later, when discussing alternative views. Finally, let us note an interesting typological comment made at the end of Matthiessen & Thompson’s article: There is an interesting consequence of these suggestions for attempts to consider clause combining from a cross-linguistic perspective: if hypotaxis in English is a grammaticalization of rhetorical relations, then it follows that the grammar of clause combining may differ radically from one language to another. Indeed, preliminary discourse-based investigations of such phenomena in unrelated languages strongly suggests [sic] that this is the case. (Matthiessen & Thompson 1988: 317)

In the years since its launching in the late 1980s, RST has undergone some modifications, largely as a result of its implementation in computational systems. Maier & Hovy (1993), building on earlier work by Hovy, comment on the lack of any detailed treatment,

Chapter 4

Discourse, text and context 

in Mann & Thompson’s taxonomy of rhetorical relations, of textually-oriented relations such as those which are concerned with the presentational sequence of argumentation. The authors offer a taxonomy which is reorganised in terms of the functional classification of SFG into ideational, interpersonal and textual types of meaning. Ideational rhetorical relations are those which rely on ‘content’: various types of elaboration relation; relationships involving circumstances of place, time, means, manner, etc.; sequential relations of various subtypes; relations of cause/result, condition and comparison. Interpersonal relations subsume those of interpretation, where the addressee gives an evaluation of content; enablement, in which the addressee is given background which helps in the interpretation of the text; antithesis; and various types of exhortation, including support, divided into the categories of solutionhood, evidence, justification and motivation. Textual rhetorical relations are those of logical relation (conjunction or disjunction), presentational sequence, and the ‘joint’ category taken over from Mann & Thompson’s classification, for cases where no other relation exists between adjacent segments of the text. Maier & Hovy find that texts normally exemplify one of two patterns of discourse structure relations: a text whose overall goal is to inform often makes use only of ideational types of relation (though occasionally one may also find interpersonal relations); while one with a globally interpersonal goal may contain both ideational and interpersonal relations, the former typically arising towards the lower levels of discourse structure.

.... Martin’s ‘conjunction’ and ‘continuity’. In §4.4.2, we saw that Martin (1992a) comments on the limitations of an analysis which separates relationships which are found within clause complexes from those which obtain between clause complexes. This problem is particularly acute in the area of conjunction, where “the alternative realisations are all variations on the same theme – namely that of relating one part of a text to another in terms of the natural logic of time, cause, comparison and addition” (Martin 1992a: 163). Indeed, the foregoing discussion will have shown that the relationships proposed by Halliday for intrasentential and intersentential conjunction are very similar. Martin’s own approach, as we have seen, is to postulate a stratification between a level of discourse semantics at which like phenomena can be given a unitary analysis, and the level of lexicogrammar, where the realisations of particular types of meaning can vary. For instance, examples (52)–(54) in §4.4.3.4.1, which we saw as problematic with respect to Halliday & Hasan’s account, present no problems under Martin’s scheme, since the relations of temporal succession (realised as afterwards) and addition (realised, in two of the examples, as and) can be given the same discourse semantic analyses in all the examples, the differences lying in the lexicogrammatical encoding of the meanings. Martin (1992a: 170–178) presents a useful overview of approaches to the logicosemantic relations which can be realised through a diversity of lexicogrammatical realisations. His own approach is to follow his own earlier work (Martin 1983b), in recognising four types: additive, comparative, temporal and consequential, which I shall describe briefly later. Martin gives a high priority to Halliday & Hasan’s distinction between external and internal relations, reinterpreting this in terms of external relations being oriented to the field of discourse (“they encode the institutional organisation of our culture”

 Structure and Function

(1992a: 180)), while internal relations are related to genre (“they encode the organisation of text as it is formulated to construct our culture” (p. 180)). Martin (pp. 183–184) also argues for the recognition of implicit conjunctive connections in texts, testing for such connections by showing that they could have been made explicit, though he admits that such a test will run into problems: for example, in some texts one could insert and between almost any pair of clauses, so apparently justifying the postulation of an additive relation. Despite making much of the need to generalise across conjunctive relations within and between clause complexes, Martin develops his networks on the basis of the hypotactic clause complex, limiting them to those complexes which permit independent + dependent or dependent + independent orderings, commenting that “[a] complete specification of the diversification of the realisations of each type of conjunctive relation is beyond the scope of this chapter” (p. 185). He does, however, give examples of what, in Halliday & Hasan’s terms, would be purely ‘cohesive’ relations. As usual, Martin’s account is very detailed, with rich exemplification, and I shall not be able to do full justice to it in what follows. External temporal relations (pp. 185–192) are first divided into [successive] (e.g. as realised by after) and [simultaneous] (e.g. as realised by while). [Successive] relations can be either [following] or [following immediately]. Each type can be either [anterior dependent] (i.e. the dependent clause codes the earlier situation) or [posterior dependent] (the dependent clause codes the later situation). Further, more delicate options distinguish the discourse semantics of the relevant conjunctions: after, since, now that, before, once, as soon as, until. [Simultaneous] temporal relations are [coextensive] or [overlapping], with further distinctions related to the durative or punctiliar nature of the situations encoded in the relevant clauses. In this way, a number of uses of while, when, as are distinguished. External consequential relations (pp. 193–202) can be related to [manner] (e.g. (even) by, thereby) or [cause], the latter being subclassified as [consequence] (because/although, (only) to, etc.) or [contingency]. [Contingency] relations are of either [purpose] (in order to/without) or [condition]. [Condition] relations can be [exclusive] (unless) or [inclusive], and the latter type either [counterfactual] (if + a past tense dependent clause) or factual, this last type being said to vary according to the degree of modality (possible: if, probable: provided that, certain: as long as). [Purpose] relations are divided into [fear] (lest/for fear of ) and [desire], the latter again with a distinction which Martin describes as one related to modality (possible: in case, probable/certain: so that/in order to/to). Each of the four main categories, manner, consequence, condition and purpose, is said to occur also in a concessive variant: for example, there is a contrast between non-concessive manner realised by by and concessive manner realised by even by, and similarly for condition (if/even if ). [Condition, concessive] is further divided into [single] (even if ), [alternative] (whether) and [universal] (whoever/whatever etc.). External comparative relations (pp. 202–205) are either of [similarity] (realised as like/as) or [contrast], the latter divided into [exception] (except that/other than/apart from), [replacement] (instead of/in place of/rather than) and [opposition] (whereas/ while). External additive relations (pp. 205–206) are of [alternation] (if not . . . then/or) or [addition], the latter being either [positive] (besides/and) or [negative] (nor). Simultane-

Chapter 4


ously, these can be [non-correlative] (as with the realisations just given) or [correlative] (both . . . and for positive addition, neither . . . nor for negative addition, either . . . or for alternation). Martin (p. 206) also recognises a small set of locative relations, including those realised by here/there in examples such as (69), given earlier. Turning now to internal relations, Martin notes (p. 207) that additive and comparative relations are a richer resource in their internal than in their external use, and that while almost all external conjunctive expressions can be used internally, there are many expressions which can only be used internally. Internal comparative relations (pp. 207–218) are of [similarity] or [difference]. [Similarity] relations may be of [comparison] ([contiguous], realised by similarly, or [interrupted], realised by again), or of [reformulation]. The latter are divided into [rework] and [adjust] types. [Rework] relations are of [abstraction] (either [exhaust] (that is) or [exemplify] (for example)), or of [generality], and if the latter, then [local], subcategorised as [generalise] (in general) or [particularise] (in particular), or [global] (in short). [Adjust] relations are subclassified as [correct] (in fact) or [amplify], the latter being classifed more delicately as [diminish] (at least) or [augment] (indeed). Relations of [difference] are either [converse] (conversely) or [opposition], the latter being of [retraction] (rather) or [contrast] (on the other hand). Internal additive relations (pp. 218–221) are [exchange punctuating] (oh/well) or [turn-building], the latter being [staging] or [developing]. [Staging] relations are either [framing] ([open] (now/well) or [close] (alright/okay)) or [sidetracking] ([depart] (incidentally/by the way) or [return] (anyway/anyhow)). [Developing] relations are of [alternation] (alternatively) or [addition], the latter being [simple] (in addition/as well/ besides/additionally) or [cumulative], these last being either [amplifying] (moreover) or [extending] (further(more)). Internal consequential relations (pp. 222–224) are [concessive] or [non-concessive]. [Non-concessive] relations are subdivided into those which [conclude] (hence/accordingly/in conclusion/consequently) and those which [justify] (after all). [Concessive] relations are of [counterexpectation] (nevertheless/nonetheless/still) or [objection], and if the latter, then [dismiss] (in any case/at any rate/anyway/anyhow) or [concede], this last having modality-based distinctions (possible: admittedly, probable: of course, certain: needless to say). Internal temporal relations (pp. 224–226), like the corresponding external relations, are [successive] or [simultaneous]. [Successive] relations are [ordering] (first/secondly/next etc.) or [terminating] (finally/lastly). [Simultaneous] relations are [adjacent] (at the same time) or [interrupted] (still). Martin (pp. 230–234) also recognises a further set of meanings which are related to conjunction, and which he refers to as continuity, these normally being realised in rhematic positions rather than thematically, as conjunction usually is. Continuity is realised by items such as already/still/yet/any longer, etc. There are three types, which, because they can co-occur in the same unit, are treated in terms of simultaneous systems. The first group is [counterexpectation], which can be [aspectual] or [adjusting]. [Aspectual] re-



 Structure and Function

lations can represent either [fruition] ([precedence] (already) or [endurance] (finally/at last)) or [continuation] (still). [Adjusting] relations can [diminish] (only/just) or [augment] (even). The second group of continuity meanings is characterised as [mood parallel], with either the Mood element or the Residue parallel (i.e. [new Residue] or [new Mood], respectively), realised by items such as too, also, as well. The third type indicates [repetition], realised as again. The rather tedious lists in the last few paragraphs, which should be complemented by a study of Martin’s many illustrative examples, are included in order to give some idea of the extraordinary richness of the distinctions embodied in this work and the extent to which such a classification might be useful in textual studies. Martin himself (pp. 234– 243) goes on to indicate how conjunctive relations can form chain structures in English. He models these structures in terms of ‘reticula’ in which external relations are placed down one side of an ‘event line’, internal relations down the other side, and in which it is possible to indicate that a given message may be conjunctively related to more than one other message. The reader is referred to Martin’s analysis of two texts (pp. 243–249) for details. Martin (pp. 251–264) also offers a critique of the proposals made by Matthiessen & Thompson within Rhetorical Structure Theory which, as we saw in §4.4.3.4.2, draw parallels between rhetorical structures and the structure of the clause complex. While the RST approach treats conjunctive structures as involving a head (nucleus) and a dependent element (satellite), Martin’s model regards them as covariate structures, defined as “those in which a semantic interdependency is constructed between items (which may or may not be grammaticalised) and in which dependent items have the potential to themselves be depended on” (p. 25). Martin raises three areas which he sees as problems for the RST account. The first is concerned with “sandwich structures in which an initiating message is replayed to culminate a logical sequence” (p. 258), where Martin claims the RST analysis forces the analyst into an arbitrary choice of either the initiating or the replayed message as head. The second problem concerns texts in which messages are related simultaneously by different types of conjunctive structures, which are difficult to handle in RST because of its close modelling on clause complex interdependency. The final criticism is concerned with the preference of RST for Nucleus/Satellite relations (parallel to hypotactic relations) rather than Listing ones (akin to paratactic clause combinations), and the fact that Satellites can precede Nuclei, thus entailing that in some texts the relationships could be seen as working primarily backwards rather than forwards. More generally, Martin sees this as one indication of the lack, in RST, of any concern for the dynamic modelling of text production – a lack which, as Martin himself observes, is not surprising given that the model was developed to account mainly for the structure of written text as a product. Martin uses this criticism as an entry point for a brief discussion of the dynamic nature of conjunctive relations in spontaneous speech.

Discourse, text and context 

Chapter 4

.. Discourse, text and context We saw in Chapter 5 of Part 1 that Hallidayan linguistics has always accorded a very high priority to the relationships between texts and their contexts of production and reception. Indeed, in order for a stretch of language to qualify as a text rather than a non-text, the criterion of cohesiveness stipulated by Halliday & Hasan is complemented by another: a text must also be coherent with respect to its context of situation (Halliday & Hasan 1976: 23). In this section, I shall first review the original proposals for contextual variables of field, tenor and mode, and their putative relationship with meanings in particular metafunctional areas. Here, we shall be involved with the concept of register. I shall then go on to examine Martin’s development of these ideas. Finally, I shall look at systemic views on genre and its relationship with register and with text structure. A useful survey of the development of research on text/context relations within the Sydney framework can be found in Martin (1998).

... Halliday on register: Field, tenor and mode and their relationship with metafunctional meanings From its earliest days, Hallidayan linguistics has built in an analysis of language variety, seen in terms of the relationship between text and context. Since, as we have seen, a text is regarded as a semantic unit, it is not surprising that Halliday makes links between features of the situational context, seen in terms of the variables of field, tenor and mode, and types of meaning within texts. As we shall see, these links provide us with a meaningbased definition of register, or diatypic variety, in language, i.e. variation according to the use to which the language is put, rather than according to the characteristics of the users, which define dialectal varieties.41 The categories of field, tenor and mode were developed by Halliday and his colleagues in the 1960s (see Halliday, McIntosh & Strevens 1964; Spencer & Gregory 1964; Gregory 1967; also the summaries in Halliday 1978a: 142–145; Gregory & Carroll 1978; and the more critical discussion in Butler 1985a: 64–67, 88–90, on which the following summary is based). Field is . . . that which is ‘going on’, and has recognizable meaning in the social system; typically a complex of acts in some ordered configuration, and in which the text is playing some part, and including ‘subject matter’ as one special aspect. (Halliday 1978a: 142–143)

It is “what the participants in the context of situation are actually engaged in doing” (1978a: 222). So, to cite an example given by Halliday (1978a: 222), if we go into our local . For a discussion of the concept of register in relation to Hallidayan and other studies of discourse, see de Beaugrande (1993). A brief history of the concept of register, inside and outside systemic linguistics, can also be found in Matthiessen (1993: 223–225).

 Structure and Function

newspaper shop to buy a paper, and spend part of the time talking about the weather, the field of discourse is ‘buying and selling a newspaper’, not meteorology. Tenor is . . . the cluster of socially meaningful participant relationships, both permanent attributes of the participants and role relationships that are specific to the situation, including the speech roles, those that come into being through the exchange of verbal meanings. (Halliday 1978a: 143)

This set of relations “includes levels of formality as one particular instance” (1978a: 110). Examples given by Halliday for the types of role relation which would find a reflection in the language used include teacher/pupil, parent/child, child/other child in peer group, doctor/patient, customer/salesperson, and casual acquaintances on a train. Mode is . . . the particular status that is assigned to the text within the situation; its function in relation to the social action and the role structure, including the channel or medium, and the rhetorical mode. (Halliday 1978a: 143)

In order to decide on the mode, we must ask: . . . what function is language being used for, what is its specific role in the goings-on to which it is contributing? To persuade? to soothe? to sell? to control? to explain? or just to oil the works, as in what Malinowski called ‘phatic communion’, exemplified above by the talk about the weather, which merely helps the situation along? (1978a: 223)

Halliday distinguishes between ‘mode’ and ‘medium’ (basically spoken or written, though this is too rigid a dichotomy, as is shown, for example, in Gregory 1967; Gregory & Carroll 1978). Some types of mode, such as persuasive uses, can be realised through either spoken or written language, though what is said will still depend partly on the medium used. As we saw in §6.4 of Part 1, Halliday postulates an interesting relationship between the situational variables of field, tenor and mode and the selection, in the construction of a text, of types of meaning from the ideational, interpersonal and textual metafunctions: . . . the type of symbolic activity (field) tends to determine the range of meaning as content, language in the observer function (ideational); the role relationships (tenor) tend to determine the range of meaning as participation, language in the intruder function (interpersonal); and the rhetorical channel (mode) tends to determine the range of meaning as texture, language in its relevance to the environment (textual). (Halliday 1978a: 117)

This hypothesis offers a new perspective on the concept of register, which was at first conceived in terms of patterns of lexical and grammatical characteristics. The move from a more formal to a more semantic definition of register clearly fits in with the shift towards a more semantically-based grammar which occurred in the 1970s. A register can be defined as the configuration of semantic resources that the member of a culture typically associates with a situation type. It is the meaning potential that is accessible in a given social context. (Halliday 1978a: 111)

Discourse, text and context 

Chapter 4

The concept of register thus provides the final link between situation type and text: a register is that grouping of semantic resources which is activated by a particular combination of values of field, tenor and mode, and any text can be seen as an instance of a particular register. From the vantage point of later developments in SFG postulating a separate semantic level, we can also view this relationship from the perspective of the overall semantic system of the language: The semantic level can thus be thought of as a repertoire of semantic systems that are located somewhere in the overall semantic space of a language and which are associated with different situation types. A situation type thus puts certain meanings ‘at risk’ within the overall semantic system; and we can characterize those meanings as a registerial variant of the overall semantic system. (Matthiessen 1995a: 41)

A related angle is that of register as probabilistic choice: I would see the notion of register as being at the semantic level, not above it. Shifting in register means re-ordering the probabilities at the semantic level [. . . ] whereas the categories of field, mode and tenor belong one level up. These are the features of the context of situation; and this is an interface. But the register itself I would see as being linguistic; it is a setting of probabilities in the semantics. (Halliday in Thibault 1987: 610)

Note that here Halliday makes a clear distinction between register, which is semantic, and the categories of field, tenor and mode, which are seen as belonging to a higher ‘interface’ of context of situation. The same view on the probabilistic nature of register is also expressed much later: . . . [registerial] variation can be construed in terms of the probabilistic nature of the linguistic system, as variation in the probabilities associated with terms in systems. Seen in this light, a register is a particular probabilistic setting of the system; and the move from one register to another is a re-setting of these probabilities. (Halliday & Matthiessen 1999: 563)

Attractive as the concepts of field, tenor and mode and their putative association with metafunctional meanings are, they bring with them certain problems, as discussed in Berry (1982) and Butler (1985a, 1991, 1996). Firstly, as Berry (1982: 75) points out, the definitions of field, tenor and mode in Halliday’s work are not precise enough to ensure replicable analyses of contextual factors. Similarly, de Beaugrande (1993: 13), in his discussion of these categories, comments that “we have difficulties determining exactly what the status and designations of Halliday’s terms may be”. This problem is thrown into relief by internal differences between systemic linguists: for example, as Halliday himself observes (1978a: 224), the distinctions between rhetorical purposes (e.g. persuading, informing, entertaining, etc.) which Halliday classifies under mode are treated by Gregory as a kind of tenor: functional tenor, as opposed to the personal tenor which underlies differences in formality (Gregory 1967: 184ff.; Gregory & Carroll 1978: 53ff.),42 and Berry (1982: 75) . For a tabular comparison of several models of context, including the Halliday and Gregory schemes, see Martin (1992a: 499), and for further discussion see Young (1985).

 Structure and Function

suggests that they could be handled under field, an analysis which was also made earlier by Halliday himself (1965). The situation is further complicated by Gregory’s (1988: 315) later rejection of his category of functional tenor, precisely on the grounds that it has no consistent metafunctional realisation. It is little wonder that Martin (1992a: 501) calls ‘rhetorical purpose’ “the wild card in contextual description”. Furthermore, Gregory (1967: 186) sees technical and non-technical varieties of language as differing in field, while Halliday (1978a: 222) treats them as varying in tenor. As Berry points out, What is worrying here is not that there are differences of opinion, but that there seems to be no principled basis for adjudicating between the different opinions. (Berry 1982: 75)

If, then, the concepts of field, tenor and mode are defined in insufficiently clear terms, it becomes difficult to test the validity of the selective relationship with metafunctional meanings postulated by Halliday. Further, like other proposals related to metafunction, the hypothesis is couched in probabilistic terms, so that, in the absence of a more precise formulation, it is impossible to falsify. Hasan (1995: 225–226), while recognising that this might be seen by some as problematic, herself holds that it is not a drawback, citing work on the sociology of knowledge to defend her position. Even if we do not demand refutability, however, it is disturbing that it is so easy to find counterexamples to the hypothesis which involve central areas of Halliday’s theorising, such as mood, modality/modulation and ellipsis. In Butler (1996: 159–162) I provide examples of pieces of text in which the postulated variation of interpersonal meanings with personal tenor is borne out, but also others in which what has been labelled either functional tenor or rhetorical mode has effects on ideational choice (predicted by neither the Halliday nor the Gregory classification) as well as on choices from the textual metafunction (as predicted by Halliday’s scheme). Berry (1989b: 29–30) points to apparent contradictions between Halliday’s view that each register variable tends to determine one type of metafunctional meaning, and work by Hasan (1978) indicating that the presence of certain elements of textual structure is controlled by a combination of features from each of the functional components.43 Before we leave the Hallidayan account of register, we should note the detailed overview presented by Matthiessen (1993), in which register, viewed as functional variation in language, is discussed in relation to the global dimensions of systemic functional theory: stratification, metafunctional diversification and the concept of language as a potential which is actualised in particular contexts of situation. Matthiessen goes on to discuss the role of register relative to context of situation and context of culture, and also in relation to the users of particular varieties. He then focuses on register variation as a dimension of the linguistic system, under three possible interpretations: that registers are part of the general linguistic system, but with particular probabilities for linguistic choices (which, as we have seen, is the way Halliday currently presents it); that there is . The work of Hasan on elements of text structure and their relationship with the ‘contextual configuration’ of the text is discussed in §4.4.4.3.1.

Chapter 4

Discourse, text and context 

a common core among registers, but that there are also mutually exclusive subsystems; and that each register forms a totally separate system (which, as Matthiessen points out, is unlikely). There follows a discussion of register in relation to stratification, during which Matthiessen mentions Martin’s stratified model (discussed later in the chapter) and also Lemke’s (1984) notion of ‘metaredundancy’, under which realisation is seen in terms of the whole set of relevant strata, so that context would be viewed as “realized by the variation in semantics realized in lexicogrammar realized in phonology” (Matthiessen 1993: 250). Attention is also given to the role of register in semiotic history, that is in terms of the unfolding of the text (logogenetic), the development of language in the individual (ontogenetic) and the growth of language in the human species (phylogenetic). The relationship between register and potentiality is discussed in relation to the potential itself and its instantiation in actual texts (the ‘instances’). Finally, there is a section on register analysis as a descriptive activity.

... Martin’s model of register Martin’s model differs from Halliday’s in that the term ‘register’ is used “to refer to the semiotic system constituted by the contextual variables of field, tenor and mode” (Martin 1992a: 502), in addition to the linguistic meanings which are at risk in conditions specified by particular values of these variables. I noted earlier that Martin describes rhetorical purpose as “the wild card of contextual description” (p. 501): this is so because it has no preferential correlation with any single metafunction. Martin himself treats it separately, under the label of genre, whose relationship with register and language will be discussed in §4.4.4.3.2. The register variables field, tenor and mode can then be interpreted as working together to achieve a text’s goals, where goals are defined in terms of systems of social processes at the level of genre. (Martin 1992a: 502–503)

Within the semiotic of register, field is said to project experiential meanings, while tenor projects interpersonal meanings, and mode textual meanings. Martin presents an account of values of the field, tenor and mode variables which he himself considers to be ‘indelicate’ (p. 514), but which is certainly much richer than anything published before. As usual, I can only reflect the salient points here. Mode (pp. 508–525), being the projection of textual meaning, puts at risk the major textual systems in the lexicogrammar (theme, information, deixis, substitution, ellipsis) as well as the tonality and tonicity systems of the phonology.44 Furthermore, since the textual function integrates the other metafunctions, mode has an effect on all the discourse semantic systems. From an interpersonal viewpoint, mode “mediates the semiotic space between monologue and dialogue”, while “[e]xperientially mode mediates the semiotic space between action and reflection”. More generally, “mode mediates contex. Curiously, Martin also includes tense in his list, even though it is generally regarded as belonging to the logical rather than the textual metafunction in SFG, and Martin himself (1992a: 13) appears to accept Halliday’s classification.

 Structure and Function

tual dependency – the extent to which a text constructs or accompanies its field” (p. 509). Martin (p. 514) stresses that mode is a semiotic construct for constructing interaction, and that the distinctions he proposes are thus semiotic rather than material ones; in other words, categories such as ‘dialogue’ are semiotic rather than completely tied to material medium, since it is perfectly possible, as Martin observes, to write dialogue (in drama) as well as to engage in monologue with a friend. In the context of the interpersonal dimension of monologue/dialogue, Martin investigates the ways in which different channels of communication affect the kind of interaction that is possible between addressor and addressee. Key factors are whether the interactants can see each other, and whether they can hear each other: Martin’s network for ‘speaking and writing focus’ (p. 515) thus has simultaneous systems for visual and oral contact, each of which has the terms [none], [one-way], [two-way]. He gives examples (p. 511) of each of the nine combinations generated: for instance, writing, as a semiotic category, is characterised by the situation of no visual or oral contact; a silent movie by no aural contact but one-way visual contact; mime by no aural contact but two-way visual contact; radio transmissions by one-way aural contact but no visual contact; face to face conversation by two-way contact, both aural and visual; and so on. Martin goes on to classify the ‘speaking with two-way visual and aural contact’ and ‘writing’ situations in more detail. In the spoken mode, the interaction can be [turn restricted] (as in a public dialogue) or [turn free] (as in casual conversation). [Turn restricted] interaction can be [turn staged] (a debate or meeting) or [turn controlled], and if the latter, then [quasi-dialogue] (interview) or [quasi-monologue] (either [large group], as in a speech or lecture, or [small group], as in a seminar or tutorial). This subnetwork, then, characterises spoken interaction in terms of the degree and nature of turn taking. Martin notes that the finer distinctions here are closely related to tenor. Writing also reflects turn taking, in that in many cases writing expects some type of response, often delayed. Martin’s subnetwork for writing is thus concerned with the degree of expectation of a reply. He first distinguishes between [public] and [private] writing. [Public] writing may be [specific] or [general]. If [specific], the interaction can be by [computer] (e-mail) or [post] (letter, etc.); if [general], the communication may be categorised by purpose into [control] (memo, circular) or [documentation] (for [teaching], e.g. a textbook, or [informing], as in other types of book). [Private] written communication can be for [self] (diary, journal) or [undirected] (stream of consciousness writing). The cline of expectation of a reply goes from computer-mediated writing at the most likely end to undirected private writing at the least likely end. In parallel with the expectation systems for writing, Martin postulates systems concerned with the way in which the message is composed. It can be [visually objectified] or [aurally objectified]. [Visually objectified] writing can be [solidified] (typing) or [provisional] (either [inert] or not easily reworkable (handwriting) or [dynamic] and so more easily reworked (word processing)). [Aurally objectified] writing refers to the indirect writing of messages by first producing them in spoken form, either to a person ([dictation]) or to a [dictaphone]. Martin sees these distinctions as representing a cline from

Chapter 4

Discourse, text and context 

most self-conscious, slowest and least fluent (typing) to least self-conscious, fastest and most fluent (dictating). Let us turn now to the experientially-oriented dimension of mode. Here, Martin is concerned with “the degree to which language is part of or constitutive of what is going on” (p. 516). He classifies texts according to the extent to which their organisation iconically reflects activity sequences or has some other basis: with reservations about the nomenclature, Martin labels these types ‘field-structured’ and ‘genre-structured’ respectively. Martin presents more detailed networks for mode in relation to field-structured texts. He first distinguishes between texts which accompany a social process and those which constitute such a process. In [accompanying social process] texts, the verbal action may be either that of the participants themselves ([participation]) or that of observers of the social action ([commentary]). [Participation] texts can be [ancillary], with only a supporting function (Martin gives the example of scoring and line calling during a tennis match) or [monitoring] (i.e. giving a moment by moment account of what is going on, as in demonstrating a procedure). [Commentary] texts may be [co-observing], involving a situation in which both speaker and listener can see the action (e.g. TV sports commentary), or [relay], in which only the commentator can see the action. Martin also expands somewhat on these categories in a fuller network (p. 522). Texts which constitute a social process may involve either [reconstruction] of a process which has already occurred, with consequent shifts in deictic elements, in which case the experience on which they are based may be [shared] or [vicarious]; or they may actually constitute the [construction] of the social process, in which case they may be of either [fiction] or [generalisation] types. Texts which constitute the social process may also be [episodic] (e.g. a biography) or [sequential] (e.g. narratives). Again, more detailed features are also proposed (p. 522). Let us turn now to tenor (pp. 523–536), which “refers to the negotiation of social relationships among participants” (p. 523), putting at risk the lexicogrammatical systems in the interpersonal metafunction, as well as the discourse semantic systems of negotiation. Martin’s classification of tenor is based on the work of Poynton (1984, 1985/1989, 1990). Tenor mediates relationships in terms of the three dimensions of status (referring to “the relative position of interlocutors in a culture’s social hierarchy”), contact (“their degree of institutional involvement with each other”) and affect (reflecting the ‘emotional charge’ in the relationship) (p. 525).45 These three dimensions are associated with different realisation principles, as shown in the work of Poynton. The basic choice in status is between [equal], where the speakers use the same types of choices (e.g. in reciprocal use of the T or V forms of pronouns and their associated verb morphologies in languages such as French, Spanish, Italian, German or Russian) and [unequal], where there is no reciprocity of choices (e.g. T from one speaker, V from the other). The choices involved are not, of course, always as simply realised as T vs. V forms of address: Martin (p. 529) lists a range of phonological, grammatical, lexical and discourse . Martin points out that Hasan uses the terms ‘social role’ for his own ‘status’ category, and ‘social distance’ for ‘contact’ – see also §4.4.4.3.1.

 Structure and Function

semantic features, as well as interaction patterns, which he claims to reflect dominating or deferring positions. For contact, Martin first distinguishes between [involved] and [uninvolved] types. [Involved] contact is cross-classified as [family] vs. [work] vs. [recreation], and as [regular] or [occasional]. [Uninvolved] contact is [one-off] or [phatic], the latter being divided into contact with [neighbours] or with providers of [goods & services]. As with status, a list of realisations at the different levels of the linguistic system is given (p. 532). For affect, which is clearly not manifest in all texts, Martin distinguishes, as does Poynton, between [positive] and [negative], the former being subdivided into [satisfaction] (happiness/care), [security] (confidence/trust) and fulfilment (engagement/admiration), the latter into [discord] (misery/antipathy), [insecurity] (disquiet/apprehension) and [frustration] (boredom/desire). In parallel with these systems, Martin suggests that affect can be [self-oriented] or [other-oriented], and can also be a [predisposition] or represent a [surge] of feeling. A table of realisations is again offered (p. 535). These systems are the basis for part of the ‘appraisal’ proposals outlined briefly in §4.4.3.2.2. Field (pp. 536–546), the projection of experiential meaning, puts at risk the discourse semantic systems of ideation and the various experiential lexicogrammatical systems at clause and group ranks, as well as collocational patterning. Martin (p. 544) presents a classification of fields which runs from ‘common sense’ to what he calls ‘uncommon sense’. At the common sense end, we have [oral transmission] fields, either [domestic] or [specialised], the latter being subclassified as [recreational] (coaching, in sports or hobbies) or [trades] (in apprenticeship interactions). At the uncommon sense end, we have [written transmission] fields, associated with studying, and divided into [administration] and [exploration], the latter subdivided by academic discipline types ([humanities], [social science], [science]). Martin also presents networks for classifying activity sequences for the field of linguistics (p. 539), a taxonomy for the composition of an Australian linguistics department (p. 540) and another for theories of language (p. 541).

... Genre and its relationship with register There is considerable fluidity, both inside and outside SFG, in the ways in which the term ‘genre’ is used, and in the relationships between genre and register which are proposed. A useful summary of these issues can be found in Leckie-Tarry (1993: 26–37, revised as 1995: 5–16), on which the following brief comments are based.46 Leckie-Tarry observes . Leckie-Tarry herself proposes what she calls a ‘conceptual model of context’, which aims “to capture the ‘dynamic, process-oriented, on-line’ nature of the linguistic process” (1995: 31). The various elements of a given contextual category (i.e. field, tenor or mode) overlap and interact, and there is also interaction among the three categories. Medium is both a contextual element and a means of realisation. Field, tenor and mode are linked to the ideational, interpersonal and textual types of meaning, as in Halliday’s model. The meaning potential available in a given context of situation is a subset of the total meaning potential of the culture. Cultural and situational contexts are in constant two-way interaction. The categories themselves are constantly modified as new meanings are created within contexts of situation.

Chapter 4

Discourse, text and context 

that Halliday himself believes register theory is itself sufficient to capture relationships between text and social process, and treats generic structure as just one characteristic of a text which, together with textual structure and cohesion, distinguish text from non-text. On the other hand, ‘genre theorists’ such as Martin, Threadgold, Kress and Reid, while acknowledging that their work is within the Hallidayan tradition, see register as unable, by itself, to explain text/context relations. The fundamental reason for this, Leckie-Tarry suggests, is that register studies prioritise the linguistic characteristics of texts (and this remains so even in the current version of register theory, in which registers are configurations of semantic resources, rather than being recognised through formal features), so giving too little emphasis to text as social process. Furthermore, genre theorists tend to prioritise the broader sense of ‘context’, as ‘context of culture’, rather than the narrower sense of ‘context of situation’ which is involved in register studies. Here, I shall restrict myself to a consideration of two influential systemic functional models of the relationship between genre and register, those of Hasan and Martin.

.... Hasan’s work on generic structure potential. Hasan (1978, 1984b, 1985b) has developed a model of the structure of texts which recognises functional units of various kinds and links the configuration of these units to register, as defined by values of field, tenor and mode. The fundamental ideas of this model are succinctly summarised in the following quotation: . . . associated with each genre of text – i.e. type of discourse – is a generalized structural formula, which permits an array of actual structures. Each complete text must be a realization of a structure from such an array. The generic membership of the text is determined by reference to the structural formula to which the actual structure can be shown to belong. A text will be perceived as incomplete if only a part of some recognizable actual structure is realized in it; and the generic provenance of a text will remain undetermined, if the part so realized is not even recognizable as belonging to some distinct actual structure. (Hasan 1978: 229).

It should be noted that the gloss on the term ‘genre’ here is a very general one – ‘type of discourse’ – though, as we shall see, Hasan later goes on to define more precisely what makes a text an instance of a given genre. As an example of an actual generic structure, consider the following, taken from Hasan’s own work on customer/vendor interactions in an Australian setting. (88) (= Hasan’s Text 4.1, 1985b: 54) C1: Can I have ten oranges and a kilo of bananas please? V1: Yes, anything else? C2: No, thanks. V2: That’ll be dollar forty. C3: Two dollars. V3: Sixty, eighty, two dollars. Thank you. Hasan’s analysis of the elements of generic structure for this text is given in (89).

 Structure and Function

(89) SR^SC^S^P^PC where: SR = Sale Request (C1) SC = Sale Compliance (V1 + C2) S = Sale (V2) P = Purchase (C3) PC = Purchase Closure (V3) Consideration of other texts in the same service encounter genre leads to formulation of the generic structure potential (GSP) for the genre shown in (90), which is intended to represent all the possible combinations and orderings of elements for this genre (1985b: 64): (90) [(G).(SI)^] [(SE .) {SR^SC^ } ^S^] P^PC(^F) where: G = Greeting SI = Sale Initiation SE = Sale Enquiry F = Finis ^ = obligatory sequence () = an optional element . = elements can occur in any sequence within the limits indicated by [. . . ] = iteration allowed {} = if iteration occurs, all elements in brackets must occur an equal number of times Such a structure shows which elements are obligatory for this genre and which are optional, and specifies the orders in which elements may occur, and the possibility of, and limits on, recursion. Clearly, the structure in (89) is one of those which is generated by the general formula in (90). What is it, then, that determines which elements can occur in a GSP and in what configurations? Hasan’s answer is that they are determined by the ‘contextual configuration’ (CC) of the genre, consisting of a specification of the values for field, tenor and mode. For instance, she demonstrates (Hasan 1978: 233–236) that in the interaction between a doctor’s receptionist and a patient who wants to make an appointment with the doctor, the presence of elements in which the receptionist and patient identify themselves is conditioned by features of visual contact in the mode value of the contextual configuration, and social distance between interactants in the tenor value. In the situation where both [–visual contact] and [maximum social distance] are present in the CC (i.e. a patient who does not know the receptionist well, making an appointment by telephone), then the identifying elements must occur; if the CC has [+visual contact] and [minimum social distance], then the element cannot occur (i.e. people who know each other well and are in visual contact do not identify themselves); if the CC has either [+visual contact] and

Chapter 4

Discourse, text and context 

[maximum social distance], or [–visual contact] and [minimum social distance], then at least one of the interactants must produce an identifying element.47 Hasan (1978: 244) points out that her model is most appropriate for small, selfcontained types of verbal interaction such as service encounters: the relationship between contextual configuration and generic structure cannot be expected to apply to, for example, a novel. Nevertheless, Hasan’s later work shows that there are certain story genres which do have a structure that is predictable enough to be accommodated within the GSP model, even if we cannot make formalisable links with particular contextual configuration values. In her study of the nursery tale as a genre (Hasan 1984b), she suggests the structural formula shown in (91) as a characterisation of the generic structure potential of the nursery tale (taken as equivalent to the ‘bed-time story’). (91) [()^) InitiatingEvent ^] SequentEvent^FinalEvent [^(Finale) . (Moral)] Following the conventions listed earlier, we may read this as follows. Any text conforming to the nursery tale genre must, minimally, have an Initiating Event, a Sequent Event and a Final Event, in that order. The Initiating and Sequent Events are potentially recursive. There may, but need not, be a Placement element serving to particularise a character (e.g. once upon a time there was a X), which can precede the Initiating Event or be interspersed within it (this is the meaning of the angle brackets around the element). There may, but need not, be a Finale (consisting of a conventionalised final statement about the protagonists) and/or a Moral, and these can occur in either order within the final square bracketing. Hasan discusses in some detail the various elements and their typical realisations in terms of lexicogrammatical choice. In conclusion, we may say that Hasan’s work has suggested that genres as different as service encounters and nursery tales are characterised by structural formulas, or generic structure potentials, which generate an array of possible structures, to one of which a text must conform if it is to be perceived as a ‘good’ exemplar of that genre. For certain types of genre, involving small, self-contained interactions, she also postulates that the elements and configurations of the GSP are determined by the values of field, tenor and mode: in other words, that register determines genre. We shall see in the next section that the work of Martin proposes a very different relationship between register and genre.

.... Martin’s model: Genre and register as ‘connotative semiotics’. For Martin (1985: 250), “[g]enres are how things get done, when language is used to accomplish them”: they are activity types, realised through language, which are recognised in a given culture. Martin models genre as a semiotic system in its own right, so enabling him to make systematic comparisons across the various possibilities. I have now mentioned three linguistically . Note that this dual determination of a generic element by tenor and mode could be seen as going against Halliday’s hypothesis that particular types of meaning are preferentially controlled by particular single elements of the context of situation, a point made by Berry (1989b) and already mentioned briefly in §4.4.4.1.

 Structure and Function

relevant semiotic systems: language, register and genre. In Martin’s scheme, these are arranged in a hierarchical series, linked by realisation: choices in genre are realised by those in register, and these, in turn, by choices in language itself. Following Hjelmslev, Martin refers to register and genre as connotative semiotics: they are semiotic systems for which the expression plane is another semiotic system. Genre “represents at an abstract level the verbal strategies used to accomplish social purposes of many kinds” (1985: 251). These strategies can be seen in terms of the stages through which language users move in order to realise a genre, and it is here that the concept of schematic structures comes in. A schematic structure is closely related to the generic structures proposed by Hasan, in that it consists of a set of functional elements in particular orders of occurrence. Martin, however, proposes that schematic structures are generated by genre networks, not derived from register values. He proposes a network for service encounters (Martin 1985: 253, 1992a: 552), based on the work of Ventola (1987) which was mentioned in §4.4.3.2.2.48 Such encounters may be [appointed] (e.g. with doctor or dentist) or [unappointed], and if the latter, then oriented towards [information] (e.g. in a travel bureau) or [goods]. Goods-oriented encounters may be [day-to-day] (e.g. at a greengrocer’s shop) or [intermittent]. In addition, [unappointed] encounters may be [display] (e.g. in a department store) or [across counter] (as in a post office). [Intermittent, display] encounters may be either [minor], such as in the purchase of clothing, or more [major], as in buying a used car ([negotiable]) or a fridge ([not negotiable]). Realisation statements are provided in the form of the elements of schematic structure which must be inserted in response to particular choices: for instance, all service encounters have the elements Service, Resolution and Closing; appointed encounters have the element Wait (realised as, for example, Won’t you have a seat; the doctor will be with you in a moment); non-appointed encounters have Service Bid; goods encounters Pay and Goods Handover; and so on. As Martin (1985: 254) observes, however, such a network and set of realisation rules will not in fact generate all the well-formed schematic structures for service encounters. This is partly because recursion also has to be included, to cater for the case where a customer has more than one request. Also, no ordering has been specified, and the problem here, as highlighted by the work of Ventola, is that although one can specify an unmarked sequence for the elements, various exceptions to the norm may be found in actual service encounter texts, without those texts being felt to be in any way anomalous. Finally, there are points at which one or other party in the interaction can choose not to fulfil the normal expectations, by opting out of some part of the structure and so aborting the service encounter. Such phenomena are not easily handled within a static, ‘synoptic’ model consisting of systemic choices and sets of realisation statements, and this is, as Martin (p. 255) points out, only to be expected, since schematic structures are different from clause structures in certain important ways: they are more variable, they allow ‘escape’ without being . For further discussion of genre and register in relation to service encounter texts, see Ventola (1995a), and for an overview of the Martin model of genre and register and sample analyses Eggins & Martin (1997).

Chapter 4

Discourse, text and context 

ill-formed, and recursion behaves differently (e.g. there can be several Services in a service encounter structure, but only one Subject49 or Actor in a clause). In Ventola’s work, these problems led to the suggestion that the best way to generate well-formed schematic structures, and to account for ill-formed ones, was to use a dynamic, process-based approach, modelled as a flowchart, with decision points, actions carried out as a result of the decisions made, and specifications of recursion possibilities. A full flowchart for service encounter structure can be found in Ventola (1987: 70–76), the initial part of which is given in Martin (1985: 256–257). As Martin (p. 258) observes, such a representation not only allows for recursion and for abortion of the encounter, but also models realisation as taking place over time, so that realisation of a given unit need not wait until all decisions regarding the encounter have been made. We may now turn to a comparison of Martin’s model with that of Hasan presented earlier. We have seen that for Martin, it is genre which determines register, rather than the other way round as in Hasan’s model. He offers a number of arguments for this type of stratified model (Martin 1985: 250–251, 1992a: 505–507, 1998: 31–34). Firstly, treating genre as a superordinate semiotic allows us to state the restrictions which genre places on the combinations of field, tenor and mode values which are possible in a culture. Martin points out, for example, that in western cultures, fields such as typing, bicycle maintenance and house cleaning do not combine with a tenor of asymmetric power relations and abstract reflective monologue as mode: in other words induction into these fields is not normally passed on by the activity of lecturing. Martin’s model recognises the importance of the particular combinations of field, tenor and mode values which a culture does routinely exploit. Secondly, establishing genre as a separate level, more abstract than that of register, allows us to free it from any direct link with metafunctional organisation: we can still accommodate Halliday’s hypothesis of predictive relationships between register variables and meaning types, but at the same time we can classify texts into generic types (narrative, expository, etc.). Thirdly, if we allow choices in genre systems, rather than combinations of register values, to generate schematic structures, then we can deal more easily with changes in the metafunctional types of meaning prioritised at different points in a text, since genre characteristics can be used to predict the registerial changes involved. Fourthly, treating genre as a separate, more abstract level means that we can differentiate between the way a text develops as a process and the activity sequences associated with field: Martin (1992a: 506) contrasts a commentary on a football match and an account of the game in a newspaper; the two are alike in field, but the commentary is staged to reflect the stages of the game, while the report need not be, and indeed usually begins with the result. Finally, social processes modelled in terms of genre can be seen to have properties which are not simply those which result from particular combinations of register variables. The model allows us not only to specify the registerial relationships which characterise a particular type of text (e.g. recipes), but also to relate this specific genre to others of a sim. Martin’s parallel is, of course, only partial: for instance, there may be more than one Complement or Adjunct in a clause.

 Structure and Function

ilar type (in the case of recipes, other procedural genres), and thence to even more general categories (in this case, other types of regulatory genre) (Martin 1998: 33). It will be clear from the above that Martin regards the main difference between his model and Hasan’s as residing in the postulation of a separate, superordinate level of genre. He plays down the difference in directionality: genre being realised by register (Martin), as opposed to generic structures being the realisation of configurations of register values (Hasan). The reason for this can be found in the view, shared by Martin (1992a: 505) and Hasan (1996: 110) that realisation is not a unidirectional relation. In connection with this claim, Martin makes the following comment: . . . to say that A realises B is to say: (i) A manifests B (i.e. makes B material); (ii) A constitutes B (i.e. makes B come to be); (iii) A reconstitutes B (i.e. continually renovates B, however gradually); and (iv) A symbolises B (i.e. is a metaphor for B). (Martin 1992a: 378)

It may be that Martin’s view is grounded in Halliday’s claim that realisation between levels is a dialectic relationship, a position which has also been espoused by Hasan (e.g. 1996: 110, 1998: 223); this dialectic, however, is between activation (A activates B) and construal (B construes A), which are two quite different kinds of relation. It is not clear how a statement such as that by Martin above, or similar statements by Hasan, help to dispel the idea that realisation in SFG is indeed, de facto, directional. It is striking that all the statements are of the form ‘A verbs B’, and so are inherently directional. Certainly, if A manifests, (re)constitutes or symbolises B, then B is manifested, (re)constituted or symbolised by B, but this is only to emphasise the directionality involved. Would Martin wish to claim that there is mutual manifestation, (re)constitution and symbolisation between A and B? If not, the relationship is clearly non-reversible, and so, in this sense, directional. Perhaps what is meant is no more than that the area of realisation needs to be looked at bidirectionally, that is in terms of both activation and construal, rather than that the process of realisation is non-directional. Whatever is meant, it seems to me that the usage of the Sydney systemicists in this area is somewhat opaque. The suggestion that “[t]echnically it may in the long run prove helpful to replace the term realisation with a less directional term like redound” (Martin 1992a: 378–379) only obscures the issue still further. So far, we have a three-level set of semiotic systems, the highest of which is genre. Even this, however, is felt to be inadequate if we are to prevent “the model from becoming too monolithic and rigidly deterministic” (1992a: 507). The point Martin is making here is that genres, registers and linguistic resources are not distributed in an even way across social groups, and that this disparity engenders tensions which lead to changes in the overall system. For this reason, he introduces a fourth, and highest, semiotic level, that of ideology which, seen synoptically, is “a system of coding orientations which makes meaning selectively available depending on subjects’ class, gender, ethnicity and generation” (p. 581), and viewed dynamically, “is concerned with the redistribution of power – with semiotic evolution” (p. 507). This angle on language and its use has loomed large in systemic work in recent years, and has clear links with the critical linguistics movement

Discourse, text and context 

Chapter 4

evident in the work of Fowler, Fairclough and others (for a brief review, see Fowler 1991). A good example of work in this area by Martin himself is his analysis of debates on certain ecological issues (Martin 1986). A clear candidate for treatment in terms of ideology in Martin’s model is Bernstein’s work on social ‘codes’ and their relationship with class and language (see e.g. Bernstein 1971, 1973), which exerted a major influence on Halliday’s work in the 1970s and beyond. Martin (pp. 576–581) reviews this work and its sequels in the work of Hasan, Cloran and others.50 Martin’s alternative to Hasan’s model of genre and its relationship with register has not gone unchallenged: Hasan (1995) presents a critique in which she concludes that it is “neither necessary nor viable” and is indeed “inconsistent with the systemic functional model” (1995: 184). Hasan’s paper is very lengthy, and ranges over an extremely wide spectrum of issues; space precludes any detailed discussion here, and I can only indicate the kinds of argument put forward and the conclusions reached, focussing on three issues: dynamic vs. synoptic accounts, connotative semiotics, and the genre/register relationship.51 Although Martin, as we have seen, allows both a static and a dynamic perspective, Hasan understandably feels that he prioritises the dynamic approach. In her view, his conception of the dynamic perspective is seriously flawed. She interprets Martin as “claiming the centrality of real time in any conceptualization of the dynamic perspective” (p. 188, emphasis in original). If this interpretation is correct, then, she argues, the dynamic system must be able to deal with individual instances of discourse; but it must also be able to generalise from individual instances, since it is a requirement, for something to qualify as a system, that it should apply not just to one instance, but to other, like instances. She concludes that . . . the dynamic system, in as much as it is a system, must be such that, while it describes every instance as that instance, it must also possess generality enough not to deny any instance its specificity as a unique instance of a type. Otherwise either it will fail to be different from the synoptic system, or it will fail its dynamic duty, or it will be no system at all. (1995: 189, emphasis in original)

She sees this as a problem for Martin’s account, herself preferring a different interpretation of the dynamic perspective as specifying the conditions under which variability, optionality, and the like can occur – a view which, of course, reconceptualises dynamicity in essentially synoptic terms. In relation to the proposal that register and genre should be seen as connotative semiotics, Hasan argues that Martin’s appropriation of Hjelmslev’s ideas conceals crucial differences between the two, and that although Hjelmslev was indeed a major influence on Halliday, “there is no simple one-to-one correspondence between Hjelmslev’s strata . Furthermore, Halliday (in Hernández Hernández 2000b: 234) remarks that the early development of the theory of register arose out of the desire, by a group of linguists with a Marxist view of language, to promote the valuing of languages and language varieties which were not valued in either political or academic circles. . For a much earlier account of Hasan’s views on context, see Hasan (1980).

 Structure and Function

and strata/levels as they have developed in SF [Systemic Functional (linguistics) – CSB]” (p. 202). As a result of her detailed discussion, she concludes that . . . if the relations of planes and levels are not revised, then theoretically the kind of connotative semiotic Martin proposes is impossible. If the relations have been revised to make them more like realization, then the notion of connotative semiotic is unnecessary. (1995: 214)

Hasan raises further questions about the relationships between the strata in Martin’s model: if register acts as the content plane of a connotative semiotic for which the expression plane is language as a denotative semiotic, then is the relationship between the two arbitrary? There are, claims Hasan (pp. 210–211) “enormous difficulties in maintaining that register is arbitrarily expressed by whatever we conceive to be the nature of Martin’s level of discourse – which is said to be comparable to Halliday’s semantic level”. What Hasan suggests is that Martin’s view of the relationship between the content and expression planes of the connotative semiotic is different from that between the content and expression planes of language as a denotative semiotic. And yet, she observes, the many questions surrounding such a shift have never been posed, let alone answered. Hasan also objects to what she sees as Martin’s amalgamation of the notions of register (which, as we have seen, is for Halliday a variety of language) and context into his (undifferentiated) concept of register: she points out that “his term, register, is used to refer to this composite of a certain variety of linguistic patterning and its extralinguistic correlate” (p. 198). Thus Martin’s model leads to the somewhat contradictory position that “language itself is the expression plane of its own varieties” (p. 198). In a later paper, Martin (1998: 29–30), commenting on the “range of misunderstandings” which the importation of Hjelmslevian concepts into genre theory has incurred, and citing Hasan (1995) in association with this, offers brief comments which he hopes will clarify some issues. The intention, he says, was to provide a characterisation of context as a semiotic system, hence the appropriateness of ideas from Hjelmslev. The adoption of the term ‘register’ where Halliday uses ‘context of situation’ was purely terminological, and intended to distance the model from a materialist orientation; Martin claims that no difference from Halliday’s conception of the relationship between field/tenor/mode and language is involved. Pace Hasan, he states that the attention given in the model to dynamic as well as synoptic aspects of patterning arose from work on exchange and generic structure and was not seen as motivating the layered model. In a recent exposition of her own view of context and its relationship with text, Hasan (1998: 222) again expresses the view that in Martin’s dynamic model “the relations of a unique instance of practice and a non-unique system remain entirely unclear, not to say incoherent”. She develops a very detailed account which recognises that situation, culture, text and language enter into two types of proportional relationship: situation instantiates culture, just as language instantiates text; and language realises culture, as text realises (context of) situation. Hasan’s focus here is on this last relationship, which she explores through an analysis of three texts. In the course of this analysis she discusses critically the criterion of register consistency originally proposed by Halliday & Hasan (1976: 23) for

Chapter 4

Discourse, text and context 

texthood, pointing out that there are texts whose integrity appears not to be compromised by register changes, and exploring the kinds of social situation where such changes are most ‘at risk’, and the kinds of formal mechanism needed for their specification. As was noted in §6.4 of Part 1, this leads her to propose a significantly modified view of field, tenor and mode as “three interrelated perspectives on the social context with reference to which speaking is done”, rather than as separate factors in social situations (Hasan 1998: 272). Hasan (1998: 274–312) goes on to develop in much greater detail a description of field which takes account of what she calls ‘contextual/registral integration’, that is deviation from a simple textual design with contextual/registral consistency, in order to build in secondary concerns, so modifying the nature of the original social process. The key concept in the area of field is taken to be action, both verbal and material. Hasan proposes simultaneous systems for these types of action. At primary delicacy, material action can be [present] in the situation or [non-present], and if not present, then either genuinely [absent] or [deferred], this last choice pertaining to situations in which the verbal action specifies material action to be carried out later. The verbal action is either [constitutive] of the activity or [ancillary] to it, and if constitutive, then either [practical] or [conceptual], the latter referring to situations in which mental work is being carried out, as in writing an examination paper, which involves the construal of verbal semiotic constructs. The two systems are related by what Hasan calls ‘default dependencies’ rather than by the kind of ‘genuine dependencies’ familiar from the lexicogrammar: for intance, if the verbal action is [ancillary], then clearly material action must be [present], since otherwise there would be nothing for the verbal action to be ancillary to; likewise, if material action is [non-present], then the verbal action must be [constitutive]. Each of the types of verbal action has secondary systems: for instance, practical verbal actions may be carried out to [instruct], or to [plan], or for other purposes; instructional verbal actions can relate to how to [create] an artefact or how to [manage] it; managing the artefact may be to [install], [maintain] or [repair] it. Conceptual verbal actions may be [relation based] (and if so, then [cooperative] or [conflictual]) or [reflection based]; they may also be [narrating] or [informing] (with a complex set of finer distinctions for each), and [first order] or [second order] (i.e. language ‘turned back on itself ’), and if the latter, then [reproductive] or [meta-discursive]. Later in her discussion, Hasan adds to the system network a distinction in ‘sphere of action’ between [quotidian] (subdivided into [institutional] and [individuated]) and [specialised].52 She also introduces a system of iteration, specifying choices arising, within the ‘material situational setting’ in which interaction is taking place,53 in whether to continue or to close field choices, the former option leading to the inclusion of an [independent] field into the discourse at some point (e.g. someone interrupting a conversation in order to receive a parcel), or to the selection of an [integrated] field (e.g. a teacher switching on an overhead projector while giving a presentation lesson), or to the incursion of an [aligned] field, which is in a logical relation . For further discussion of institutionalisation in a systemic functional perspective, see Bowcher (1998). . For further work on the material situational setting in relation to context and text, see Cloran (1998).

 Structure and Function

to the main field (e.g. a cricket commentary is about the game which is being described and commented on). Here we must leave the debate between Hasan and Martin: it is clear, however, that there are incompatibilities between the two approaches,54 that much remains to be said, and that extensive, systematic empirical work on a wide range of texts, investigating the relationships between contextual parameters (perhaps according to Martin’s more detailed classification) and types of meaning (preferably without initial prejudice to their putative metafunctional addresses) would help to clarify issues which threaten to become somewhat bogged down in theoretical and metatheoretical obscurities.

.. Discourse, text and context in the Cardiff grammar ... Discourse grammars and the systemic flowchart model We saw in Chapter 5 of Part 1 that the Cardiff grammar has been worked out largely within the framework of the COMMUNAL project for the computer-based generation of text. The model of discourse developed by the Cardiff team (see Fawcett, van der Mije & van Wissen 1988; Fawcett & Davies 1992a, 1992b)55 is thus oriented towards implementation in the computational generation system. The Cardiff computational model assumes three levels of planning for language generation: higher planning, discourse planning and sentence planning. We have already looked in some detail, in other chapters, at aspects of sentence planning in Cardiff SFG. The discourse planning level is defined as planning the deployment – and often adaptation – of structured patterns of behaviour that are predominantly mediated through semiotic systems such as natural language (so including gesture, facial expression, iconic and other graphical representations, etc.). (Fawcett & Davies 1992a: 1, emphasis in original)

Since a ‘sentence grammar’ is seen as a model of planning for text at the sentence level, a ‘discourse grammar’ is postulated to model planning at the discourse level.56 The discourse grammar recognises two main types of structure, labelled genre and exchange structure, which are related not through realisation between strata (as for example in Martin’s scheme, described in §4.4.4.3.2) but by rank within a single level. In other words, they are seen as being of the same type, though typically differing in size, since a genre can cover a whole conversation or novel, though there are instances of genres consisting of a single . Pace Matthiessen (1993: 232), who suggests that “there is no a priori reason why they can’t be interpreted as complementaries”. . Fawcett & Davies’ 1992b paper is a reduced version of 1992a; I shall therefore refer only to the 1992a version here. . The Cardiff grammar appears not to make a clear distinction between ‘discourse’ and ‘text’. However, in view of the commitment to the view that discourse planning involves not only language but also other semiotic systems, we might perhaps see a distinction between that which is realised in language (‘text’) and the whole integrated ‘discourse’ which is realised multimodally.

Chapter 4

Discourse, text and context 

exchange (Fawcett & Davies give the example of an exchange of greetings between passersby), just as there are exchanges which consist of a single move, itself consisting of a single act. Building on the work of the Birmingham school of discourse analysis (see §4.4.3.2.1), Fawcett and his colleagues propose that although we need a large number of individual grammars for particular genres, each giving rise to a different structure potential, we need only one grammar for exchange structure (the so-called local discourse grammar), which is valid for all types of genre. Where genres do differ is in the probabilities that particular types of choice from systems will be made, so that, as elsewhere in the Cardiff model, such probabilities must be included within the grammar. Fawcett and his group intend their model of exchange structure to be as valid for monologue as for dialogue. While most researchers in natural language generation have begun with monologue in an attempt to avoid having to model the addressee’s contribution in the first instance, Fawcett & Davies (1992a: 5–6) argue that even in monologue it is essential to model the changes in what the addressee can be assumed to believe, at various stages in the interaction. They therefore treat monologue as an extended turn in dialogue (which can in turn be extended to cover multi-party interaction), pointing out that some types of dialogue do indeed contain substantial portions of monologue, and some monologues contain material, such as rhetorical questions, which involve the addressee’s possible reactions. They also point out that although the unmarked realisation of dialogic mode is spoken, written dialogues are by no means uncommon (e.g. plays); they therefore feel that working with written language in the first instance will not be harmful to the research undertaken. Fawcett, van der Mije & van Wissen (1988) present a model for discourse grammar which aims at socio-psychological reality and is intended to be predictive rather than merely descriptive, and to cope with quite complex discourse structures, including many which, though non-canonical, are perfectly ‘grammatical’ within the discourse, such as challenges, the seeking of clarifications, oblique moves which work on both an ostensible and an ulterior level, discourse addressed to oneself, self-repairs, interruptions, etc. The model is like that of Martin and Ventola in being explicitly dynamic and in using flowcharts to model this dynamicity. Where it differs from Martin’s model, however, is that flowcharts and system networks are combined into a single generative scheme: essentially, the mechanism is that the decision boxes of the flowcharts contain a number of small systems, which allow much more complex decisions than the yes/no answers to questions in the usual decision box. Rather than attempt to discuss all the distinctions in the complex systemic flowchart model presented by Fawcett, van der Mije & van Wissen, it may be better to give an idea of how the model works by following through the generation of discourse structure for an example of genuine interaction. (92) A. Erm, I, I don’t think there’s any question about you getting a minister B. Do you think we’ll get one? A. Oh yes B. Oh (BNC KB0 60–63)

 Structure and Function

The generation of the exchange begins with the start symbol in the flowchart, in response to which the exchange is initiated. In the original version of the model (Fawcett, van der Mije & van Wissen 1988: 132–135), there are five initial, simultaneous choices to be made from systems. Firstly, there is a system for ‘reality of encounter’ which distinguishes between ‘real’ encounters where material is addressed to others, and other less typical types of communication, such as addressing oneself or a non-speaking entity, or addressing one person with the intention that another will overhear. For the interaction in (92), A initiates a real encounter. Secondly, a system of [straight] vs. [oblique] distinguishes moves which can be handled at a single level of meaning from those where we need a double analysis taking into account not only what appears to be meant but also what is actually meant, as frequently revealed by the following discourse: an example would be a statement intended as a request. A’s initial move in (92) is [straight]. Two further systems deal with the complexity of the move, in terms of the need (or lack of need) for ‘starter’ and ‘continuer’ acts in addition to the head act.57 If we ignore the hesitation marker erm and the repetition of I, A’s initial move in (92) consists of a single act as head, so we choose the unmarked options: no starter or continuer acts required. Finally, we have a complex network for the type of move, with five initial choices: [give information], [solicit information], [propose own action], [influence action] and [action (verbal or non-verbal) plus optional action commentary]; the meanings of these labels should be obvious. A’s first move in (92) selects [give information], and this leads to a specification of constituency (indicated in the flowchart by a broken line), between the move and the act(s) of which it consists. More delicate systems then allow choices in the precise nature of this act: for A’s first move in (92) we have [assert] (rather than an expressive, commissive, declaration or repetition type of act), and more delicately [inform] (there are also even more delicate choices which are left out of account here, since in our example the unmarked option is selected). The choice of [give information] from the move network leads to a transition to the next move, symbolised in the flowchart by a line with an arrowhead in the middle. B now has a choice of whether or not to produce a move which supports the expectations of the initiating move by producing a Respond move (in this case acknowledging the information given).58 In (92), B chooses not to produce a supporting move. The systemic flowchart offers two possibilities here: the speaker can suspend the progress of the move, for example by making a challenge (of one of four types specified in a more delicate system) or seeking clarification; or s/he can choose not to cooperate, either by aborting the exchange or by producing a re-initiation. It is this last choice which is taken up in B’s first move in (92), and takes us back to the initial system of five choices for the type of move, from which [solicit information] is chosen. . In a later version of the model, these systems are placed in a more appropriate position, before or after the head act, rather than in parallel with systems for the class of move (Fawcett & Davies 1992a: 24). . Note that the concepts of support, challenge, etc., refer to responses to the expectations set up by a preceding move: it is not the speaker, as such, who is being supported or challenged.

Chapter 4

Discourse, text and context 

The choice of [solicit information] has two effects, just as with the earlier choice of [give information]. Firstly, it specifies the relation between the move and its constituent act(s), the network then offering a choice of three types of act ([seek polarity], [seek new content] and [seek choice of given content], corresponding to polar, open and alternative questions respectively) from which B’s first move in (92) selects [seek polarity]. Secondly, it passes an instruction to go to the next move in the interaction, and activates another subnetwork for support/non-support similar to that which was described above in relation to the earlier choice of [give information]. In the case of (92), A chooses [support], in other words the production of a Respond move, and the systemic flowchart specifies the constituency relationship between move and act(s), then offers a choice of [give polarity], [give new content], [try out new content] or [give choice of given content], from which the choice of [give polarity] is made for (92).59 The flowchart also specifies, as usual, the shift to the next move. B now has the choice of producing another supporting move, deciding that no further support is required (so closing the exchange), or producing a nonsupporting move. It is the first of these choices which is made in (92). Note that this second supporting move is not a Respond (the strongly predicted support for an Initiate), but a less strongly predicted Follow-up. We go through the usual cycle of constituency specification, choice of act type60 and shift to next move. Since support is recursive, A has the opportunity to produce further support, end the exchange or produce a non-cooperative move. The text following example (92) in the corpus actually shows that the exchange is ended at this point. Fawcett, van der Mije & van Wissen provide realisation rules to accompany the systemic flowchart. In the case of example (92), the initiation of the exchange requires the insertion of an exchange unit, with the element I(nitiate) as a daughter. The feature [give information] is realised by the filling of the I element by the ‘give information’ class of move and appending a h(ead) element as a daughter of this move. B’s [re-initiate] choice is realised by the insertion of a RI element as a daughter of the exchange. The feature [solicit information] is then realised by the filling of this element by a move of the ‘solicit information’ class and the appending of a h(ead) element as a daughter of this move. A’s support of this move is realised by the appending of a R(espond) element as a daughter of the exchange, the filling of this element by the ‘support’ class of move, and the appending of a h(ead) element as a daughter of this move. B’s final support choice is realised by the appending of a F(ollow-up) element as a daughter of the exchange, its filling by a move of the ‘support’ class, and the appending of a h(ead) element as a daughter of this move. If we add the filling of the head elements by the class of act chosen, we arrive at a struc. There must be a match between the type of information solicited and the type of support given, and Fawcett, van der Mije & van Wissen handle this simply in terms of the transparent relations between the labels used. . In the absence of clear definitions for act types, it is hard to know whether the Oh of (80) should be classified as [acknowledge] or as [exclaim-evaluate]. I have (rather arbitrarily) assumed the former in the structure given in (93).

 Structure and Function

ture for the exchange as shown in (93), in which the blank boxes represent the process of lexicogrammatical realisation. (93)

exchange

I

RI

give information solicit information

R

F

support

support

h

h

h

h

assert, inform

seek polarity

give polarity

acknowledge

A. Oh yes

B. Oh

A. Erm, I, I don’t think B. Do you think there’s any question we’ll get one? about you getting a minister

... Amalgamating systemic flowcharts with Rhetorical Structure Theory Fawcett & Davies (1992a: 24–25) point out that Mann & Thompson’s Rhetorical Structure Theory,61 like the systemic flowchart model, was developed within the context of computational implementation of a systemic grammar. They regard RST as “the most promising of the current frameworks for monologue generation” (p. 7): they praise the richness and flexibility of the model, although conceding that, as pointed out in Hovy (1990), some problems remain. What Fawcett and his colleagues propose is to integrate work in RST with that in their own systemic flowchart framework. They see this as desirable because of the way the strengths of the two approaches complement each other, RST being developed for monologue, the systemic flowchart model for dialogue. If the two models are to be integrated, then there is a need for a form of representation which will not do violence to either. Fawcett & Davies claim that . . . the difference between (1) a ‘sister dependency’ relationship and (2) a relationship of two daughters to a mother unit is a difference of notation whose significance has been overemphasized. (Fawcett & Davies 1992a: 8)

They thus claim that the dependency relation of a satellite on its nucleus in RST can be represented in terms of constituency, as a tree diagram. Consider the following short stretch of text: (94) Brian O’Rourke, the builder, had intended the castle as a war fortress for his use when plundering neighbouring kings and chieftains. That was in 1540. (BNC ADM 1475–1476) . See §4.4.3.4.2.

Discourse, text and context 

Chapter 4

This consists, in RST terms, of a nucleus followed by a satellite of circumstance, as shown in (95). (95)

Circumstance

Brian O’Rourke, the builder, had intended the castle as a war fortress for his use when plundering neighbouring kings and chieftains.

That was in 1540.

This, according to Fawcett & Davies, can be re-expressed as in (96), were N represents the Nucleus and S the Satellite, ‘basis’ being the name of the class of span which acts as nucleus, ‘circumstance’ the class of the satellite span. (96)

N basis N basis

Brian O’Rourke, the builder, had intended the castle as a war fortress for his use when plundering neighbouring kings and chieftains.

S circumstance

That was in 1540.

Fawcett & Davies (p. 25) see clear parallels between the relations of RST (e.g. circumstance) and the ‘continuer’ acts of their own model. The exchange given in (92) and analysed earlier had a single act per move, but of course this represents only the simplest situation, and in many exchanges there are starter and/or continuer acts too. Furthermore, because RST was developed with written texts in mind, Fawcett & Davies propose that it is essentially a description of the moves which, in the systemic flowchart model, would be called ‘give information’ moves, and their constituent acts. Since, as we have seen, the Cardiff discourse grammar is able to generate structures of the type required, RST relations could be incorporated into it, in the part of the networks dealing with non-head constituents of information giving moves. Fawcett & Davies (p. 26) anticipate that there may have to be some adjustment regarding the rank-based nature of their model, which works with the ranks of exchange, move and act, since in RST any number of layers of structure may be present in the analysis for a text, and each chooses from the same set of relations. As we have seen, however, the Cardiff grammar virtually dispenses with the rank concept in the sentence grammar, and Fawcett & Davies express a willingness to weaken its role in the discourse grammar too, if necessary.

 Structure and Function

.

Comparison of approaches We have seen that in many respects proposals for the analysis of discourse and text are more highly developed in SFG than in FG, and that RRG, although very much concerned with certain discourse-relevant areas such as information structuring and switch reference, so far has no subtheory of discourse patterning itself. For this reason, comparison will inevitably be limited to a few rather general comments. The disparity just alluded to is clearly related to the aims and underlying assumptions of the three theories. SFG is first and foremost an attempt to model the communication which human beings achieve by means, not of isolated sentences, but of texts. From the very beginnings of the theory in the 1960s, not only have the concepts of text and context been central, but they have also been explicitly related, through the concepts of cohesion and register. Attention to the demands of textual description has characterised the theory throughout its history, and as we have seen, the book which is still regarded as Halliday’s most comprehensive account, An Introduction to Functional Grammar, is explicitly geared to the needs of text analysts. FG, despite Dik’s commitment to the study of language as the primary form of human communication, grew up largely as a sentence grammar, so that although it is possible to find work on text being done throughout the history of the theory, this work derives largely from application of the concepts already worked out for the grammar. Of course, such work had the potential to feed back into the grammar itself (though we have seen that it had rather little influence on Dik’s own theorising); the point is that the theory did not start with an explicit commitment to the study of text, and this inevitably influenced the direction in which it developed, and the subsidiary role of textual studies within it. As we have seen, it is only recently that FG linguists have begun to suggest models of discourse itself. Furthermore, the proliferation of such models, and their currently somewhat programmatic nature, make detailed evaluation difficult. RRG, from its very inception, paid particular attention to languages with very different properties from those of the much-studied Indo-European group, and so has always been especially sensitive to discourse-related phenomena which, though not found in those more familiar languages, are quite common if we look at the world’s languages as a whole. So it is that, for example, switch reference and similar systems occupy an important place in RRG theory. Of course, these are examples of the more general category of reference tracking systems, which occur in some form or another in all languages, and it is therefore not surprising that RRG assigns an important place to such systems, though the angle from which the phenomena are handled is more syntactically-oriented, and much more specific (being related mainly to Privileged Syntactic Argument status, voice, etc.), than in SFG. Other discourse-pragmatic concepts such as those associated with focus are also of great importance in RRG, in both simple and complex sentences. There is nothing, however, in the RRG literature to suggest that one of the aims of the theory is to provide a full-blown model of discourse, though some such model would seem to be implied by Van Valin & LaPolla’s (1997: 15) assertion that one of the questions with which RRG is directly concerned is how speakers produce and understand language. It would certainly

Chapter 4

Discourse, text and context 

seem unlikely that such an aim could be achieved in the absence of some well-articulated model of discourse and its planning. Implicit in the above is the matter of the differing status of typological adequacy in FG and RRG as opposed to SFG. The overwhelming concentration of systemic linguistics on English, particularly during the years of its most crucial development, has ineluctably led to a model of discourse which has a heavy anglocentric bias, despite the more recent appearance of work on other languages. This is both a strength and a weakness: the fact that a great deal of work has been done on English text means that detailed proposals have been articulated for that language; on the other hand, the lack of serious commitment to typological adequacy in the development of the theory has meant that it remains an open question whether the models put forward for English will be adequate for other languages without the imposition of undue distortions. One important source of difference in discourse modelling has emerged rather strongly from our discussions: there are relatively homogeneous models in which discourse is seen as an extension, in some sense, of grammar; on the other hand, there also exist models in which there is a division of labour between different modules, the grammar constituting just one of the modular components, complemented by other modules which go under labels such as pragmatic, communicative, cognitive, conceptual, etc. To the more homogeneous type belong Dik’s model and Hengeveld’s (1997) proposal; we might also say that, in a rather different way, systemic functional accounts of discourse belong here, since they do not postulate any sharp division between the grammar and the discourse, and even where an ‘upper’, discourse-oriented level of description is postulated, this is seen as a ‘discourse semantics’. To the modular type of proposal belong those of Vet, Kroon, Bolkestein, van den Berg and Liedtke. There does appear to be a fundamental difference of approach here, and the attempts of various FG linguists to bridge the gap between the two are not entirely convincing. Hengeveld’s latest model, as we have seen, still has smooth upward layering for the linguistic component, despite the appearance of additional conceptual and contextual components in the model. Steuten simply equates her interactional level (corresponding to the rhetorical level of Hengeveld’s (1997) model) with Vet’s pragmatic module, without any discussion of the implications. Mackenzie’s Incremental Functional Grammar, while seen as a compromise between the modular and the layering approaches, in practice emphasises a different but parallel dichotomy. As Mackenzie (2000: 34) points out, the upward layering proposals are associated primarily with a view of discourse as product, while modular proposals tend to focus on discourse as process, and it is this tension, rather than that between layering and modularity, which is foregrounded in Mackenzie’s IFG. The current trend in FG seems to favour processoriented models: we have seen that in addition to the pioneering cognitively-oriented work of Nuyts and the IFG of Mackenzie, models which claim increased psychological plausibility have also been proposed by Bakker & Siewierska and by Gómez-González. We have also seen that although the product/process distinction has played a large part in discussions of discourse patterning within the systemic functional framework, attempts to model process are not concerned with the actual cognitive processes which are at work in language production and understanding.

 Structure and Function

The formulation of models of discourse and text is an area where collaboration between functional theories, and between these and accounts which are not explicitly functional, could be very fruitful. Indeed, there are already signs of cross-fertilisation. Links with Rhetorical Structure Theory have emerged at various points in our discussion: Dik’s espousal of some of the ideas behind this model of discourse structure, also the Cardiff linguists’ incorporation of ideas from RST into their systemic flowchart model, and Gulla’s (1997) suggestion of a marriage of concepts from FG and RST, in the context of computational implementations. We have also seen that concepts from Sinclair & Coulthard’s hierarchical model of classroom discourse have been incorporated into three of the discourse models of FG, those of Kroon, Steuten and Connolly. We should not forget, either, that discourse-related phenomena have been extensively researched in the work of West Coast Functionalists such as Givón, Hopper, Thompson, DuBois, etc., which could again provide useful as a source of valuable insights for incorporation into a more integrated functional model of discourse, text and context.

Chapter 5

Learning and applying the grammar

.

Introduction In this chapter we move away from the grammars1 themselves to examine two further areas: the position taken by FG, RRG and SFG on language learning, by the child acquiring a native language and by learners of varying age as a second or a foreign language; and how they can be put to use in various applications such as computational linguistics, stylistics, translation or clinical linguistics. Discussion of these areas is included for two reasons: firstly, certain of them (especially first language acquisition and computational implementations) offer important insights for the grammars themselves; secondly, their omission would seriously distort an account of Systemic Functional linguistics since, as we have seen, systemicists place great emphasis on the applicability of the theory and of descriptions derived from it. The areas dealt with in this chapter are nevertheless less central to the main concerns of the book than those in previous chapters, and because of this the level of detail will be rather lower here.

.

Language learning

..

Functional Grammar and language learning As pointed out in §2.3.7 of Part 1, there have been few studies of the child’s learning of the native language within the framework of FG, despite Dik’s commitment to an approach centred on communicative interaction in social contexts, rather than on innate abilities: From a functional point of view, [. . . ] it is certainly much more attractive to study the acquisition of language as it develops in communicative interaction between the maturing child and its environment, and to attribute to genetic factors only those underlying principles which cannot be explained as acquired in this interaction. (Dik 1997a: 7)

. I am still, of course, using ‘grammar’ in the widest sense here.

 Structure and Function

Clahsen (1984, 1986) studied formal and functional aspects of the acquisition of verb markers by native German speakers, and Lalleman (1983a, 1985, 1987), discusses the development of certain linguistic features (e.g. word order, tense, the ability to express meaning by means of ‘correct’ linguistic forms) in native Dutch learners and in the children of Turkish immigrants, born and bred in the Netherlands, the language of the latter also being studied in Lalleman (1986). Lalleman (1981, 1983b), has also worked on the spoken Dutch of Turkish immigrant workers themselves. Lund (1996) has discussed natural sequences of development in second language learning. Boland (1999), as noted in §3.1.4 of Part 1, has suggested the expansion of Dik’s standards of adequacy for FG to include acquisitional adequacy, arguing that this involves both psychological and pragmatic factors. In her study, she sets out to discover the general principles which condition the acquisition of adverbs, her strategy being to analyse adverbs from pragmatic, semantic and morphological standpoints, as well as in terms of their deicticity, formulating implicational hierarchies for each of these factors based on typological, psychological and pragmatic information, and then testing the predictions made by these hierarchies in relation to the order of acquisition of the various types of adverb in English. This work is predicated on the assumption that the variation in acquisitional and typological data should be restricted in the same ways by the constraints imposed by psychological and pragmatic factors. Boland’s hypotheses also act as a test bed for three of the FG proposals on the layering of the underlying structure of the clause, those of Dik, Cuvalay and Hengeveld, which were summarised briefly in Chapter 3 of Part 1. The data for Boland’s study were taken from the CHILDES (Child Language Data Exchange System) database (MacWhinney 1995) and consisted of 200-utterance samples taken from the natural discourse of each of three American children at yearly intervals. Taking all three children together, the age range covered was 1½ to 7½ years. An adult control sample, also taken from the CHILDES database, was also used. Boland’s first hypothesis is based on the premise that adverbs at higher levels in the clause hierarchy relate to more complex communicational functions than those at lower levels. In view of this, Boland argues, English-speaking children should acquire adverbs that operate at Level 1 in the underlying clause hierarchy before those at Level 2, and those at Level 2 should be acquired before those at Level 3, these first three levels of the clause hierarchy being the ones on which various proposals for layering agree. The data bear out the hypothesis, in that there is a clear tendency for predicate satellite adverbs (e.g. those of manner) to be acquired before predicational adverbs (e.g. those of time and location), and these before propositional adverbs (those indicating subjective modalities). The second hypothesis is that where a single adverb can operate at different levels, the uses will be acquired in the order Level 1, Level 2, Level 3. This hypothesis was supported in the case of the adverbs just and really, each of which can operate at more than one level. Boland’s third hypothesis is concerned with adverbs operating at higher levels in the hierarchy, on which there is some disparity between the models of Dik, Cuvalay and Hengeveld. The models of Dik and Cuvalay straightforwardly predict that Level 4 adverbs will be acquired later than those at Level 3, and Cuvalay’s, which incorporates a fifth, textual level, also predicts that adverbs at this level will be acquired later than those at Level 4.

Chapter 5

Learning and applying the grammar 

In Hengeveld’s proposal, on the other hand, illocutionary (Level 4) satellites modify only the illocutionary frame, within which there is no relationship of inclusion between the illocution and the proposition, and so no prediction about the relative ordering of Level 4 satellites and those at Levels 2 and 3, although Level 4 adverbs are predicted to be learned later than Level 1, as the illocutionary frame is seen as more abstract than the predicate frame. On the other hand, Level 5 does include the lower levels, so that adverbs at this level should be acquired later than those at Levels 1, 2 and 3. Boland reports that there were no Level 5 adverbs in her sample, but that just and really were used at Level 4 before adverbs at Level 3 or even Level 2 were acquired. The data thus support Hengeveld’s proposal as against those of Dik and Cuvalay. The fourth hypothesis is concerned with morphological types of adverb, of which Boland discusses three: adverbs which also act as adjectives (e.g. fast, hard); ‘idiosyncratic’ adverbs such as today, now, which are basic adverbial predicates; and adverbs which are derived morphologically from adjectives by addition of -ly (e.g. quickly, probably). Hengeveld’s (1992: 68) implicational hierarchy of parts of speech, derived from typological data, is verb > noun > adjective > adverb. Languages are more likely to have a category as a separate part of speech the further left this category is in the hierarchy, and a language with a particular category will also have all those to the left of that category. Boland uses this hierarchy to predict that adverbs which also act as adjectives will be acquired before the other two types. This hypothesis is partially supported by the data, although there is some indication that dual-function and idiosyncratic adverbs may appear in a child’s language at roughly the same time. A second prediction on morphological grounds is that idiosyncratic adverbs will appear before derived ones, since the latter require the operation of a predicate formation rule, while the former can be taken directly from the lexicon. The data did not allow a firm conclusion on this hypothesis. Finally, Boland predicted that adverbs with a deictic function, such as here, there, today, would be acquired before non-deictic adverbs, in view of the importance of deixis in the development of communicative abilities. Data from two of the three children supported the hypothesis in relation to adverbs of time; the third child’s data did not provide conclusive evidence either way. The frequencies for other types of adverb were too low for any conclusions to be drawn. Boland’s work provides interesting confirmation of the importance, in work on acquisition, of a detailed description of the phenomena to be acquired, based on a principled linguistic theory. Although the data in this thesis study are understandably somewhat limited, they do give some indication of the power of FG to predict acquisitional sequences in the area of the adverb. A strong pedagogical element is also present in some of Hannay’s work (e.g. 1994b on adjunct placement in the English of Dutch students), and the resource guide on effective writing in English for Dutch students written by Hannay & Mackenzie (1996), clearly draws on their experience of analysing English text using the principles of FG, though, as we might expect in a pedagogical work, the link is not explicitly made.

 Structure and Function

.. Role and Reference Grammar and language learning There is an important body of research on first language acquisition within the framework of RRG. As summarised briefly in §1.6 of Part 1, proponents of Chomskyan linguistics adopt an adaptationist position to acquisition, according to which the child uses environmental input to set parameters for variables in an innate Universal Grammar. The child clearly needs to learn the lexical content of his or her language, but much of the grammar is antecedently given. Functionalists, on the other hand, including those working in RRG, adopt a constructionist approach, in which the child actually constructs the grammar: The RRG approach to language acquisition [. . . ] rejects the position that grammar is radically arbitrary and hence unlearnable, and maintains that it is relatively motivated (in Saussure’s sense) semantically and pragmatically. Accordingly, there is sufficient information available to the child in the speech to which it is exposed to enable it to construct a grammar, and therefore the kinds of autonomous linguistic structures posited by Chomsky are unnecessary. (Van Valin 1993b: 2)

What is learned by the child, then, is a set of rules and principles which relate forms and functions, functions which may be semantic, pragmatic or social and forms of behaviour which may be linguistic and non-linguistic. (Van Valin 1991: 8–9)

Van Valin (1991: 9) stresses that this does not mean that acquisition is necessarily purely inductive: for instance, semantically-based predispositions to learning are perfectly compatible with the constructionist view. As Van Valin (1991: 9–12) points out, there has been considerable disillusionment among developmental psycholinguists in relation to the role of linguistic theory in their work, occasioned partly by the rapid turnover of versions of generative theory, but even more by the adaptationists’ claim that actual studies of child language development are irrelevant to the theoretical discussion of acquisition. As we saw in §1.6 of Part 1, acquisition is seen by Chomsky as a purely logical problem, based on the supposed ‘poverty of the stimulus’, the solution to this problem being the postulation of an innate Universal Grammar: once the problem is ‘solved’ in this way, it is perfectly valid, so the formalists claim, to treat the transition from newly born child to adult as if it were instantaneous. The study of language acquisition thus becomes a non-empirical matter. On the other hand, in an approach which treats the child as the constructor of his or her grammar, empirical studies of language development are not just relevant, but essential. Van Valin (1991: 12–13) enumerates three functions which linguistic theory plays in the study of language acquisition: in the explanation of the acquisition process itself; in the definition of the input which is relevant to the process; and in providing a framework for explaining acquisition. From a constructionist viewpoint, the role of a linguistic theory is to provide a description of the grammar and to use it to make predictions about

Chapter 5

Learning and applying the grammar 

the process of acquisition of that grammar.2 In the various studies which will be reviewed briefly below, it is shown that the theoretical apparatus of RRG provides descriptions of languages which allow testable predictions to be made, and that such predictions are generally borne out by empirical studies of acquisition. The areas covered include: tense, aspect, modality and negation; grammatical relations; verb subcategorisation; wh-questions; and extraction constraints. We begin with the work of Van Valin (1991: 13–33) on the acquisition of tense, aspect, modality and negation. Van Valin points to the considerable differences between the conception of clause structure in RRG (the layered structure of the clause, LSC) and in generative grammar (models based on X-bar theory). Unlike X-bar syntax, the LSC is not postulated to be innate, but can be shown to be derivable from evidence available to the child. As we have seen, it is based on the argument/non-argument distinction (giving rise to the core/periphery dichotomy) and on the difference between predicating and non-predicating elements (yielding the distinction between nucleus and the nonnuclear elements): both of these bases are firmly rooted in the evidence available to the learning child. A second component of the LSC is, of course, the operator projection, with scoping both between levels (nuclear, core and clausal), and within these levels (e.g. tense is within the scope of illocutionary force). This scoping is the source of Van Valin’s explanation for the convincing cross-linguistic evidence that children learn aspectual distinctions before tense, and root modality before epistemic modality. In Part 1, we saw that aspect is a nuclear operator, since it modifies only the predicate, while tense is a clausal operator, with scope over the whole proposition. Root modality is a core operator, expressing a relationship between the predicate and one of its arguments, while epistemic modality takes the whole clause in its scope. There is clearly a generalisation to be made here: the ‘inner’ operators are acquired before the ‘outer’ ones. While it has been suggested in the literature that the explanation for the order of acquisition is to be sought in the cognitive complexity of the categories themselves, Van Valin suggests that the complexity is rather in the units over which the operators have scope: nuclear operators such as aspect have scope over the simplest unit, the predicate; core operators such as root modality have scope of a more complex unit, consisting of not only the predicate but also its arguments; while clausal operators have the whole of the clause structure in their scope. The acquisition of negation, as Van Valin demonstrates, is a much more complex issue. There is evidence from the literature that negatives sometimes occur in child language in a position, outside the clause, which is displaced with respect to the adult pattern. In interpreting such data, it is important to distinguish between anaphoric negatives which refer back to the previous utterance, and initial negatives which negate the clause they are . See also Rispoli (1999: 242–243), who, in his survey of functionalist approaches to first language acquisition, characterises the role of a functionalist theory such as RRG as being “to provide a detailed, articulate, and sensible account of the interfaces between the semantic and pragmatic components of grammar on the one hand, and the syntactic component on the other”, believing that only such an approach can furnish the hypotheses we need about the architecture of representation in the grammar.

 Structure and Function

in. For this reason, evidence from verb-final languages is particularly relevant, since here the external negative pattern is S + NEG, making it easy to distinguish it from (initial) anaphoric negation. Van Valin reviews evidence from the literature on the acquisition of Turkish and Japanese which unambiguously illustrate the displacement on negatives in early child language, as well as supplementary evidence from French and Polish. The acquisitional evidence also suggests that children’s early negation is clausal in scope, and this at first sight appears to present a problem for the RRG account, since it means that a clausal operator (wide-scope negation) is learned before the corresponding core operator (narrow-scope negation). The explanation, according to Van Valin, is in terms of the relationship between clausal negation and illocutionary force. Illocutionary force is clearly the first clausal operator to be acquired, as the child learns very early on to perform speech acts such as requesting and expressing emotions, realised intonationally at first. Van Valin points out that the early uses of negation by the child are linked to the illocutionary force of the utterance, for instance in rejections. This factor, he suggests, offsets the inherent complexity of the clausal operator. Wide-scope negation is the first clausal operator to appear in a lexically or grammatically realised form. Since the whole clause is within its scope, a natural position for it is outside the clause, so that the RRG layered structure gives a natural account of the positioning observed. Further complication arises, however, because the NEG + S or S + NEG pattern is a marked choice in children’s early language, and because some children produce both this and the unmarked variant, while others never produce it at all. Van Valin explains this in terms of a reorientation of perspective in the transition from child to adult system. We saw above that the early wide-scope negative has the clause as its reference unit for the determination of position. On the other hand, as Van Valin points out, the adult system has the nucleus as its reference unit for determining relative operator scope, since in the adult grammar there are operators with scopes over units smaller than the clause. Thus the shift from the child to the adult system involves a move from the ‘sentence-external’ position to the position determined by the meaning of the operator, with respect to the other operators which are learned as the acquisition process goes on. The variation in the behaviour of different children can then be seen in terms of there being some children who shift from external to internal patterning, and some who have the nucleus as reference point from the very beginning. The work of Rispoli (1990) is concerned with the acquisition of aspect, specifically from the perspective of the light it can cast on the way in which children acquire the ability to assign lexemes to Aktionsart classes. The study is concerned with intersentential patterns involving the interaction of aspect and Aktionsart, in the language of three young Japanese boys and their caregivers. In Japanese, verbs are subcategorised for the kinds of aspect they can occur with. This is, of course, also true of English, in which, for example, stative verbs such as like or understand are not frequently used with progressive aspect. As is well known such verbs can on occasion be used with the progressive, and this can be seen as indicating a subjective switch from an external perspective on states to a much less usual internal perspective, a switch which is also possible in Japanese. Nevertheless, it has been suggested that speakers generally choose linguistic situation types which correspond

Chapter 5

Learning and applying the grammar 

most closely to the situation in the world which they are trying to describe (Smith 1983). Rispoli’s work attempts to show how associations between actual situations and Aktionsart classes are established in Japanese children, using the RRG classification of Aktionsart types as a basis. We do not need to go into the details of the Japanese aspect system here, but simply to note two things: firstly, that although some aspectual markers have a consistent interpretation with verbs of all Aktionsart classes, others are interpreted differently according to the class of verb; secondly, that there are intersentential patterns of interaction in ordinary conversation, in which the aspect forms used by the speakers are dependent on the Aktionsart class of the verb. Such intersentential patterns can thus be used as an indication of the child’s mastery of lexical assignment to classes. Rispoli finds that in the early period when his subjects are beginning to master intersentential patterns, three classes of verb emerge: Activity verbs, verbs with what he calls ‘culmination point semantics’ (i.e. telic verbs), and States, none of which appeared to have developmental priority. All of the patterns observed were consistent with standard associations between Aktionsart classes and types of situation which were common in the children’s everyday experience. Thus intersentential patterns, which are part of the input, divide Japanese verbs into classes. However, Rispoli points out that in order to make use of these patterns in establishing lexical subcategorisation, the child must have some kind of anchor point which links context and semantic properties in a stable relationship. One possible anchor point (Slobin 1985) is the figure-ground relationship seen with motion verbs, which constituted a high proportion of the verbs used in the intersentential patterns observed. Rispoli (1991a) takes his earlier work further by looking at the acquisition of verb subcategorisation in Japanese specifically in terms of the logical structures of predicates proposed in the RRG model of lexical structure.3 As we saw in §4.10 of Part 1, the LS for a predicate predicts the thematic relations associated with that predicate and, through the linking algorithms, motivates the syntactic specification as well. If, then, the child has some way of learning about the LSs of predicates, the RRG model predicts that s/he will also learn a lot about the semantics and syntax associated with those predicates. Rispoli argues that sufficient information for the acquisition of LSs is available to the child through a combination of input and context which leads to an unambiguous specification of aspects of the predicate’s meaning. One problem with the input to Japanese children, illustrated convincingly from the data obtained from caregivers talking to their children, is that Japanese sentences are overwhelmingly syntactically underspecified in the conversational language: there is a very high degree of NP ellipsis and even where NPs are explicit, the postpositions ga and o indicating nominative and accusative case are frequently missing. Furthermore, in order for even sentences with full specification of NPs and case markers to be informative for the child, there must be an understanding of how the case markers are linked to thematic relations. Empirical evidence, however, suggests that Japanese children have con. This work builds on an earlier discussion of action verb categorisation (Rispoli 1989) which was not couched specifically in terms of RRG theory.

 Structure and Function

siderable difficulty with the acquisition of the case marking system, some not mastering it until the age of five. Despite this, there is evidence from the literature that young children are indeed learning to categorise verbs into Aktionsart classes: for example, they use action verbs appropriately in terms of their valence, and as we saw earlier, they also use Aktionsart-dependent aspectual markers correctly. In attempting to explain how Japanese children can learn verb subcategorisation even though the normal input from caregivers is syntactically underspecified, Rispoli points out that the RRG framework postulates a certain degree of interdependence between categories linked to the LS. For instance, thematic relations are predictable from the LS corresponding to a particular Aktionsart class: Rispoli gives, as examples, the fact that a patient cannot be the sole argument of an Activity, and that if a telic predicate has an agent, that predicate must be an Accomplishment.4 There are thus multiple possible sources of information for verb subcategorisation, only some of which depend on the overt expression of NPs. Rispoli illustrates this situation from an analysis of Japanese action verbs, which, in terms of the classification used at this time, can be regarded as Accomplishments (e.g. the Japanese equivalent of Taro broke the clock), intransitive Activities (e.g. the equivalent of Taro is running) and intransitive Achievements (e.g. the Japanese sentence corresponding to The clock broke). Associated with these verb classes are particular properties of valence and case marking: for instance, if the verb is intransitive, a NP which is Patient or Theme can be marked by the nominative postposition ga, but not by the accusative postposition o; while if the verb is transitive, its Patient or Theme can be marked by o. Further, although both transitive and intransitive verbs can take an NP which indicates the entity which initiates a causal sequence, only transitive verbs can appear in sentences where such an NP is marked with ga, the causers in situations encoded through intransitive verbs being marked with de. The upshot of all this is that formal marking is ultimately linked to the LS of the predicate. As we have seen, however, overt case marking is very often not available in the sentences which form the child’s input, so that other means for learning subcategorisation must be sought. An example is to be found in the various constructions which indicate the presence of an Agent (i.e. an intentional causer), such as imperatives, desideratives, hortatory, prohibitional or permissive utterances, or adverbials indicating intentional manipulation. Such constructions would thus enable a child who had acquired the requisite speech act formulations to begin characterising verbs as agentive or non-agentive. The attribution of agency to a particular participant (causer or figure) would then depend on animacy, since we can assume that the child does not expect inanimate objects to be required to respond to requests, prohibitions and the like. Animacy allows the child to formulate hypotheses even where morphosyntactic evidence of agency is not available: if . Note that Rispoli is using the term ‘Accomplishment’ with the meaning which it has in earlier work on RRG (Foley & Van Valin 1984; Van Valin 1993b), rather than the meaning it has in current RRG. For further discussion, see §8.2.5.1 of Part 1.

Chapter 5

Learning and applying the grammar 

a particular verb is routinely met in association with inanimate entities, it is a reasonable provisional hypothesis that the verb does not represent agency. Further work by Rispoli (1991b) focuses on how the theory of RRG can help to explain empirical findings concerned with the acquisition of grammatical relations in Turkish, Kaluli (Papua New Guinea), Hungarian and Italian. Rispoli reviews what he refers to as essentialist approaches, that is “a view that grammatical relations are immutable” (1991b: 517), a view which he claims to be seriously undermined by the diversity of types of grammatical relation in the world’s languages. The RRG approach to grammatical relations is non-essentialist, not postulating a category of Subject, but recognises that a variety of types of such relations can arise in different languages, motivated by both semantic and pragmatic factors. Semantically, the relevant area is that of the logical structures of predicates, defined according to Aktionsart classes, the associated sets of thematic relations, and the superordinate concept of macrorole (see §4.10 of Part 1); pragmatically, the factors involved are information structure and the discourse status of referents (see §4.9 of Part 1 and §2.3 of the present volume). One rather confusing aspect of Rispoli’s discussion, for those conversant with present-day RRG, is that he refers to the macroroles as if they were themselves grammatical relations, while we have seen that in current RRG they are viewed as semantic roles, which are correlated with the Privileged Syntactic Arguments (PSAs, see §4.12 of Part 1) for particular constructions. Turkish (Rispoli 1991b: 531–533) provides a fairly simple illustration of the kinds of semantically-motivated principle which Rispoli invokes to explain acquisitional phenomena: • •

In active voice sentences, the Actor is in nominative case and there is verb agreement with it. A definite Undergoer has the accusative noun suffix -(y)I (where I stands for either -i or -u, the choice being determined by vowel harmony), while Undergoers with the indefinite article bir, also indefinite, non-quantified, non-specific Undergoers, do not have this suffix; the last type appears preverbally.

Rispoli cites evidence from the literature that children of two can identify Undergoers by means of the accusative case ending, can differentiate between definite and indefinite Undergoers, and do not make the mistake of using non-quantified non-suffixed NPs postverbally. The point here is that three independent formal reflexes are involved in the distinctions made: verb agreement (Actor), the accusative case ending (definite Undergoer) and preverbal position (non-specific Undergoer), and this independence is what is postulated to be behind the ease with which Turkish children acquire the relevant distinctions. In most accounts, these phenomena would be handled in terms of grammatical relations of Subject and Object, while in current RRG they would be seen in terms of the selection of a particular macrorole as the PSA of a construction, and the formal marking of macrorole status. While Subject has proved to be a difficult category to define adequately, the assignment of macroroles in RRG is accomplished by means of clearly defined rules laid down in the Actor-Undergoer Hierarchy, in conjunction with the logical structures of predicates, these latter being derivable from Aktionsart categories for which tests are available.

 Structure and Function

A more complex case is that of the acquisition of Kaluli (Schieffelin 1981), for which Rispoli cites data from the literature showing that there are three structures which encode case distinctions, interacting with information structure: • •

•

•

•

There is verb agreement for person and number with nominative case. There are special pronoun forms for first and second person, with a distinction between ergative and absolutive, but with the Actor of a transitive sentence having different forms according to whether it is focal or not. Focal material must be placed in immediately preverbal position. Lexical NPs can be marked with postpositions with ergative/absolutive distinctions, but focus, and therefore also word order, comes in once more. In transitives with an Actor which is in focus (i.e. Undergoer-Actor-Verb order), the Actor is marked with an ergative postposition; whereas a non-focussed Actor (i.e. Actor-Undergoer-Verb order) takes an absolutive postposition. There is an exception to this last rule: if an Actor does not have narrow scope NP focus, and both the Actor and Undergoer are either proper names or kin terms, the ergative postposition can be used on the first, Actor NP. In this situation, the ergative case marker encodes properties of both Actor and Undergoer: we have ‘global’ case marking. A third person Actor which is the sole overt macrorole of a transitive verb (i.e. where we have surface intransitivity, e.g. through zero anaphoric realisation of the other macrorole, or the kind of situation which, in English could be exemplified by the use of eat without an overt complement, implying some non-specific thing that is eaten) must take the ergative postposition, so neutralising the focality distinction for actors of transitive verbs.

The point of this excursion into the intricacies of Kaluli case marking is to show how an analysis in terms of RRG categories, as above, can explain which features are easy for children to learn, and which are more difficult. Schieffelin’s work shows that Kaluli children do not normally make errors which confuse the case orientations of verb agreement and that of NP postpositions; nor do they use the ergative case marker for the single macrorole argument of intransitive verbs, or the focal pronoun forms for first and second person with intransitive verbs. According to Rispoli, these facts suggest that Kaluli children have the transitive/intransitive distinction accessible to them. Furthermore, the ease of acquisition of the correct form for the single argument of intransitives is explained by the fact that the pattern of neutralisation is directly connected with the distinction which is neutralised: with (semantically) intransitive verbs there is only one macrorole, so that the Actor/Undergoer distinction is not relevant. Other errors which are absent or rare are the use of focal first and second person pronouns in AUV transitive sentences, and that of the absolutive postposition in UAV sentences with third person lexical NPs as Actors. This is taken to indicate that children are sensitive to the specialisation of immediately preverbal position for focal material, and the Actor focality properties of the specialised pronouns. On the other hand, two-year-old Kaluli children do make errors in using the ergative postposition with initial Actors in AUV sentences in which the Undergoer is neither

Learning and applying the grammar 

Chapter 5

a proper noun nor a kinship term. They also sometimes use the absolutive postposition incorrectly with Actors in transitive sentences with only one overt macrorole. What appears to be happening here is that the children are overgeneralising on the basis of surface intransitivity, treating semantically transitive verbs with unexpressed Undergoers in the same way as verbs which are truly intransitive. A further difficulty experienced by Kaluli children is the acquisition of the neutralisation of the Actor focality distinction for Actors of transitive verbs. Here, the difficulty can be explained in terms of the indirectness of the relationship between the underlying factor and the distinction masked by the neutralisation; this is particularly clear in the case of non-specified Undergoers, which are not directly related to the focality of the Actor. Space precludes the examination of Rispoli’s analysis of data from Hungarian and Italian: suffice it to say that here again, he is able to show how an account based on RRG is able to explain the ease or difficulty of acquisition for particular construction types. Above, I mentioned the occurrence of normally transitive verbs such as eat without a specified Undergoer. Rispoli (1992) has studied the acquisition of this type of verb in American children, with English as first language, at monthly intervals from one to three years old. He found that eat was the first such verb to appear, and that it was used by all the children in the study. All occurrences of the verb were coded for presence or absence of an overt Undergoer, and children’s response utterances were also coded for the discourse context, that is, whether a potential Undergoer was already available in the discourse itself, or whether the verb was simply open to Undergoer omission. The results showed that once the cumulative verb lexicon size of the children, as measured in the transcripts, had risen to a certain threshold level (at about 2 years 3 months), Undergoer omission became appropriately sensitive to discourse context. Let us turn now to the work of Van Valin (1991, 1994, 1996, 1998, 2000a; Van Valin & LaPolla 1997: 647–649) on extraction restrictions and their acquisition, in particular those referred to by Ross (1967/1986) as the ‘Complex NP constraint’. These phenomena are widely regarded as crucial evidence for Chomsky’s ‘poverty of the stimulus’ argument for an adaptationist stance: it is claimed that such constraints could not possibly be learned from the input to the child, so that they must necessarily be innately given. Examples of the Complex NP Constraint, parallel to those offered by Van Valin (1991: 27, 1994: 246, 1996: 29, 2000a: 51; Van Valin & LaPolla 1997: 615), are given below. (1) Edward III believed that he had broken Scotland’s will to resist English domination. (BNC AS7 976) (2) What did Edward III believe that he had broken? (3) What did you think they lacked at the time? (BNC C9J 1484) (4) You thought they lacked experience at the time. (5) . . . she was tired of hearing the claim that universities should aim to produce ‘rounded’ people; . . . (BNC B7H 1891) (6) *What was she tired of hearing the claim that universities should aim to produce __?

 Structure and Function

(7) It is still less likely to placate the soldiers who backed the failed uprising of December 3rd. (BNC ABD 1262) (8) *What is it still less likely to placate the soldiers who backed __? In (2), the wh-word corresponds to the Object of the verb in the complement clause in (1). Similarly, the corpus example (3) could be derived from the sentence in (4), again by moving the Object of the verb in the complement clause. The results of attempting to move the Object elements in (5) and (7), however, are ungrammatical, as shown in (6) and (8). In order to explain these phenomena, Ross postulated that no element can be moved out of an S which is embedded to a lexical head noun. As Van Valin observes, this principle has since been subsumed under the heading of subjacency in Chomskyan grammars, and reformulated in terms of constraints on movement across more than one bounding node (NP and S being such nodes in English) in a single movement, or, more recently, in terms of barriers. Furthermore, the demonstration of subjacency effects in a language is taken as diagnostic evidence that wh- or NP-movement occurs in that language. As Van Valin points out, it is hard to see how a purely structural restriction such as subjacency, involving the non-occurrence of some phenomenon, could be learned. Furthermore, such a restriction could hardly apply to cognitive systems other than language. Thus subjacency appears to offer convincing evidence for the claim that certain principles are part of an innate language acquisition device, according to the argument from the poverty of the stimulus. Languages such as Lakhota, which do not have wh-movement5 but still show subjacency effects, at first sight seem to present a problem for the theory, but this difficulty has been circumvented by the proposal (Huang 1981) that languages such as Lakhota do indeed have movement, but at an abstract level, between S-structure and Logical Form, rather than between D-structure and S-structure as in English. It would, of course, be quite impossible for a child to learn a constraint on a type of movement for which there is no overt evidence. In the RRG account of subjacency effects in wh-questions (Van Valin 1991: 28–32, 1993b: 137–147, 1994: 250–254, 1996: 38–51, 1998: 231–235, 2000a: 51–59; Van Valin & LaPolla 1997: 614–634), on which the following brief summary is based, the fundamental assumption of the Principles and Parameters approach to subjacency, namely that this phenomenon is diagnostic for movement, is questioned. An alternative perspective on this would be that movement is not in fact the key feature of subjacency effects, but is involved only in languages of particular word order types. If this is so, then some other underlying cause of the effects must be sought, and Van Valin suggests that this is to be found in the interaction of information structure and syntactic structure. The argument starts from the observation that both wh-questions and yes/no questions are types of focus construction, often with narrow focus. We saw in §4.9 of Part 1 that the actual focus domain in a particular utterance must fall within the potential focus domain, which is language-dependent. Clearly, the focus of a question, whether of the wh- or the yes/no type, must fall within the . Recall from §2.3.7 that in Lakhota the item corresponding to a wh-word remains in pattern position rather than being placed in the pre-core slot as in English.

Chapter 5

Learning and applying the grammar

potential focus domain for the language concerned. The relevant constraint on question formation is as follows: The element questioned (the focus NP in a simple, direct yes-no question, or the WHexpression or the argument position with which a displaced WH-word is associated in a simple, direct WH-question) must be in a clause within the potential focus domain. (Van Valin 1998: 231)

Note that the two halves of the condition for wh-questions deal, respectively, with the situation in languages such as Lakhota where the wh-word remains in situ, and languages like English which have a special position for displaced wh-words, in which case what matters is the position that the wh-expression is interpreted as occupying in the semantic representation. We saw in §3.3.6 that a subordinate clause is in the potential focus domain only if it is a direct daughter (at any depth of embedding) of the clause node which is modified by the illocutionary force operator. Thus the complement clauses in examples (1) and (4) given earlier are in the PFD, but the appositional that-clause in (5) and the restrictive relative clause in (7) are not, since they are not direct daughters of the clausal node sensitive to illocutionary force. The principle thus predicts that the wh-questions in (2) and (3) should be grammatical, but that those in (6) and (8) should not, which is exactly what we find. The observation that the above account applies to both wh- and yes/no questions is crucial to the RRG explanation of how children can learn the extraction constraints on wh-questions. As Van Valin points out, children have abundant evidence, from their interaction with caregivers and peers, and from observing the interactions of others, about the interpretation of yes/no questions, and indeed nobody has suggested that there is any source for the acquisition of such questions apart from actual interaction. It is proposed, then, that children learn the restriction given above through their experience of interaction, aided perhaps by the fact (see Van Valin 1986, 1993b) that the constraint discussed above can be derived from the general principle of rational behaviour which Grice (1975) dubbed the cooperative principle, and more specifically from his maxim of quantity, as shown by Kempson (1975: 190). The hypothesis is that children then extend this constraint to other types of question, and in particular to wh-questions. Evidence for this hypothesis is adduced from a study by Wilson & Peters (1988), in which a 3-year-old blind child’s wh-questions were found to violate extraction constraints, as in What are you cookin’ on a hot? (answer: ‘stove’). It was postulated that these non-standard constructions originated in a question and answer game played with a caregiver, in which the caregiver left a gap in his utterance, expecting the child to fill it in. The constraints on question formation deduced from this game format were then wrongly extended to wh-questions. We see, then, that RRG has provided an account of the acquisition of extraction constraints in wh-questions which shows that enough evidence for the formulation of these constraints is indeed available to the child through its interactions, so militating against the argument from the poverty of the stimulus, and making the postulation of an innate, specifically linguistic acquisition device unnecessary with respect to these constructions. Furthermore, Van Valin (1996: 51–54) demonstrates how the same restrictions that



 Structure and Function

are operative in wh-question formation can be applied to topicalisation and relativisation phenomena as well. A second argument which has been made in support of the Chomskyan parameter setting approach is that children sometimes produce structures which are ungrammatical in the language to which the children are exposed, and so unlikely to be present in the input, but which are allowed by Universal Grammar, if a parameter is set differently, and indeed do occur in some languages. As just one example of the kinds of construction at issue, compare the following: (9) Who do you think who is in the box? (10) Wie denkst Du, wie er das getan hat? how think-pres.2sg you how he that do-past.part have-pres.3sg ‘How do you think he did that?’ (9) is a wh-question produced by a child learning English (Thornton 1990, 1995, cited in Van Valin 1998: 222), while (10) is a perfectly grammatical example of ‘local whmovement’ in German (de Villiers, Roeper, & Vainikka 1990, cited in Van Valin 1998: 225). Van Valin’s (1998: 237–239) explanation of the occurrence of examples such as (9) is based on the hypothesis that children at the relevant stage of development are attempting to discover the location of focus domains, and to work out the principle which restricts the potential focus domain for complex sentences in a language (and therefore also the actual focus domain of any particular complex sentence) to those clauses which are direct daughters, at any depth of embedding, of the clausal node modified by the illocutionary force operator. At this stage in their development, some children who are acquiring English mark the important contrast morphosyntactically, adopting a German-like model in which, in addition to the initial wh-item showing that the sentence is a wh-question, the fact that the actual focus domain is in the subordinate clause is marked by the presence of a further wh-item in that clause itself. In addition to the ‘German solution’, there are other types of non-standard whquestions produced by children acquiring English, which are similar to grammatical whquestions in other languages such as Romani, Hungarian or Irish. Van Valin (1998) discusses these further types, and also the order of acquisition of wh-questions in which the wh-word acts as Subject or Object respectively, but space precludes any further illustration of the principles here. In Van Valin (2002) data on the development of Subject/auxiliary inversion in English wh-questions, taken from a single child and analysed in Rowland & Pine (2000), are subjected to a reanalysis in terms of RRG. Rowland & Pine attempt to explain the pattern of acquisition in terms of the frequency of particular wh-word plus auxiliary combinations in the input from caregivers. Van Valin points out that previous studies have suggested that input frequency is not a determining factor in the acquisition of grammatical forms. He shows that the developmental profile can be accounted for in terms of the RRG analysis of illocutionary force marking in English. Illocutionary force is signalled by the position of the morpheme bearing tense, which appears core-internally in declarative utterances

Chapter 5

Learning and applying the grammar 

and core-initially in interrogative utterances. Van Valin demonstrates that all but a small residue in the data can be accounted for by two hypotheses: firstly, that in wh-questions children will at first put into core-initial position only those auxiliaries which have explicitly tensed forms; and secondly that since contracted negative auxiliaries do not end in a tense-bearing morpheme, and since it is known that ends of words are particularly attended to during acquisition, such negative auxiliaries should not be inverted during the initial phase of development. It is also shown that the small number of exceptions can be explained by subsidiary principles. Finally, we should note recent work by Van Valin (2000b) on the acquisition of complex sentence structures. Van Valin suggests how the Interclausal Relations Hierarchy (IRH), which connects the nine types of nexus/juncture relation to the various types of semantic relationship between units in complex sentences (see §3.3.5), can be learned by the child. The levels of juncture, corresponding to the layered structure of the clause, have been shown to be learnable on the basis of a rich cognitive, not strictly linguistic, endowment (Braine 1992). The semantic relations of the IRH are concerned with concepts such as causation, intention and belief which are also cognitively salient. The relationship between the syntactic and semantic sides of the hierarchy is basically iconic, again promoting learnability. A number of predictions, following directly from the IRH, are then made concerning the order of acquisition of syntactic and semantic relationships in complex sentences. Van Valin demonstrates that these predictions are supported by data from seven typologically different languages. In conclusion, we have seen that Van Valin and his colleagues have made closely argued proposals, based on the theoretical apparatus of RRG, which demonstrate how areas of the grammar thought to provide solid evidence in favour of the argument from the poverty of the stimulus, and therefore in favour of an innate Universal Grammar, can be acquired on the basis of evidence available in the input to the child from caregivers and others, together with cognitive principles of wide application such as the Gricean cooperative principle and its derivative maxims. In this and other work, these linguists have convincingly shown that the constructs of RRG, in combination with general cognitive principles, can account for empirical data from the acquisition of languages of various types.

.. Systemic Functional Grammar and language learning There is a considerable literature on language learning, in the widest sense of the term, within the framework of SFG. For convenience, I shall discuss this work under two headings: development of the native language in the very young child, and issues concerned with language in education.

... Development of the native language in the young child Earlier, I noted Van Valin’s observation that one of the roles of a linguistic theory is to provide a description of what it is that the child acquires. In SFG, as we have seen, a language is seen first and foremost as a complex set of resources for the making of meaning, mod-

 Structure and Function

elled in terms of paradigmatic oppositions described in system networks, sets of choices from these networks being mapped on to morphosyntactic form and intonation in the process of realisation. It is in these terms that we can best appreciate the title of Halliday’s (1975) book, Learning How to Mean: the process of language development in the early child is seen, not simply as the development of structures, but in terms of the progressive expansion of the child’s meaning-making capabilities.6 Naturally, the development of such capabilities entails that of formal means for the representation of the meanings: it is not that form is regarded as unimportant, but rather that it is seen as the conveyor of meanings rather than as something which is acquired in its own right. This stance is, of course, common to various functional approaches: we saw earlier that the acquisition of various structures is seen in RRG as dependent on the intimate relationship between semantic and pragmatic aspects of meaning, on the one hand, and the means by which such meanings are coded, on the other. It is, however, fair to say that in the SFG account of early language development7 meaning is emphasised to a degree which is not characteristic of most other accounts. This is totally consonant with the aims and claims of the theory as a whole, in which, as we have seen throughout this book and in Part 1, formal aspects of language are themselves treated in a highly semanticised manner. Even more striking, and again completely in line with the tenets of the theory, is the emphasis on language as resource, and on the importance of linguistic choice as modelled in system networks. Halliday’s (1975) study of the language of the young boy referred to as Nigel is based on data collected in the form of annotated pen-and-pencil transcriptions taken from the age of 9 months to about 24 months, though observations are also made on the child’s development at an even later stage. Detailed descriptions of Nigel’s language were made, according to the systemic model current at the time, at 6-week intervals for the first phase of development (see below), from 9 to 18 months. The description at each stage takes the form of meaning contrasts formulated in system networks, and the systematic realisations of the meaning options in phonetic terms, including intonation contours. Although development from 18 to 24 months is discussed in detail, the child’s language, which is then on its way to the adult system, is not formalised in terms of system networks and realisation statements. Halliday recognises three phases in Nigel’s linguistic development. Phase I, lasting from 9 to 16½ months, was characterised by the monofunctionality of utterances, as contrasted with the plurifunctionality of adult utterances which has been illustrated throughout our discussions of SFG. In Phase II, lasting up to about 24 months, certain func. For further discussion of Halliday’s approach to the study of language acquisition see Halliday (1969, 1978b, 1979b, 1979c, 1983). . Note that systemicists tend to avoid the term ‘acquisition’: Butt (1989: 66), introducing an analysis of the relationship between language and culture in the contexts of mother-child exchanges, teacher-pupil and peer interaction at the beginning of schooling, and infant-mother interaction during the first year of life, considers that “[t]he metaphor of acquisition in itself highlights the particular orientation of the period, especially up to 1975: as if language were not progressively learned, but rather something the child obtained with maturation, like teeth or hair”.

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Learning and applying the grammar 

tional uses of language combine and become generalised, giving two major intonationallyrealised functions, one allowing the child to perform in the role of ‘observer’ of his world, the other enabling him to ‘intrude’, as an individual, into that world. Nigel later learns to combine the two functions in a single utterance, and this is the stage at which the need arises for a lexicogrammar which will map different functions on to one another to form a single output. Phase II also sees a dramatic increase in the child’s vocabulary, and in his ability to engage in dialogue. In Phase III, from 24 months onwards, the ‘observer’ and ‘intruder’ functions of Phase II become transmuted into the ideational and interpersonal functions of the adult system, and the ability to relate language to its context begins to form the basis of the textual function of the adult language. I shall now look at each of these phases in more detail. Halliday begins (1969, 1975: 18ff.) by postulating a set of seven functions of language which are relevant to the needs of the young child. These functions are proposed on the basis of two considerations: the actions which accompany the child’s speech and which give an insight into the way this speech is functioning in context; and generalisations about the functions of language in the life of man as a social animal. As we saw in §5.6 of Part 1, Halliday’s work at this time was strongly influenced by his association with the sociologist Basil Bernstein, and in particular by Bernstein’s postulation of a set of critical contexts for child socialisation (see e.g. Bernstein 1971). The instrumental function is concerned with the use of language as a way of obtaining goods and services to take care of the child’s needs, irrespective of who provides them; Halliday glosses this as the ‘I want’ function. The regulatory function involves the use of language in order to control the behaviour of particular individuals (the ‘do as I tell you’ function). The interactional function is involved where language is used for interaction, primarily with caregivers but later also with the peer group; it is the ‘me and you’ function. In the personal function, language acts as a means by which the child can express his or her own individuality (the ‘here I come’ function). The heuristic (‘tell me why’) function is language used to find out about the environment, which becomes perceived as separate from the self as the child develops. The imaginative function is involved when the child creates his or her own environment, through games, stories and the like (the ‘let’s pretend’ function). Finally, the representational or informative function (‘I’ve got something to tell you’) allows the child to communicate information to another person who is not in possession of that information. Halliday originally hypothesised that these functions would develop in the order in which they are listed above, but this turned out not to be the case: up to the age of 1 year, systematic correspondences between meaning and realisation could be found for the first four functions, with no developmental priorities; the imaginative function appeared at 12–13½ months, and the heuristic at 15–16½ months, the reverse of the order originally predicted. The representational function, which is so important in the adult system, appeared last, at about 21–22½ months, which is what Halliday expected, in view of the fact that this use is definable only in relation to language itself, being linked with the principle of dialogic communication, and so too sophisticated a concept for the extremely young child to master.

 Structure and Function

An impression of the kinds of systemic choice and realisation provided by Halliday can be gained by considering the meaning potentials within the instrumental and regulatory functions at 9–10½ months, together with their realisations and the adult language glosses given by Halliday (1975: 148). Within the instrumental function there is a simple two-way choice between (i) a general demand, realised by [nã- - -] with mid-tone, and glossed as ‘give me that’, and (ii) a specific demand for a toy bird, realised as [bø], again with mid tone, and glossed as ‘give me my bird’. Within the regulatory function there is again a twoway split, this time between (i) a normal command, realised as [˜6] with mid tone, and glossed as ‘do that again’, and (ii) an intensified command, realised as [mn]], fortissimo and with wide tone, meaning ‘do that right now!’. In Phase II, from 18 to 24 months, an increase in vocabulary was accompanied by the development of structures. At 18 months, Nigel used two kinds of structure, combinations of a specific expression plus either a gesture or a general expression from the same functional potential. Examples given by Halliday (1975: 45) include [ndà] plus a head shake as a negation gesture, meaning ‘I can’t see the star’, and [ù æyì], the first component being an excitement marker and the second signifying ‘egg’, giving a meaning glossed as ‘ooh, an egg!’. Both of these are classified as being from the personal potential. Then came two-word strings where at first each component had an independent tone contour. By 19 months, two-word strings such as mummy come or green car were uttered on a single tone contour. The first of these examples is said to belong to a new pragmatic function which arises largely out of the earlier instrumental and regulatory functions, and relates to contexts in which actions or objects are being asked for; the second example belongs to the mathetic function, arising out of the earlier personal and heuristic functions, and concerned with the child’s exploration of his own individuality and of his environment. The two functions were distinguished intonationally, all pragmatic utterances having rising tone, while mathetic utterances had falling tone. Furthermore, although out of context some of the utterances could have been classified as either pragmatic or mathetic in their overall function, Nigel made clear which function was intended by demanding a response to anything with rising intonation, but not to utterances with falling intonation. At first, new vocabulary items were restricted to a single function (e.g. strings of the form more X were always pragmatic, while green car, red car, green peg, etc. were always mathetic). Before long, however, this tight link between form and function was loosened, so that, for example, green car could mean ‘I want the green car’. During Phase II, as the functional underpinning of Nigel’s language became more general and abstract, the functions began to combine into single utterances, at which point a lexicogrammatical system consisting of lexical items used in grammatical structures became necessary in order to mediate between meaning and expression. We see, then, that in Halliday’s account, stages of development such as holophrases and the two-word stage are explained in terms of functional pressures. At 15–16½ months, towards the end of Phase I, Nigel was able to answer questions such as Do you want . . . ? or Shall I . . . ? related to the instrumental, regulatory and interactional functions, but was unable to answer informational questions and indeed had no concept of polarity. By 18–19½ months, however, he was able to respond to wh-questions

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Learning and applying the grammar 

and commands, and to acknowledge statements or responses, and could also ask whquestions in order to initiate a dialogue. The ability to ask and respond to ordinary yes/no questions emerged at the end of Phase II. By the age of 24 months, then, Nigel’s utterances are capable of combining more than one function into a single output structure, and his speech also has ‘texture’, showing information structuring and cohesive patterning, and being adapted to the context in terms of genre, as narratives, dialogues or both. In Phase III, his language system has developed into one which, despite there being still much to learn, approximates to the adult system in that the functions, discrete in Phase I and increasingly generalised and combinable in Phase II, have become transformed into the ideational, interpersonal and textual metafunctions which underlie the functional structure of the vast majority of adult utterances. The metafunctions of Phase III, like those of the adult language, are claimed to be selectively activated by values of the situation type parameters of field, tenor and mode. Halliday illustrates this principle by means of the text reproduced below, recorded when Nigel, aged 23 months and so approaching Phase III, was interacting with his mother. (11) MOTHER [in bathroom, Nigel sitting on chair]: Now you wait there till I get your facecloth. Keep sitting there. [But Nigel is already standing up on the chair.] NIGEL [in exact imitation of mother’s intonation pattern, not in a correcting intonation]: Keep standing thére. Put the mug on the flóor. MOTHER: Put the mug on the floor? What do you want? NIGEL: Daddy tòothbrush. MOTHER: Oh you want Daddy’s toothbrush do you? NIGEL: Yés . . . you (= ‘I’) want to put the fròg in the múg. MOTHER: I think the frog is too big for the mug. NIGEL: Yes you can put the dùck in the múg . . . make búbble . . . make búbble. MOTHER: Tomorrow. Nearly all the water’s run out. NIGEL: You want Mummy red tóothbrush . . . yes you can have Mummy old red tóothbrush. (Halliday 1975: 132) Halliday (1975: 133) suggests that the field (assistance with personal toilet, with child concurrently exploring the container principle and the principles of ownership and acquisition of property) determines the transitivity patterns (e.g. possessive and circumstantial relational clauses, spatial material process clauses, clauses indicating posture, minor circumstantial processes) and also perhaps tense (simple present), together with the content aspect of vocabulary, in the naming of objects. The tenor (interaction between mother and young child, the mother setting the course of action while the child furthers his own interests, the asking for and granting of permission, etc.) determines mood patterns, such as the mother’s imperative, the use of modality, person forms, and intonation contours in Nigel’s contribution signalling whether a response is required or not. Finally, the mode (spoken dialogue representing language in action, cooperative) determines forms of cohesion, such

 Structure and Function

as lexical continuity and question/answer pairs with appropriate ellipsis, patterns of voice, theme and deixis.8 It will be clear from the above that in Halliday’s approach to early language development, the linguistic system is seen as just one component, albeit the most important one, in a sociolinguistic model which also includes the concepts of text, situation type and register. Other important components which I have so far only touched upon are code and social structure. I mentioned earlier that Halliday’s work at this time was very much influenced by that of the sociologist Basil Bernstein, in which interaction through language is seen as playing a major role in child socialisation through critical contexts such as mother-child dialogue. As Halliday points out, learning the language and learning the culture, though different, are interdependent, since the linguistic system is itself part of the social system: In principle, a child is learning one semiotic system, the culture, and simultaneously he is learning the means of learning it – a second semiotic system, the language, which is the intermediary in which the first one is encoded. (Halliday 1975: 122)

In this complex task, the child is helped by the relevance to the learning process of all the language s/he hears, since this is related in a systematic way to its context, through the relationship between metafunctional meanings and situational parameters. Furthermore, the child filters the input through his or her own functional potential, attending to those aspects which are within the grasp of that potential at the time. Halliday is careful to point out, however, that this filtering does not limit development, but rather acts to interpret the input by means of the available resources, so providing a context for further expansion of the system. There is little doubt that Halliday’s view of language development as the progressive expansion of a functional meaning potential and its realisation offers a range of insights which could not have been formulated within the largely psycholinguistic approaches which were current in the 1970s. However, it brings with it a number of problems which should not be underestimated. Firstly, in accordance with the principle that the linguistic theory on which an account of language development is based determines what it is that is to be explained within that account, Halliday’s work is based on the premise that the adult system is organised in a functional manner, so that the child’s linguistic development is to be seen as an approach to the goal of a system in which three broad lines of meaning are integrated within the functionally-based structure of almost every utterance. However, we saw in §6.4 of Part 1 that there are some important problems associated with the evidence for the metafunctional hypothesis. Dore, in a review of Learning How to Mean which is very favourable overall, comments that Halliday

. For further brief comments on work by Halliday on mother–child interaction, see §5.6 of Part 1.

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Learning and applying the grammar 

. . . is somewhat less successful, or at least puzzling, in supporting some basic claims; for example, that “the internal organization of the grammatical system is also functional in character” (p. 16). (Dore 1977: 114)

Dore also points out that Halliday does not actually provide any evidence for the claim that language functions determine the relationships between transitivity roles such as Actor, Process and Goal. Secondly, Halliday does not furnish us with evidence for the seven ‘relevant models of language’ which he claims are part of the child’s internalised system at the earliest stages of development; neither is any solid evidence presented for his particular interpretation of the data, according to which these functions combine into the pragmatic and mathetic, and these later break down and reassemble into the ideational, interpersonal and textual metafunctions of the adult language. Again, we may cite Dore: . . . although it is clear that Halliday describes how the functional system changes, it cannot be confidently stated that he explains why it does or why the grammar should have the form it does. The child’s achievement of greater meaning potential no more explains the change than does the structuralist argument about disambiguation explain the change from one-word to syntactic utterances. (Dore 1977: 117)

Dore (1979: 352) also comments on the fact that Halliday’s glosses on the meaning of Nigel’s utterances often strike the reader as rather strange, and that the basis for them is not made clear. Similar doubts have been expressed by other critics. Edwards (1978), for example, considers that Halliday overinterprets the early utterances of the child in functional terms, and Grieve & Hoogenraad (1979) express doubts as to whether a second analyst would arrive at the same glosses, given the classification assumed in Halliday’s account. Thirdly, the embedding of Halliday’s model of language development within the larger model of language as social semiotic is made problematic by the fact that a number of key concepts in that larger model have also been subjected to criticism. In particular, we saw in §6.4 of Part 1 and in §4.4.4.1 of the present volume that the proposed selective activation of ideational meaning by field, interpersonal meaning by tenor and textual meaning by mode is open to some doubt. Fourthly, although, as Dore (1977: 116) observes, it is a tribute to Halliday’s talents as a linguist that he was able to record so much fascinating material through the simple use of pen and paper, it would surely have been better to make at least audio, if not video recordings of the data. This is especially important within the context of a theory which places so much weight on the relationship between language and context, and between the linguistic semiotic and other accompanying signalling systems. Let us turn now to the study by Painter (1984) of the language of her son Hal, from 9 to 24 months, with some observations extending up to 27 months.9 The aim of this work was to extend the data base on which systemic accounts of early language development were . For a good summary of both Halliday’s and Painter’s studies, with discussion of the implications of the approach for educational practice, see Painter (1989), and for an account intended for teachers, Painter (1985/1989).

 Structure and Function

based, and in particular to test which aspects of Nigel’s linguistic progress were specific to himself, and which were shared with other children. Painter (p. 2) also aims to produce a more detailed, step-by-step description of each stage than in the Nigel study, so that the basis for claims can be made as empirical as possible, in answer to the criticisms of Halliday’s work which were summarised above. Painter’s brief summary of work on language development in the 1970s and early 80s (pp. 3–18) leads her to criticise this work on three main grounds: what she sees as a one-sided view of language; the lack of motivation of analyses by linguistic criteria; and the common acceptance of the view that language is essentially to be equated with constituency structure in syntax and semantics, making too great a division between function and form, and largely ignoring the relationships between language and context. She naturally sees Systemic Functional theory as providing a basis for study which is not susceptible to these perceived problems. The data for Painter’s study were collected as a diary, and she cites the views of psychologists to argue for the appropriateness of this method. As in Halliday’s earlier study, the data were recorded with notebook and pencil, paying close attention to intonation as well as segmental identity, and noting the linguistic co-text, the non-linguistic context, any responses to the child’s utterances, and any reaction of the child to these responses. Painter also noted what Hal appeared to understand. The pencil and paper data were supplemented by over 25 hours of tape recordings, made for 1–3 hours per month from the age of 12 months, such recordings having been shown to be of little use at earlier stages. Analyses of the data are presented, where appropriate, in the form of system networks and realisation rules, with detailed commentary and discussion. Painter (p. 52) agrees with critics who suggest that Halliday’s work on language development is “insufficiently explicated”, and declares her own intention of making her recognition criteria for language functions as explicit as possible. She goes on (pp. 52–55) to discuss briefly some of the problems involved in distinguishing between functions. For example, the difference between instrumental and regulatory functions, according to Halliday, is that in the former it does not matter who provides the goods or services desired by the child, while in the latter the focus is on who provides them. Painter observes that this distinction may be hard to motivate in a situation in which the child interacts largely with just one carer: indeed, the distinction did not prove important for Hal’s language. Similarly, it may not be easy to differentiate between utterances with interactional and personal functions in conditions where the child is interacting with an adult at the time of speaking. Painter (pp. 55–56) also discusses the problems of applying the criterion of systematicity, according to which a sign can be recognised only when a phonetic form recognisable as ‘the same’ on different occasions is paired with some recognisably ‘same’ context on those occasions. The detailed account of Hal’s protolanguage (9–16½ months) given by Painter (pp. 56–90) can be summarised and compared with Halliday’s account of Nigel as follows (pp. 90–101). The first vocal signs had personal and interactional functions and appeared between 7 and 9 months, as with Nigel. Hal, however, developed his first instrumental signs slightly later than Nigel. Painter does not recognise a heuristic function for

Chapter 5

Learning and applying the grammar 

Hal, though she indicates when interactional or personal features develop into contexts for learning; she feels that this is “simply a matter of emphasis in the interpretation rather than a pronounced difference between the two systems” (p. 91). An important difference between the two children is the absence of any clearly regulatory systematic signs in Hal’s protolanguage, regulatory behaviour being indicated by non-symbolic or only marginally symbolic means. At 13½ months, Hal had considerably fewer signs than Nigel at the same age. Painter also notes some other details which suggest that Hal’s protolanguage is more limited than Nigel’s. There were nevertheless some important similarities in the two systems: the two children began protolanguage development at about the same age; instrumental utterances did not, in general, relate to play items or food; both children employed their protolanguage to establish contact with a significant adult; both created a very elementary form of dialogue by the exchange of sounds; signs were used to express interest in the external environment, in personal and interactional contexts. Painter also discusses similarities and differences in the use of first names, the actual phonetic expressions used, the use of tone patterns, the consistency of articulation of sign expressions, and the world view orientations displayed by the children. From 16½ to 18 months, that is in ‘early Phase II’ (pp. 102–132), Hal moved from invented sign expressions to the use of authentic mother-tongue expressions, which rose rapidly in number through this period. Again, Painter gives us detailed examples of the signs used and their functional contexts. She also presents evidence for a shift from five distinct ‘microfunctions’ to the two more general ‘macrofunctions’, the ‘mathetic’ (language used reflectively, as a way of learning about reality) and ‘pragmatic’ (language used to act on reality), postulated by Halliday for Nigel’s language. By 18 months, Hal had developed a systematic phonological marking of the two functions: pragmatic utterances were said on high level or rising tone, mathetic utterances on a falling or rising-falling tone. Painter comments on the range of learning achieved through the mathetic function, and on the types of action performed through the pragmatic. Three aspects of early Phase II development are very similar in Hal and Nigel: the development of the mathetic/pragmatic distinction, the coding of this distinction in terms of tone choice, and in part a distinction between the two functions in the lexis and structure of the children’s language. Some differences are also noted: Hal developed the tonal distinction earlier, and Hal’s tone choices were rather less simple and distinct than Nigel’s. The period from 18 to 19½ months (pp. 133–146) was marked by the emergence of the informative function, and Painter charts the development of information giving from earlier antecedents, as well as the details of the mathetic and pragmatic potentials at this stage. She notes that this function developed earlier in Hal than in Nigel. In the period from 19½ to 21 months, the first structures emerged. Painter (p. 166) suggests that the move to syntagmatic structures “no longer has to be seen as the only crucial milestone on the language development trail”, but is nevertheless important in permitting the child to encode more general meanings than are expressible through the repetition of individual lexical items. Although the new structures were initially restricted to mathetic or pragmatic function, there were signs that the contexts were becoming less rigidly exclusive: mathetic utterances began to be used within a more clearly recognisable

 Structure and Function

speaker-addressee relationship, and pragmatic utterances started to make reference to the environment and to explore it, rather than only to act upon it. From 21 to 22½ months (pp. 167–203), the breakdown of the mathetic/pragmatic functional distinction continued, many utterances becoming ambiguous due to changes in Hal’s tone system, while examination of the contexts of use showed a dual concern with communicating the child’s experience and interacting with others. A significant development was the emergence of what Painter interprets as a rank scale, evident in, for example, the different function of new in shoes new and new shoes dirty (p. 202). Different transitivity structures were produced in what remained of the two macrofunctions: Painter gives evidence for a difference between what she terms an ergative world view, in which there is active participation of entities in events, and which emerged from the mathetic, reflective function, and a transitive world view of actors performing acts, developing through the pragmatic, active function. It was also at this stage that the first indications of mood structures appeared, though these were not yet used to facilitate real dialogue. The period from 22½ to 24 months (pp. 204–247) marks the final transition from the mathetic and pragmatic macrofunctions to the ideational, interpersonal and textual metafunctions of the adult language, so that we are now in Phase III, in terms of Halliday’s analysis. Painter (p. 246) notes as particularly significant the development of constituent structures and the rank scale, the appearance of non-congruent realisations of speech acts, and the consolidation of transitivity and mood structures. The ability to engage in dialogue as well as monologue went hand in hand with the development of anaphora, ellipsis and interclausal relations such as conjunction. As always, Painter describes and exemplifies these changes in some detail, providing system networks and realisation rules. As Painter observes in her overall summary (pp. 248–254), one of the most obvious similarities between Hal’s linguistic development and Nigel’s is the development and later disintegration of the mathetic/pragmatic distinction on the way from protolanguage to adult-like metafunctional organisation. Furthermore, when the details of the transition language are compared, it is clear that there are more similarities than differences, though the two children do not adopt precisely the same strategies. Painter concludes: . . . we gain a picture of individual differences and preferences, against a common background of development, which allows us to accept the broad generalizations which emerge from Halliday’s account. (p. 254)

Painter’s more recent work (see Painter 1999) is again concerned with the longitudinal study of a single, English-speaking, child who is the son of the researcher, but this time the emphasis is on language as a learning resource during the years prior to schooling (2½– 5 years). Once more the data were collected through pencil and paper notes and audio recordings, and Painter (1999: 70) notes that the advantages of this methodology are in the naturalistic quality of the language recorded and the richness of the information which can be used for its interpretation, while the disadvantage is that one cannot generalise beyond the single subject without further studies. No attempt was made to record data at regular intervals.

Chapter 5

Learning and applying the grammar 

As the study is concerned primarily with knowledge construction, it involves mainly the ideational metafunction, both experiential and logical components being relevant. Painter presents detailed accounts of four areas of meaning: the construal of ‘things’, of material events, sequences of such events, ‘semiotic events’ (i.e. mental and verbal processes), and cause-effect relationships. The construal of ‘things’ (pp. 77–136) involves naming and categorising, so that the focus here is on the lexical taxonomies themselves, but also the relational processes used in identification and classification, and the options available in the nominal group, which serves to represent entities. Also relevant are the textual systems of reference deployed in creating discourse. Up to age 3 years, Stephen describes specific material phenomena, creating text which is relevant to specific contexts; after this time, however, he begins to explore generalisations across entities, and indeed the linguistic system itself, and starts to talk about abstract phenomena, and to create text with wider relevance. Painter relates these developments to Martin’s (1992a) account of mode as concerned with the semiotic continuum between action and reflection (see §4.4.4.2). Painter’s account (pp. 137–180) of the construal of material events is linked to Martin’s descriptions of both field and mode: field is related to the representation of process/participant configurations and activity sequences, while the action/reflection continuum is implicated in the shifts which occur in the fourth year of the child’s life, from the representation of events occurring near the time of speaking, to that of temporally more distant events, or those of a hypothetical nature. Painter traces the reflection of these changes in the development of resources for expressing temporal relations, modal meanings of various kinds,10 and conjunctive relationships between processes. As with the representation of things, there is a move from the concrete and the actual towards the more general and abstract, involving the construal of generalisations and explanations. In her account of the construal of meaning-making as a process (pp. 181–244), Painter shows how Stephen’s language develops in relation to the interpretation of those who participate in interactions, tracing the development of the representation of dialogue roles, the construal of non-participants in the dialogue as entities who perform cognitive and verbal processes, and the growing awareness of written texts as sources of information. She also describes Stephen’s construals of the process of learning, and of the texts which are produced by semiotic exchanges. In Painter’s account of the expression of cause-effect relations (pp. 245–317), the aim is to show how a single area of meaning grows, and also to demonstrate how the cognitive strategy of reasoning develops. She charts the expansion of the child’s language in terms of the types of grammatical expression used to indicate reason and condition, showing that different developmental patterns emerge for the two semantic areas. Both, however, are used initially for largely interpersonal purposes. Furthermore, there is a transition from . For further work on the acquisition of modality within a basically Hallidayan framework, see Torr (1998), where the development of epistemic and deontic modal auxiliaries, modal adjuncts and other devices for the expression of modal concepts is studied in one child from the ages of 2 years 6 months to 4 years 3 months.

 Structure and Function

a dialogically-oriented use of these causal meanings to a more monologically oriented approach in which causal relations are used to build arguments, giving a new rhetorical dimension to the texts created. In the final section of her book (pp. 318–334) Painter makes some generalisations about the role of language in learning, concentrating on three areas. Firstly, she reflects on how the system develops through use in the creation of texts, emphasising the flexibility of language as a meaning resource, the use of comparison and contrast in learning and its relationship with the primarily paradigmatic organisation of a systemic grammar, and the development of ideational systems in relation to the contexts of interpersonal negotiation in which they are embedded. Secondly, she reviews the development of mode, to which many changes in the child’s language are explicitly related in her work. Finally, she reflects on the relationship of her study to the child’s preparation for learning at school. Before we leave the area of early language development, we should note that the concept of ‘learning through language’ is also central to the systemically-oriented work of Cloran (1989) and Poynton (1985/1989, 1990) on the social construction of gender.

... Language in education We saw in §5.1.5 of Part 1 that Halliday has always intended his theory, and descriptions derived from it, to be usable in a variety of applied contexts, and indeed to provide the means whereby the linguist can intervene in social processes. In his brief discussion of applications in An Introduction to Functional Grammar, Halliday writes that the educational application of SFG is . . . probably the broadest range of its applications; it includes experience in initial literacy, children’s writing, language in secondary education, classroom discourse analysis, teaching of foreign languages, analysis of textbooks, error analysis, teaching of literature and teacher education. (Halliday 1994a: xxx)

This orientation of the theory has given rise to an enormous amount of applied work in the educational field, and I can do no more here than sketch some of the broad lines of such work, and give a few references which will provide an entry point for the interested reader. Halliday’s own contributions to educational linguistics go back to the days of Scale and Category Grammar,11 which formed the background to the very influential book by Halliday, McIntosh & Strevens (1964), The Linguistic Sciences and Language Teaching. This work proceeds from the view that the role of the linguist is to provide a theory which will permit insightful and rigorous descriptions of languages which will be of use in the process of language teaching and learning. Even at this early time, the relationship between linguistic form and situational context is stressed, and the concepts of dialectal and diatypic (register) variation are introduced. The authors comment: . The early work in educational linguistics is discussed in Butler (1985a: 201–206), on which the following brief summary is based.

Chapter 5

Learning and applying the grammar 

For the student learning about his own language, the picture is not complete without an account of its varieties and of the linguistic differences among them. (Halliday, McIntosh & Strevens 1964: 171)

Between 1964 and 1971, Halliday was centrally involved in a ambitious project of the Schools Council in the UK, whose aims were to investigate the teaching of English from a linguistic standpoint, to provide descriptions of modern English which would be genuinely useful to teachers, and to recommend pedagogical aims and methods.12 This led to a series of papers and a reading list, and later to a collection of materials and teacher manual concerned with the initial teaching of reading and writing, Breakthrough to Literacy (Mackay, Thompson & Schaub 1970), and a collection for the secondary level, Language in Use (Doughty, Pearce & Thornton 1971), together with a parallel book, Exploring Language, discussing the theoretical underpinning of the materials (Doughty, Pearce & Thornton 1972). Finally, a set of five short works on linguistic and pedagogical issues was produced (see especially Thornton, Birk & Hudson 1972; Albrow 1972; Halliday 1974). All of this work was closely informed by Halliday’s theory and descriptions arising from it. As we saw in §5.6 of Part 1, Halliday’s association with the sociologist Basil Bernstein in the 1970s led to a more explicitly sociosemantic systemic theory, in which the areas of meaning selected for study were motivated in terms of Bernstein’s code theory. Halliday reinterprets the restricted and elaborated codes of Bernstein’s theory as filters which regulate access to the meaning potential of the language, with the consequence that if the types of meaning prioritised by particular social groups are those required in the education system, children from these groups will be at an educational advantage compared with others. These ideas led to a number of studies of children’s language, often with the aim of testing relationships between language and social class (see Turner & Mohan 1970; Turner & Pickvance 1971; Turner 1973; Hawkins 1969, 1977). The ideas of Bernstein are also important in informing the work of Hasan: reports of studies of mother-child interaction with a basis in Bernstein’s theory can be found in, for example, Hasan (1986) and Hasan & Cloran (1990). During the 1980s and 1990s, attention turned to the part played by written genres in schooling. This work centred around a group of linguists working with Halliday and Hasan in Australia, who amassed a large quantity of data showing that certain genres, such as report, explanation and exposition, are especially important in the teaching and learning of subjects in the school curriculum, and are also essential tools in the workplace environments for which schools aim to prepare their students. These genres appeared to be rather poorly taught in Australian schools, perhaps because of lack of awareness, on the part of teachers, of their structural and functional properties. The Australian SFG linguists aimed to provide to teachers an intelligible account of such genres, and to engage in dialogue with educators on methods for improving the writing of school students. This work is very much in line with the avowed intention of Halliday and his colleagues to use linguistics in order to intervene in social processes, and with the view that language in . For a retrospective view of this project, see Pearce, Thornton & Mackay (1989).

 Structure and Function

use is never ideologically neutral, but rather serves to make meanings which are always embedded in, and constitutive of, the culture and its ideologies. These studies have led to practical teaching materials (for instance a series of publications by Martin, Rothery, Christie and others on genre-based writing, including the exploration of reports, accounts of procedures and explanations in various contexts), discussions intended for teachers (see e.g. Martin 1985/1989, where genres of report and procedure writing, explanation and exposition are discussed, together with their ideological implications) and discussions of the theoretical underpinning of such materials (see e.g. Martin 1993). An area which has been particularly well investigated is that of scientific writing. For instance, Halliday & Martin (1993), in their Writing Science: Literacy and Discursive Power, aim to present a description of the language of science and its evolution, from the points of view of both the user and the learner, concentrating on the lexicogrammatical properties of scientific writing, while the book edited by Martin & Veel (1998) offers a series of articles giving critical and functional perspectives on the discourses of science. Halliday (1986) discusses linguistic aspects of learning and scientific knowledge, and Halliday & Matthiessen (1999: Chapter 14) present their view of the construal of the domain of cognitive science through language. Rose (1997) discusses science and technology in relation to technical literacies, while Garcés-Conejos & Sánchez-Macarro (1998) explore the contrasts between scientific articles and popularisations. Veel (1997) examines the ways in which secondary school students learn to approach scientific discourse, and later (Veel 1999) examines the teaching of mathematics using insights from both Halliday and Bernstein. Ventola & Mauranen (1991) explore the writing of scientific articles by non-native writers, and their revision by native writers. Lemke (2002) examines the communication of science in terms of ideology and intertextuality. The discourses of history are also well represented in the applied systemic literature (e.g. Eggins, Wignell & Martin 1987/1993; Coffin 1997, 2000; Barnard 2000; Martin & Wodak, in preparation). We have so far been concerned with the teaching and learning of the native language. Proponents of SFG have also made a contribution to the area of second language pedagogy. We have already seen that as early as the 1960s, in The Linguistic Sciences and Language Teaching (Halliday, McIntosh & Strevens 1964), ideas relating to register were used to inform discussion of the teaching and learning of foreign languages, adumbrating the lively interest in the teaching of languages for special purposes which was to follow. The nature of systemic functional theory also made it attractive in the context of the design of the communicative language syllabus (see Melrose 1988). Hasan & Perrett (1994) have offered a stimulating account of ways in which SFG can inform second language teaching, with particular reference to English as a Second Language.13 Their main aim is to show “how an understanding of language as a functional system might furnish a viable social theoretical basis for the principles and practices of applied linguistics” (Hasan & Perrett 1994: 181). The qualification ‘social’ is crucial here: the discussion of the wider issues involved in ESL teaching covers the valuing of such teach. For earlier discussion of the application of Systemic Functional linguistics to TESOL, see also Jones et al. (1989).

Learning and applying the grammar 

Chapter 5

ing and learning in the culture, and the social positioning of learners engaged in such activities. At a more detailed level, Hasan & Perrett discuss some of the insights which the socially-based SFG description of the lexicogrammar of English can offer to the ESL teacher. They consider in particular detail the meaning potential of English in the area of modality, pointing out that choices made in this area offer an indicator of relationships between speaker and hearer, and as such are of crucial social importance in the development of second language learners. Functional analysis provides an insight into how control over the use of modality resources can help learners to negotiate interpersonal relationships, for instance by recognising or instigating changes in relative power. Finally, we should note the work of Schleppegrell (2000), who uses SFG to analyse an expository essay by a learner of English as a second language, and of Young (1990), who applies systemic linguistic description to the description of academic English and investigates the implications of the description for the teaching of English to foreign students in North America. In addition to work relating to the learning of the mother tongue and of foreign languages, systemicists have discussed the more general roles which appropriate linguistic theory and description can play in the educational process. A recurrent theme in this work is the tripartite nature of the relationship between language and education: In the course of education, language figures in three different guises: as substance (learning language: mother tongue, second/foreign language), as instrument (learning through language: school subjects such as science, history . . . ), and as object (learning about language: grammar, styles/registers, history of words, . . . ). (Halliday 1998: 1)

Halliday (1993) proposes a language-based approach to education and learning, and Christie (1994) discusses the development of a systemically-based educational linguistics intended to underpin curriculum planning and pedagogical practice. An important aspect of Christie’s argument is the inseparability of content and language in the curriculum, when seen from the point of view “that ‘knowledge’ itself is constructed in varying patterns of discourse” (Christie 1989: 153). Rothery (1989) focuses on the place, in the school curriculum, of learning about language. Further articles on literacy, informed by the systemic functional framework, can be found in Hasan & Williams (1996). Finally, the volume edited by Christie (1999) brings together Halliday’s linguistics and Bernstein’s sociology within a turn-of-the-century context, so renewing the debate initiated in earlier work. The papers in this volume cover a wide range, including the early linguistic experience of the young child, the education of Australian Aboriginal children, the discourse of pedagogy, and the development of a pedagogical theory which combines insights from SFG and Bernstein.

.. Comparison of approaches As the foregoing discussion will have made clear, the approaches of RRG and SFG to the learning of language, and specifically to the learning of the mother tongue by the young

 Structure and Function

child, contrast very sharply: indeed, this area crystallises some of the main differences between theories at different points on the spectrum of functionalism. We saw in Chapter 2 of Part 1 that both adopt a constructionist view of the acquisition process rather than one which relies on innate, specifically linguistic principles as does the Chomskyan account; that, however, is where the similarity ends. Work in RRG, as we have seen, considers acquisition data from a range of different language types, often taken from the non-RRG literature, and offers explanations, in terms of the theoretical apparatus of RRG, for the ease or difficulty of acquisition of particular types of phenomenon, and the appearance in the child’s output of construction types not found in the adult language.14 In some cases, the types of phenomenon studied are chosen because of their status as putatively strong indicators of the correctness of the formalist adaptationist position on acquisition, the aim being to show that an alternative functionalist explanation is possible, and in particular that, contrary to the argument from the poverty of the stimulus, enough evidence is actually available in the input to allow the child to acquire a mastery of the phenomena involved. The emphasis is on the acquisition of morphosyntax, and the explanations offered refer not only to syntactic and semantic issues (for example the Interclausal Relations Hierarchy), but also to the pragmatic area of focus structure. Factors involving the social and cultural context of acquisition are more rarely brought into play, except in terms of what is available in input from carers. Although some of the data considered is from children as young as 1 year, most of it is taken from subjects of around 2 years and older. On the other hand, SFG work on early language development has concentrated on longitudinal case studies of individual children. All three book-length studies summarised above are concerned with male subjects who were the sons of the investigators, and were acquiring English, within an Australian environment. Two of the children are studied at age 9 months to about 2 years, the third between 2½ and 5 years. The focus in the first two studies is on the functional classification of utterances: at first in terms of functions which equate to uses, and which later combine into a dichotomy of reflective and active ‘macrofunctions’ which then become transformed into the tripartite system characteristic of adult language. Meanings and their realisations are specified in detail, but matters of morphosyntax are barely touched upon, except in terms such as the development of constituency patterns and a grammatical rank scale. Painter’s study of a slightly older child is again concerned primarily with the development of meaning choice within particular functional areas and of the realisations of such choices, now linked very firmly to context as characterised in terms of field and mode. The two approaches thus take very different stances on what it means to ask why some aspect of the child’s developing language is as it is. For practitioners of RRG, the question can be rephrased in more detail as ‘Can we explain developmental sequences and strategies in morphosyntactic aspects of child language in terms of the relationships between semantics, pragmatics and morphosyntax postulated in the linguistic theory?’ . The relatively small amount of work on acquisition in the FG framework is also predominantly of this kind.

Chapter 5

Learning and applying the grammar 

For systemic linguistics, on the other hand, the question is rather ‘Can we explain developmental sequences in the meaning potential of a child’s language in terms of the functions for which the child is using that language and the contexts in which it is being used, and how does the nature of such functions change as the child matures?’. In such an approach, morphosyntax and intonation are important only as realisations of the meaning choices made. In order to underline this important point, let us look briefly at one particular area, the acquisition of questions. We have seen that Van Valin has discussed in some detail the acquisition of wh-questions, across a range of languages, with some rather less detailed comments on implications for yes/no questions. The focus is on the ability of the theoretical apparatus of RRG to explain not only the development of such questions, but also the acquisition of the constraints on them imposed by different types of language. This contrasts strongly with Halliday’s discussion (1975: 104–106) of the development of mood systems in Nigel’s language, which emphasises the continuity with earlier antecedents in the pragmatic macrofunction, the relationship between the ability to ask true questions and the emergence of the informative function, and the consequences for the participation of the child and his carers in dialogue. The following quotation is illustrative of the approach taken: . . . he has not yet learnt that language is not just an expression of shared experience, it is an alternative to it, a means of imparting the experience to the other. For the same reason, when he first learns to answer a WH-question, he can do so only if he knows that the answer is already known to the person who is asking the question. It is only towards the end of Phase II that Nigel grasps this principle; and when he does, he continues for many months to draw a clear semantic distinction between telling people what they already know (verbalizing shared experience), for which he uses the (unmarked) declarative mood, and telling people what they do not know (verbalizing as a means of sharing experience), for which he uses the (marked) interrogative mood. (Halliday 1975: 105–106, emphasis in original)

Painter (1984: 169–172, 204–208) also discusses the emergence and evolution of the mood system, and again the focus is on the context of use and functional classification of the whstructures and imperatives which emerge at the 21–22½ month stage in Hal’s language, the later development of an approximation to the adult mood system being discussed mainly in terms of its function in dialogue. The differences of approach summarised above are, of course, entirely consistent with the overall aims and methods of each theory, as discussed and illustrated throughout the present work. The angle taken by the RRG linguists prioritises the acquisition of formal linguistic devices, seeking to explain this in semantic/pragmatic terms, and bringing in the more general cognitive capacities of the child. The approach is strongly typological, taking data from a wide range of languages. The SFG approach is socio-cultural and oriented towards the expansion of meaning potential, and developmental data have been studied in detail only for English.

 Structure and Function

.

Applications

..

Computational linguistics Reference has been made in previous chapters of this book, and in Part 1, to computational projects based on FG and SFG: so far, there has been no published computational implementation of RRG. In this section I shall say a little more about these projects; it would, however, be inappropriate in an account of this kind to go into technical detail. We can view computational implementation of grammatical models from two perspectives: firstly, it is often intended to have practical results in the form of usable text generation or ‘understanding’ systems, machine translation programs and the like;15 secondly, the explicitness required in a computer-based system often forces rethinking of areas of the grammar being modelled, and furthermore the ability of the computer to follow through a complex set of rules in a totally automatic manner can be used to check that the rules do indeed produce the intended outputs. As Connolly & Dik put it: Using a theory of grammar in a computational implementation is a two-sided enterprise: on the one hand, the grammatical model is used as a tool in devising representations, rule systems, and procedures for capturing linguistic abilities of the natural language user; on the other hand, the implementation attempts themselves reveal gaps, inadequacies, inconsistencies, and redundancies in the grammatical model, which can then be remedied so as to facilitate efficient and effective implementation. (Connolly & Dik 1989b: vii)

It is this second perspective, the relationship between computational implementation and underlying linguistic theory, which will be focused on in what follows.

... Functional Grammar and computational linguistics .... FG*C*M*NLU. The computer implementation of FG began very soon after Dik’s initial exposition of the theory (see Kwee 1979, also the survey of the development of this implementation given in Kwee 1994a). In the 1980s and 1990s there was a steady stream of computationally-oriented publications in which various aspects of FG theory were implemented and exploited, some of these leading to critiques of the theoretical underpinning and suggestions for revision. Much of this work can be seen as situated within the general research programme rather cumbersomely called FG*C*M*NLU (Functional Grammar Computational Model of the Natural Language User). The chief aim of this programme is to test, by computational means, Dik’s Model of the Natural Language User (M*NLU), within which Functional Grammar itself is one component.16 . For short overviews of work on aspects of natural language processing by computer up to the early 1990s, see Bateman & Hovy (1992) (text generation), Patten (1992) (parsing) and Lewis (1992) (machine translation). . Dik’s Model of the Natural Language User was introduced in §3.6 of Part 1. Many of the references given there are also relevant to the computational implementation of the model.

Chapter 5

Learning and applying the grammar 

The basic principles behind FG*C*M*NLU and the structure of the model are set out most clearly in Dik (1989b). The model is built on the principle of distinct modules and sub-modules, each of which is as independent as possible of the others, and performs a particular set of tasks which are specified explicitly so that they are implementable in a computer system; the modules are nevertheless designed with integration in view. The aim is for the model to be as language-independent as possible, and this is, of course, helped by the attention paid to typological matters within FG. Priority is also given to questions of naturalness, in that the model attempts, where feasible, . . . to simulate the actual, natural performance of NLU in normal communicative circumstances, and to simulate the underlying competences in a psychologically adequate and realistic way. (Dik 1989b: 3)

In the global structure of the model, in receptive mode, spoken or written linguistic expressions are mapped on to internal representations of phonetic or orthographic form, which can themselves be mapped on to one another. These representations are then mapped on to the corresponding underlying FG predications through a parsing process. The underlying predications are interpreted to derive knowledge, from which other knowledge can be inferred using Functional Logic. In productive mode, the processes are reversed: for instance, a piece of knowledge selected from the knowledge base may be mapped on to a predication, which is then further mapped on to, say, a phonetic representation. Central to this model is the claim that the underlying structures of linguistic expressions, pieces of knowledge, and objects upon which logical operations can be performed, are all represented in the same format, namely that used for the underlying predication in FG. We saw in §3.6 of Part 1 that this claim has been disputed, principally by Nuyts and Hesp: I shall not go into these criticisms again here, but it should be noted that to the extent that they can be upheld, they seriously undermine the computational as well as the human model of the natural language user.

.... ProfGlot. Dik’s later work led to the application of the basic principles of FG*C*M*NLU to the modelling of a natural language user trilingual in English, French and Dutch, by means of a program, written in Prolog, called ProfGlot (see Dik 1992; Dik & Kahrel 1992). The program is modular, and care is taken to separate as far as possible the language-independent rules and principles from those which are specific to one or more of the three languages. Central to the program are the modules UniGen and UniPar, which are the language-independent (‘universal’) modules for generation and parsing respectively. Together with some basic Prolog facilities, universal and language-specific modules for expression, language-specific lexica, and a universal translator module, these central modules allow ProfGlot to generate a variety of construction types, parse a subset of these constructions, translate the construction types generated between any two languages, and perform logical inferencing operations on the constructed sentences; it can also combine these operations in appropriate ways. The part of ProfGlot dealing with verbal complexes is developed further for English and Latin in Dik (1994).

 Structure and Function

A detailed critique of ProfGlot, from a programmer’s point of view, has been offered by Kwee (1996), who concentrates mainly on certain aspects of the central modules UniGen and UniPar. Kwee discusses a number of omissions, limitations and unsolved problems in the implementation, and is particularly critical of the handling of matters relating to coreference and anaphora, and also of the way in which operations which strictly belong in the expression component find their way into the specification of the underlying clause structure. He also casts doubt on some of Dik’s claims regarding the originality and nature of the parsing techniques used. A more general criticism is the entanglement of linguistic and computational aspects of Dik’s account: Kwee himself believes that “a linguistic theory and a computer model of that theory are two separate entities which should always be clearly distinguished” (1996: 4).

.... The lexicon in computational implementations of FG. Of central importance for computational implementations of FG is the question of how to represent and use the lexicon which, since it contains the basic predicate frames of a language, is at the heart of the FG description of clause construction. Voogt-van Zutphen (1989) reports on a program which permits the extraction of an FG lexicon from the Longman Dictionary of Contemporary English. This dictionary was chosen because the ASCOT project at the University of Amsterdam had previously studied the structure of information in LDOCE and created a program for the extraction of information from the dictionary. A second project at the same university, ‘Links in the lexicon’ (LINKS for short), took this work further, developing a database of meaning characterisations on the basis of LDOCE information, in such a form that it could be used by computer programs as a source of semantic information about words and their relationships (see Vossen 1989; Meijs 1989). Finally, the participation of the University of Amsterdam in the Acquilex project from 1989 to 1995 was the background for the work of Vossen (1995) on nominal lexis mentioned in §7.2.1.10 of Part 1, which illustrates very well the contribution which such work has made to the further understanding of the FG lexicon. .... Natural language generation using FG. Natural language generation using FG as a basis is discussed by Dik (1987), Samuelsdorff (1989) and also in various publications by Kwee (1987, 1988a, 1988b, 1994a, 1997, 1999a, 1999b). In his (1994a) monograph, which gathers together and develops his previous work, Kwee describes in some detail the algorithms needed to implement the simplified grammar proposed by Dik (1980) in order to generate a sample of seventeen sentences. He discusses the steps needed for the buildup of structure for the nuclear predication, also the computational treatment of syntactic function assignment and the expression rules, and then the introduction of satellites and the formation of complex clause structures involving embedding or subordinate clauses. There follows a chapter on the implementation of term formation and insertion, including the structure of complex terms with restrictive relative clauses (see also Kwee 1981). Further aspects of expression rule implementation are then described, followed by discussion of various remaining topics such as coordination, non-verbal predicates and copula

Chapter 5

Learning and applying the grammar 

support, and focus constructions. An extension of the algorithms to aspects of Hungarian is also included (see also Kwee 1994b). Also of great interest, because of their potential implications for FG as a whole, are Kwee’s recent suggestions regarding the ordering of steps in FG-based generation. Kwee’s earlier attempts to implement faithfully the ordering of steps in the quasi-productive mode proposed by Dik led to problems with relative clauses, focus constructions and anaphora, for which ad hoc computational solutions were needed. Kwee (1997) suggests that these problems can be resolved in a more satisfactory manner if terms, rather than predicate frames, are regarded as primary in generation. He regards his approach as more ‘top-down’, and so discourse-oriented, than Dik’s, and develops this idea still further in work on adverbial clauses (Kwee 1999a)17 and questions (Kwee 1999b), which leads to the conclusion that the first things to be decided in generating a clause are the high-level properties of speech act/illocution type and the distribution of Topic and Focus. These suggestions have implications not only for the computational model, but also more widely for the Model of the Natural Language User: we have already seen in §3.6 of Part 1 that similar suggestions have been made from the viewpoint of psychological adequacy. Other work on natural language generation using FG centres on the implementation of expression rules. An early contribution to this area was that of Connolly (1986), who tested FG constituent order rules using Prolog, and later (1994, 1995) investigated the generation of temporal satellites. Also particularly important here are the ideas of Bakker (1989, 1990, 1994a, 1994b, 1999), as implemented in his Functional Grammar Machine. As we saw in §3.4 of Part 1 and §4.2.6.3 of the present volume, this work has led to a new model for the expression component which is intended to have a greater degree of psychological plausibility than Dik’s original proposal, as well as being computationally implementable. Bakker’s model uses feature structures (f-structures), which are also used in the computational implementation of expression rules discussed by Weigand (1994). Weigand & Hoppenbrouwers (1998) discuss how the f-structure formalism can be applied to the specification of an FG lexicon which contains every word in the language user’s mental dictionary, according to a model in which the functional orientation of FG is interpreted in terms of actions performed with words, and actions performed on words (lexical rules).

.... Parsing using FG. Turning now to specific work on parsing, we should note Gatward, Johnson & Connolly’s (1986) work on a natural language analyser using FG; Janssen’s (1989) discussion of a possible general parsing algorithm for FG which basically inverts the processes performed though the expression rules; Kwee’s (1989) investigation of well-known techniques based on Augmented Transition Networks (ATNs) and active charts as applied to parsing with FG; Gatward’s (1989) examination of active charts in relation to the efficiency of parsing using FG; and Dignum’s (1989) discussion of an FGbased parser, developed in a project concerned with knowledge bases, which can be used . See also §3.4.1.7.1.1, Note 64.

 Structure and Function

to parse English text. Further work on knowledge bases in relation to computational FG can be found in Weigand (1990).

.... Machine translation using FG. Work on translation using FG-based computational systems is reported not only in the articles on ProfGlot mentioned earlier, but also by van der Korst (1987, 1989), who develops a procedure for the translation of predications between English and French. ... Systemic Functional Grammar and computational linguistics .... Early work using Hallidayan grammars. Like FG, SFG has been implemented in a number of projects in natural language generation, parsing and machine translation. The history of computational work based on systemic linguistics and its progenitors goes back to the pioneering work of Winograd (1972), whose SHRDLU program was designed to understand information and instructions in English relating to a world of movable toy blocks on a table, and Davey (1978), who developed a program for the production of fluent discourse relating to the game of noughts and crosses (tic-tac-toe). McDonald’s (1980) work on natural language production as a decision-making process under constraints, and McKeown’s (1982) on discourse production in response to enquiries to a database system, also incorporated principles from systemic linguistics, and Kay’s functional unification grammar (Kay 1979, 1983; Karttunen & Kay 1983) also owes much to Halliday’s thinking.18 .... Text generation in a systemic framework: Penman and the Nigel grammar. The most significant development of the early and mid-1980s, however, was the construction of the Nigel computational grammar, begun in 1980 at the Information Sciences Institute in Southern California on the basis of a grammar of English provided by Halliday at that time. This grammar, together with the computer program which implemented it, formed part of a larger text generation system, Penman, the aim of which was to model the generation of English text corresponding to particular communicative intentions. This work is described in numerous research reports and a number of other publications, the most accessible of which (Mann 1985; Matthiessen 1984, 1985, 1987, 1988a, 1988b, 1991; Mann & Matthiessen 1985; Matthiessen & Bateman 1991) are the basis for the summary which follows. The aims of the design of Penman are stated by Mann (1985: 85) as being to find out how appropriate text can be generated in response to what he calls ‘text needs’ (defined as “the earliest recognition on the part of the speaker that the immediate situation is one in which he would like to produce speech” (Mann 1985: 84)), to identify those properties of a text which fit it to fulfil these needs, and to show that texts which fulfil some particular class of needs can indeed be successfully generated. The overall design of the Penman gen. For a sketch of these early developments in relationships between SFG and natural language processing, see Matthiessen & Bateman (1991: 16–18).

Chapter 5

Learning and applying the grammar 

erator consists of a set of processes and a parallel set of resources: specification of text goals leads to the selection of relevant knowledge, for which both a knowledge base and a model of the reader are needed; this knowledge is then organised by the text planning module, for which rhetorical resources are needed in addition to the reader model; the text plan is then passed to the lexicogrammatical expression module, for which the required resource is the Nigel lexicogrammar; there is then a final editing process (Matthiessen & Bateman 1991: 9, based on Mann’s original design). In what follows, I shall first concentrate on the Nigel grammar itself, and then look at aspects of the environment in which the grammar operates: the knowledge base and text planning modules. Mann (1985: 85–86) describes three types of goal in the formulation of the Nigel grammar, each with implications in terms of program construction: showing how syntactic structures can be generated from systemic descriptions, developing a systemic grammar of English which will serve for text generation in response to a particular task, and specifying how the grammar can be regulated by text needs. Nigel has separate components for systems, realisation rules and lexical items. As systemic choices are made from the networks encoded inside the Nigel program, a selection expression of features is gradually built up, the realisation rule(s) associated with each choice being implemented as soon as the appropriate features for the rule(s) are available. There are also ‘gates’, whose function is to activate a feature even when no choice has been made, and which are often used to realise a collection of features. Certain types of realisation rule are concerned with the specification of lexical items. An account of Nigel from the viewpoint of realisation types is available in Matthiessen (1988a), and further discussion can be found in Matthiessen & Bateman (1991: 92–97). Mann regards the most innovative aspect of Nigel as being the semantics programmed in to underlie the grammar, in the form of ‘choosers’, the function of which is to determine which choice from a grammatical system is the appropriate one to make, in view of the knowledge provided in the environment (Mann 1985: 90–93). Choosers are organised in the form of decision trees: for instance, the Mood Type chooser contains a branching inquiry which asks ‘Does the clause encode a command or a non-command?’. If the answer is ‘command’, [imperative] is chosen from the mood network; if ‘non-command’, then [indicative] is chosen. Choosers can be tested by selecting from a text a linguistic unit which the grammar should be able to generate, then operating in a mode in which the answers to chooser inquiries are given by the operator of the program. Further discussion of the chooser and inquiry framework can be found in Matthiessen (1987, 1988b) and in Matthiessen & Bateman (1991: 97–100). The way in which lexical choice is handled within the Nigel framework is discussed by Matthiessen (1991), who first outlines an abstract systemic model of lexis in terms of the dimensions of delicacy, stratification and metafunctional diversification, then illustrates the modelling of lexical organisation in systemic networks, and discusses the concept of lexis as most delicate grammar. Brief treatment of the relationship between lexical networks and higher levels of organisation (such as the semantic choosers) is followed by a discussion of the metafunctional organisation of lexis and its relationship with the situational parameters of field, tenor and mode. Matthiessen then goes on to discuss the

 Structure and Function

relationship between this systemic model of lexis and other approaches taken in natural language generation. More detailed accounts of that part of the Nigel grammar which deals with tense in English are given in Matthiessen (1984) and Matthiessen & Bateman (1991: 116–126). Mann & Matthiessen (1985) present the steps needed in the generation of a single sentence; and Matthiessen (1985) amplifies the discussion by looking at the generation of this same sentence in terms of a number of dimensions involved in the organisation of Nigel, each of which has an important part to play in the systemic model: stratification into semantics and grammar; the paradigmatic and syntagmatic axes of patterning and cycling between them; and potential vs. actual. The actual generation of a sentence by Nigel obviously involves more than just a static lexicogrammar from which choices can be made and a set of realisation rules associated with these choices: it also requires a mechanism for traversing the system networks and implementing the realisation rules. The algorithms for this (dynamic) actualisation of part of the (static) potential offered by the lexicogrammar are discussed in Matthiessen & Bateman (1991: 100–109). Clearly, this aspect of natural language generation is closely connected with the concerns which motivated Martin and Ventola’s work on dynamic accounts of genre (see §4.4.4.3.2). Matthiessen & Bateman (1991: Chapters 8 & 11) explore the question of dynamicity in generation beyond the limits of its implementation in the Nigel grammar. In this discussion, as elsewhere in their book, they refer not only to Nigel but also to a project begun in Kyoto in 1985, in which systemic grammars of Japanese, and later Chinese, were produced, initially following the Nigel model.19 One important area which is clearly related to questions of dynamicity is recursion which, as we have seen, is associated with the logical metafunction in SFG, as manifested, for example, in the relationships expressed within verbal groups, or in the types of relationship between clauses in clause complexes. Recursion involves a disruption in choices from networks organised in increasing delicacy: we have to go back to choose again from a system from which a choice has already been made. Matthiessen & Bateman discuss in some detail the implementation of the recursion involved in the verbal group (1991: 151–160) and in causatives (160–165), both in Japanese. A further area which Matthiessen & Bateman (1991: 165–172) treat as implying dynamicity is the interaction between Theme choice in the textual metafunction and transitivity choices in the experiential metafunction. The basic point is that the possibility of choosing, say, a Locative circumstance as Theme depends on the availability of such a circumstance for thematisation, and this, of course, is a matter for the transitivity systems. In Nigel, this is handled by making Theme choice dependent on logically prior choices of participants and circumstances. Although Matthiessen & Bateman do not themselves point up the issue, this is clearly a problem for Halliday’s claim that the networks of transitivity . Work has also been done on generation in German, in the KOMET project: see Steiner et al. (1990), Teich (1992, 1999).

Chapter 5

Learning and applying the grammar 

and thematic choice are in principle independent.20 This is perhaps one of the reasons for Matthiessen & Bateman’s alternative proposal, which distinguishes between ‘abstract’ and ‘situated’ potential in the lexicogrammar: the former presents all the types of participant and circumstance which the language permits, while the latter represents those participants and circumstances which are actually licensed in a particular clause. In order to implement this distinction, they appeal to the semantics as codified in the chooser/inquiry level of organisation. For instance, only if Expressed Location is selected from the chooser possibilities does the option Location Theme appear in the lexicogrammatical system for thematicity. This device would surely not be needed, however, if the principle of parallel and largely independent strands of meaningful choice were abandoned. Further exploration of the implementation of the distinction between ‘abstract’ and ‘situated’ potential in terms of choices located at the chooser level leads Matthiessen & Bateman to posit that choosers need to be able to interact with each other, beyond the limits of the local domains in which they act. This in turn leads to the postulation of ‘inquiry networks’, which clearly introduces a level of semantic networks above that of the lexicogrammatical networks,21 a development which, as we saw in §5.6 of Part 1, has been pushed forward in recent work by Halliday & Matthiessen (1999). Let us turn now to the environment in which Nigel operates (Matthiessen 1987; Matthiessen & Bateman 1991), which, as we saw earlier, involves the selection of appropriate knowledge from a knowledge base, and the organisation of this knowledge into a text plan, through the use of rhetorical resources, both needing to call on a model of the reader and his/her state of knowledge. It is this environment which is responsible for the choices which are made by the semantic choosers. Matthiessen & Bateman (1991: Chapter 9) approach the organisation of the environment from the viewpoint of what the lexicogrammar and its associated semantics suggest about that organisation. In other words, they start from a group of inquiries in a particular area of the grammar, and try to ascertain what distinctions in the environment are required in order to motivate the choice of one semantic feature rather than another. This methodology immediately suggests a metafunctional approach: each metafunction in the grammar will correspond to a component of the environment: hence we have an ideation base, an interaction base and a text base, as discussed in §5.6 of Part 1. Matthiessen & Bateman give an account of the ideation base and its implementation in Penman (1991: 203–213); the interaction base, particularly as it relates to matters of politeness in Japanese (pp. 213–219); and the text base, which is modelled in terms of the Rhetorical Structure Theory of Mann & Thompson (see §4.4.3.4.2). The three types of knowledge base interact with the field, tenor and mode components of a model of context. There is, in fact, a history of important work in the computational modelling of context within a systemic framework: for instance, as Matthiessen . See the discussion in §6.4 of Part 1. . See also Bateman’s (1991: 6) comment that there is a move towards “a more systemically correct architecture where there is no chooser involved”, in other words a relationship of predetermination between systemic choices at higher and lower levels.

 Structure and Function

& Bateman (1991: 33) point out, the first text generator which built in explicit representations of stylistic, rhetorical and affective goals, in order to influence the type of text produced, was Hovy’s PAULINE (see Hovy 1987, 1988), which was strongly influenced by systemic approaches to context. Ways in which register specification can be used to guide text generation through the chooser/inquiry framework are outlined in Matthiessen & Bateman (1991: 263–274). Bateman & Paris (1991) discuss a methodology for investigating the linguistic and situational properties of texts and specifying formally the relationships between register and the grammatical and discourse organisation of text, in the context of an expert system which is intended to explain its own reasoning.

.... Extending the generation grammar into a parser. Although the Nigel grammar was intended for use in text generation, the work of Kasper (e.g. 1988) aimed to extend this grammar into a parsing tool, through translation into a functional unification grammar framework. .... The COMMUNAL project. In 1987, a second major text generation project was initiated: COMMUNAL (COnvivial Man Machine Understanding through NAtural Language), directed by Robin Fawcett at Cardiff. As we have seen, it is within the context of this project (and also the desire to produce a grammar which would be capable of describing texts in all their complexity) that the Cardiff version of SFG has been developed. Much of this grammar has already been covered in previous chapters of this book and of Part 1; here, I shall concentrate on the COMMUNAL project itself. The long-term aim of COMMUNAL, as stated in 1993, is . . . to develop a system that will enable computationally naïve people to interact naturally (‘convivially’) with the Intelligent Knowledge Based Systems (IKBSs) that we should expect a decade or so ahead. (Fawcett 1993a: 633)

The project is thus concerned with dialogue rather than just monologue, and so involves both generation and parsing, though the generation side is the best developed and is regarded as primary, since the parser and semantic interpreter are derived from it, on the basis of the claim that it is plausible to assume that when humans understand language, they consult, during semantic interpretation, their internal program for turning meanings into sounds (Fawcett 1993a: 632, also the fuller discussion in Fawcett 1994). The basic components of the COMMUNAL model for text generation (Fawcett 1993a: 635–636; see also the earlier version in Fawcett & Tucker 1990) are a belief system (Fawcett’s version of a knowledge base), reasoning and higher planning systems, algorithms concerned with various aspects of the belief system, a discourse planner, the sentence generator (lexicogrammar), and a syntax stripper. For text understanding (Fawcett 1993a: 636–637) we have a parser, a semantic interpreter, a logical form translator, a discourse interpreter, a set of interpretation algorithms, and of course the belief system and reasoning/higher planning components needed for the generator. Let us start, as does the generation process, with the belief system. This is concerned with the interactants’ general beliefs about the context of culture and the significant situ-

Chapter 5

Learning and applying the grammar 

ation types embedded in it, and also their more specific beliefs about the actual situation of communication, the people involved in it, their own beliefs and attitudes, as well as beliefs about the content of the preceding discourse. Fawcett (1988: 31, 1993a: 633–634) believes that the organisation of this component should reflect the way in which we model language, rather than the other way round, a claim which embodies a basically Whorfian position and recalls not only the views of Halliday & Matthiessen (1999),22 but also those of Dik, which are explicitly cited by Fawcett (1988: 31) as comparable with his own. Indeed, the contents of the belief system are represented in a type of logical form, which again reminds us of Dik’s approach, though the COMMUNAL version clearly needs to be able to represent the whole wide range of meaning types which are important in a systemic grammar. As we have seen, one part of what the language producer knows (has beliefs) about is the local discourse structure (and its embedding in the generic structure), whose modelling in the Cardiff grammar I have already discussed in §4.4.5. The higher planning systems in the COMMUNAL model make use of the available information on the local discourse structure, as well as the content of the discourse up to that point, in order to decide what discourse act is now appropriate, and what propositional content it will have. Also brought into play are sentence planning algorithms which deal with, for example, how referents in the propositional content will be referred to, what will be selected as thematic material, and what types of tense, aspect and modality choices will be relevant. The information generated by the planning systems and algorithms is then transferred to the sentence generator, which uses the complex set of system networks embodied in the Cardiff grammar to select appropriate semantic features, within the various strands of meaning recognised in the Cardiff approach. Within these system networks, the individual features carry particular probabilities of selection, derived partly from textual analysis, partly from intelligent guesswork: for instance, if [information] is chosen from the MOOD system, then the options available are [giver] (96%), [seeker] (3%) and [confirmation seeker] (1%) (Fawcett 1993b: 176). The semantic representation generated so far is then input to the realisation rules which, together with their implementation, are described in some detail, in relation to the generation of specific examples, in Fawcett, Tucker & Lin (1992, 1993). The result of this process is a two-dimensional tree structure showing the syntactic structure of the clause and the lexical items which have been generated to fill each terminal constituent in the tree. The syntax stripper then removes the abstract syntactic categories to leave the final form of the clause. The generation of intonation contours, motivated by the underlying semantics, is discussed in Fawcett (1990). Let us turn now to the COMMUNAL parser (Fawcett 1993a: 649–650, 1994; Weerasinghe 1994; Weerasinghe & Fawcett 1993), which builds in information derived from the lexicogrammar, but does not itself directly consult that grammar. The information used includes the probabilities of syntagmatic combinations of various kinds, both syntactic and semantic, and a list stating which elements of structure are most likely to be filled by particular lexical items. The semantic interpreter (see O’Donoghue 1994) at. See also §2.5.4 of Part 1.

 Structure and Function

tempts to make sense of the parsed sentence by using the realisation rules (in reverse) and system networks, trying to reconstitute the semantic features encoded. The semantic representation so obtained is translated into logical form, interpretation algorithms operate, for instance in order to establish referents of referring expressions, and appropriate aspects of the semantics are used to work out how the sentence functions in the structure of the discourse. Finally, the reasoning and belief systems come into play, and can handle, for example, the effects of combining the new event with previous ones. These processes need not be in the strict sequence just given: it is also possible for the parser to pass a partial analysis to the semantic interpreter and hence to the higher reasoning and belief systems, and for the resulting information to be used as a check on the remaining parsing. Before we leave this brief description of COMMUNAL, it is worth mentioning Fawcett’s distinction of three types of grammar, in terms of their coverage: a ‘mini grammar’ is a small, often illustrative fragment such as that presented for operators and auxiliary verbs in Fawcett (1988: 42–48); a ‘large grammar’ is something of the size and scope of the whole of the Cardiff grammar or Nigel; while a ‘midi grammar’ is one with intermediate coverage, intended to give others a good idea of how the large grammar works (for discussion see Fawcett 1993b). COMMUNAL and Penman clearly have a great deal of common ground in their aims and assumptions, but there are also important differences, as Fawcett, Tucker & Lin (1993: 175–176) point out. One of the most important is the major design feature which divides the Sydney and Cardiff versions of SFG: whereas the Sydney grammar operates with separate levels of semantics and lexicogrammar, the Cardiff grammar has just one level of semantic networks. Within the COMMUNAL approach, therefore, there is no need for (and indeed no possibility of) semantic choosers of the kind found in Nigel: all the semantic information needed to generate the final structure of a sentence is available in the choices made from the one level of networks. As we saw earlier, and as Fawcett, Tucker & Lin observe, recent work arising from the Nigel model (Matthiessen & Bateman 1991; see also Hovy et al. 1992) points in the direction of organising the choosers into networks, and to this extent the Nigel-based and COMMUNAL models converge. There remains, though, the important question of mono- vs. multi-stratal networks. For those readers who wish to explore further the similarities and differences between the two approaches, Matthiessen & Bateman (1991) and Fawcett, Tucker & Lin (1993) are highly recommended as starting points.

.... Machine translation in a systemic perspective. Systemic linguistics has also been influential in certain work in machine translation, the most important of which has been done by the German group in the EUROTRA project, reported in several of the papers in Steiner, Schmidt & Zelinsky-Wibbelt (1988). In the introduction to this volume, Haller et al. (1988) note that in the EUROTRA project, to which all countries then part of the European Community contributed, the grammar formalism used was worked out by a central team, and is based on unification grammars. Central to the approach is a level,

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the Interface Structure, of minimal transfer between source and target languages. 23 This level involves, among other things, semantic features and semantic relations, and it is in this area that SFG has been most influential. Steiner et al. (1988) argue for the suitability of SFG, especially as developed by Fawcett and his colleagues, as a framework for the specification of semantic relations, and give SFG-based analyses of many clause patterns in German. Steiner (1988) compares the systemically-oriented analysis with one based on Lexical Functional Grammar. Heid, Rösner & Roth (1988) describe the generation of German from semantic relations, while Schmidt (1988) discusses transfer strategies and Eckert & Heid (1988) investigate how the semantic relations function in lexical transfer between languages, again in contrast with the LFG approach.

... The relationship between linguistic theory and computational application Here, I shall take up in a little more detail an issue which has been implicit in what has been said so far, namely the relationships between a linguistic theory and its implementation in computational systems. We may distinguish two aspects of such relationships: the suitability of particular theories for computational application (with, as a sub-issue, the question of whether such applications are best based on a single theory or an eclectic mix), and the nature and extent of feedback from application to theory. There is little in the FG literature to suggest why that theory is thought particularly amenable to computational implementation; systemic linguists, on the other hand, have dealt explicitly with this issue. Fawcett (1988) discusses this question in relation to the Cardiff conception of SFG built into the COMMUNAL project. He argues that although linguistic theories can, and should, benefit from ideas generated by computer scientists, what is needed in modelling language, for natural language processing as for any other purpose, is a specifically linguistic theory rather than a computational theory. He advocates the use of a single theory as a basis, though always with the possibility of incorporating ideas from outside that theory: as he points out, different theories usually hold different assumptions about the nature of language, which may make compatibility difficult. In arguing for SFG as a suitable theory for computational applications, Fawcett takes the line of comparison with what he dubs ‘neo-Chomskyan’ approaches.24 An important advantage of SFG is clearly that it is centred on meaning rather than on syntax; furthermore, meanings are described in terms of a multifunctional, holistic model which offers a more complete coverage of different types of meaning than alternative approaches. The priority accorded to paradigmatic relations is also seen as crucial. Also important are the interaction-oriented nature of SFG, and the attention it pays to discourse as well as to the meaning and structure of sentences. A final point is that SFG, with its multifunctional organisation, lends itself very well to implementation in terms of parallel processing, with potential increases in computational efficiency. . For the concept of transfer in machine translation, see Lewis (1992). . See Butler (1994: 4504) for suggestions on reasons for the applicability of SFG more widely, which highlight some of the same points made in what follows.

 Structure and Function

Matthiessen & Bateman (1991: 56), like Fawcett, believe that it is best to use one theory, at least as a starting and reference point, rather than a blend of two or more. Firstly, they point out, an implementation which is based on just one theory has a greater chance of achieving compatibility among the various parts of the model; secondly, the application of a single theory will probably tell us more about its value in computational applications. They are careful to stress the impossibility, as well as the undesirability, of claiming that one linguistic theory is inherently superior to another for the purposes of text generation, but give reasons for their choice of SFG as one theory with considerable potential in this area (1991: 57–59). They first point to the lengthy history of interaction between SFG and computing, going back to work involving Halliday as early as 1956. They also believe that SFG presents a more comprehensive picture of language than most other theories, since it deals with semantics, discourse, cohesion, context and register, all areas of vital concern in natural language processing: only tagmemics and stratificational linguistics, they claim, can compete in this respect, and of the three theories, SFG has the best descriptive coverage for English. Like Fawcett, Matthiessen & Bateman stress the priority given to paradigmatic relations in SFG: an emphasis on the concept of choice is extremely useful if we wish to exercise control over the linguistic choices made, as a function of the social context and the ongoing discourse structure. The functional orientation of the theory is, of course, also crucial in this respect. Matthiessen & Bateman also point to the close relationship between theory and application in SFG, and to the fact that issues of relevance to computational implementation, such as dynamic modelling and the representation of context, are of great importance in the SFG research agenda. They also make the point about parallel processing mentioned above (1991: 236–239). Let us turn now to the second issue raised at the beginning of this section: how, and to what extent, computational applications feed back into the theory or theories on which they are based. It is probably fair to say that computational implementations of FG have so far had rather little impact on the theory itself: for instance, the recent trend towards the development of discourse models in FG appears to be motivated largely by the realisation that FG needs to expand this area if it is to move further in the direction of pragmatic adequacy; unfortunately, the experience of programmers such as Kwee in attempting to model the theory computationally does not seem to be a major factor. In the context of systemic theory and its application, Matthiessen & Bateman suggest that one of the main contributions which computational application can make to the theory is in the area of process accounts of language, whose importance has been stressed by Martin and his colleagues, as we saw in Chapter 4. One step in this direction is to interpret the relevant work in computational linguistics and AI in terms of linguistic theory. For instance, how do the grammatical generation algorithms used in text generation systems relate to the categories of grammatical theories? what kind of theory of text organization does hierarchic planning in AI presuppose? and so on. (Matthiessen & Bateman 1991: 47)

Fawcett also argues strongly for the importance of process-oriented models:

Learning and applying the grammar 

Chapter 5

Notice that the way that we talk about language predisposes us to view it as an object – an abstract type of object, of course, but still an object. Here I shall propose the view that it is more insightful to view language as a process, as a procedure, as a programme for behaviour – or, to signify the computational metaphor, as a program. (Fawcett 1993a: 626, emphasis in original)

As he points out (1993a: 629) a computer program is defective if it will not run, and he advocates the same position on language: a model which does not tell us anything about how we produce and understand texts is an inadequate model. In other words, it seems fair to interpret Fawcett as claiming that computational applications can help to increase what Dik would call the psychological adequacy of the theory. There is, however, an important caveat to be made here: we must not assume that the way in which a computer can be made to generate or parse text necessarily reflects the way in which human beings do so, and this is a point which will be taken up again in the final chapter of the present volume.

.. Stylistics Neither mainstream FG nor RRG has so far been used by scholars wishing to apply linguistic theory and description to stylistic studies. There is, however, a small amount of stylistic work which applies descriptions based on the Functional Lexematic Model, such as the work of Feu (1996) on Le Fanu’s Carmilla and Piñero & Feu (1997) on Emily Dickinson’s death poems. We shall also see in §5.3.3 that the work of Sánchez García on literary translation is based on Functional Lexematic descriptions. SFG, on the other hand, has a long tradition of use in the analysis of literary and non-literary style,25 going back to the days of Scale and Category Grammar, which was perceived as providing a principled set of categories for the linguistic analysis of texts. The concept of rank, though strongly criticised by some as a theoretical construct, proved especially useful in stylistics, together with that of classes of unit. Halliday (1964a) points to the need for a rigorous linguistic model which can serve as a basis for the description and comparison of texts, and observes that although no analysis of a literary text can possibly exhaust its meaning, a model of the type he proposes at least has the merit of allowing the precise description of aspects of patterning which are susceptible to linguistic analysis. Halliday illustrates these points by reference to four texts, the discussion ranging over the phoric uses of the definite article, complexity of nominal group structure, lexical distribution and collocation, and cohesion. Additional discussion can be found in Halliday (1964b). In these early studies, Halliday avoids interpretation of his analysis in terms of literary significance, a characteristic which is shared by the earliest stylistic work of Sinclair (1966), who presents an analysis of the grammatical structure of Larkin’s poem First Sight in terms of Scale and Category Grammar. As well as investigating the structures of clauses . Stylistic applications of SFG are discussed in Butler (1985a: 193–197, 1994: 4501), on which much of the following is based.

 Structure and Function

and sentences, and the interplay between grammatical and line divisions, Sinclair introduces the concept of ‘arrest’, exemplified by the interruption of clause structures, with the consequent setting up of tensions. In a slightly later study of Robert Graves’ poem The Legs, Sinclair (1968) again describes the grammatical structures in terms of units and their classes, and also looks at the specificity of verb usage and the phoric use of the definite article, now relating all these features to the ‘public meaning’ of the poem, so avoiding the frequently made comment of literary critics that linguists tend to display the patterns in texts without relating them to literary effect. In a still later paper, Sinclair (1982) develops further the concept of arrest, in a discussion of Wordsworth’s Lines composed a few miles above Tintern Abbey. Short’s (1982) analysis of the first of T. S. Eliot’s Preludes is also based on a Scale and Category approach, and demonstrates very well how close attention to linguistic detail can combine with sensitivity to the literary effects of a work. Short shows how the reader’s impression of simplicity and fragmentation are relatable to the structural properties of the poem, and how the rhyme scheme acts to unify otherwise very heterogeneous elements. Like Short’s study, Carter’s (1982b) analysis of Hemingway’s short story Cat in the Rain combines linguistic analysis with literary interpretation, showing how his intuitions as a reader of the story can be correlated with the simplicity of nominal group structures, shifts in the complexity of verbal group structures, and cohesive devices. As we saw in §4.4.4.1, the development of Scale and Category linguistics went hand in hand with the elaboration of a model of context in terms of field, tenor and mode. These categories were put to good stylistic use in the work of Gregory in the 1960s and 1970s. Analysis in terms of field of discourse facilitates the description of the ways in which the linguistic features of specialised registers can be appropriated for stylistic purposes; tenor provides a basis for discussion of writer/reader relationships, but also those between characters in fiction; analysis of mode covers distinctions of monologue, dialogue, and so on. Spencer & Gregory (1964) provide a discussion of the usefulness of the linguistic and contextual models in the analysis of literary style, while Gregory (1974) applies these principles to the study of Donne’s Holy Sonnet XIV, placing the poem in terms of temporal dialect, religious field, a personal tenor related to an audience of known listeners or readers, and a mode of discourse characterised as ‘written to be read with the speaking of it in mind’. Gregory goes on to make a close analysis of the text in grammatical and lexical terms. Later work linking grammatical and collocational patterning to the text as a social event can be found in Gregory’s (1978) study of Marvell’s To his Coy Mistress. After the move, in the mid-1960s, towards a theory which emphasised the concept of choice and the semantic orientation of the grammar came a shift in the kind of stylistic analysis which took systemic linguistics as its basis. In particular, the concept of semantically-oriented networks organised in three basic metafunctional layers informed a deeper analysis of literary texts than could have been accomplished using Scale and Category Grammar. The seminal article here is Halliday’s (1971) analysis of style in William Golding’s novel The Inheritors, where the functional nature of linguistic ‘foregrounding’ in texts is made clear:

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. . . a feature that is brought into prominence will be ‘foregrounded’ only if it relates to the meaning of the text as a whole. This relationship is a functional one: if a particular feature of the language contributes, by its prominence, to the total meaning of the work it does so by virtue of and through the medium of its own value in the language – through the linguistic function from which its meaning is derived. Where the function is relevant to our interpretation of the work, the prominence will appear as motivated. (Halliday 1971: 339)

Halliday emphasises that we are not dealing here just with ‘non-cognitive’ aspects of meaning: “there are no regions of language in which style does not reside” (1971: 339); that is, meanings within the ideational, interpersonal and textual metafunctions may all be involved. Halliday demonstrates convincingly that in the case of The Inheritors an important element is concerned with the patterning of transitivity choices (which, as we have seen, are within the ideational – more narrowly, the experiential – metafunction) rather than with the non-representational kinds of meaning with which stylistic studies are commonly concerned. The novel tells of the invasion of a small band of Neanderthals by a more advanced group. For most of the work, the reader sees the world through the eyes of the Neanderthals; a short transitional passage then leads to a final section in which the world is seen from the viewpoint of the invaders, that is, of modern man. Halliday’s analysis shows clearly how Golding manipulates transitivity choices in order to build these world views: in the section focused on the Neanderthal view, the processes are mostly of the material action type, concerned with movement in space, or locational-possessional, or mental, and are expressed in a direct narrative form using simple past tense, with active, finite verbs. Almost all are single participant processes: only the Affected participant is present, even processes which in our own current world view would involve directed action being presented as intransitive (e.g. The stick began to grow shorter at both ends represents the drawing of a bow). Many of the clause Subjects refer not to people, but to parts of the body or objects, and there are many Adjuncts, mainly expressing location or direction. In other words, there is much movement, but the activities of the band are represented as lacking in effects on other entities. As Halliday observes, Golding is not simply presenting a picture of Neanderthal life here, but is bringing to our attention the limitations of their world view, and so pointing to the conflicts which are basic to man’s evolution. The end of the book gives a very different impression: most clauses are transitive, with a human Subject involved in an action process: the principles of cause and effect are now recognised. The transitional passage also proves to be intermediate in terms of the transitivity selections made. I have gone into Halliday’s analysis of The Inheritors in some detail because it seems to me to illustrate very well the power of this kind of functional analysis in literary stylistics. Indeed, it gave rise to a series of similar studies focussed on transitivity choices and their literary interpretation. Short (1976) applies Halliday’s techniques to a passage from Steinbeck’s Of Mice and Men, showing how transitivity patterns help us to sympathise with one of the characters in the passage, and to recognise the lack of control over him by another character. Kennedy (1976), in an examination of passages from Conrad’s The Secret Agent and Joyce’s Dubliners, aims to demonstrate that Halliday’s technique can be

 Structure and Function

used, with a wider range of texts, to highlight the significance of particular passages and reveal semantically motivated patterns. Butt’s (1988) analysis of Wallace Stevens’ poem The Idea of Order at Key West also deals with ideational meaning as expressed in transitivity patterns and logical interclausal relationships. Montgomery (1993) also examines transitivity choices in his analysis of Hemingway’s short story The Revolutionist. Benson & Greaves (1984) study transitivity, as well as interpersonal and textual types of meaning, in Melville’s Moby Dick, later expanding the treatment of process types in a comparison between Melville’s novel of physical action and Poe’s psychologically-oriented short story The Fall of the House of Usher (Benson & Greaves 1987), and then analysing the contribution of transitivity and ergativity choices to the foregrounding of the worlds constructed in Tennyson’s poem The Lotos-Eaters (Benson, Greaves & Stillar 1995). Halliday’s analysis of transitivity also informs a number of monographic works on stylistics, such as those by Leech & Short (1981) and Toolan (1988, 1990). Stylistic work based on metafunctionally-organised meaning choice does not, however, concentrate solely on the ideational component: studies of textual meaning can be found, for instance in Downing’s (1995) work on thematic layering and focus assignment in the General Prologue to Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales, or in Goatly’s (1995) analysis of marked Theme and its interpretation in Housman’s A Shropshire Lad; analysis of features from textual as well as ideational metafunctions is incorporated into the poetic analysis of Hasan (1985/1989) and into Taylor Torsello’s (1991) discussion of the creation of points of view in Virginia Woolf ’s To the Lighthouse. During the 1980s, however, we begin to see a tendency for analysis move away from the clause or sentence level, towards a consideration of the discourse structure of texts, and also the relationships among texts (‘intertextuality’: see e.g. Lemke 1985, 1995). The orientation towards textual macrostructure is evident, for example, in Hasan’s (1984b) analysis of the nursery tale in terms of her model of Generic Structure Potential. Carter & Simpson (1989a) is a collection of articles which also clearly illustrates this shift towards discourse stylistics. In their introduction to this volume, the editors sum up very nicely the evolution of stylistic studies summarised above and make a prediction for the 1990s: At the risk of overgeneralization and oversimplification, we might say that if the 1960s was a decade of formalism in stylistics, the 1970s a decade of functionalism and the 1980s a decade of discourse stylistics, then the 1990s could well become the decade in which socio-historical and socio-cultural stylistic studies are a main preoccupation. (Carter & Simpson 1989b: 17)

What Carter & Simpson have in mind as a possible theme for the 90s is a kind of literary discourse analysis which attempts . . . to demonstrate the determining positions available within texts, and show how ‘meanings’ and ‘interpretations of meanings’ are always and inevitably discursively produced. (Carter & Simpson 1989b: 17)

In fact, such an approach can be found in the early 1980s, for instance in the work of Burton (1982). Writing from a feminist perspective, she avers that

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. . . stylistic analysis is not just a question of discussing “effects” in language and text, but a powerful method for understanding the ways in which all sorts of “realities” are constructed through language. (Burton 1982: 201, emphasis in original)

Burton examines a passage from Sylvia Plath’s The Bell Jar, which describes the experience of electric shock treatment for depression. As in much previous work, the focus is on process types, but the orientation is somewhat different. Burton’s concern is to show how the transitivity selections made by the author point to the power relations between the doctor and nurse, on the one hand, and the patient, on the other: the medical staff, sometimes through their instruments, are in control, while the patient is presented as powerless. We see here a further evolution of systemic stylistics which parallels a shift in the theory itself, this time towards an ideological perspective which is entirely consistent with Halliday’s view of linguistics as a form of action, able to intervene in social processes (see §5.1.5 of Part 1). These concerns are very evident in the collections of papers edited by Threadgold et al. (1986) and by Birch & O’Toole (1988), and in other work by scholars such as Threadgold (e.g. 1988) and Birch (e.g. 1993). Finally, we should note that the ‘communication linguistics’ developed by Gregory and his colleagues (see §5.8.1 of Part 1) has also been applied stylistically, for instance in Stillar’s (1992) discussion of emerging discoursal patterns in a poem by Leonard Cohen and Gregory’s (1995) analysis of Donne’s The Good Morrow. In the above, I have concentrated on literary stylistics; it is important to remember, however, that much work has also been done on non-literary varieties of English, on the basis of systemic theory and description. Much of this has already been mentioned in earlier chapters, and especially in the context of our discussion of register and genre in Chapter 4, and of educational applications of SFG in §5.2.3.2. Here, I shall merely remind the reader of collections such as those by Ghadessy (1993) and Sánchez-Macarro & Carter (1998). It is also worth noting that Hasan uses the term ‘semiotic style’ to refer to “not only characteristic ways of saying but also of being and behaving” (1984c: 105) and ‘semantic style’ to refer to “the style of meaning verbally” (1984c: 106). She then goes on to use these concepts to discuss differences between cultures and the languages they use, focusing on English and Urdu for exemplification. Before we close this brief discussion of systemic stylistics, it is worth reflecting on why SFG should have proved so useful in this area. The same factors are at work in contributing to the applicability of SFG in this area as in computational implementations. The creation of a text can be seen in terms of the choice of particular, often highly nuanced, meanings from those available, and the concomitant rejection of others, so that the paradigmatic orientation of SFG is especially appropriate. Furthermore, meaning is seen as multifaceted, differentiated according to a set of broad metafunctional areas, which have provided a fruitful framework for much stylistic study. Additionally, the emphasis of SFG on the structure and meanings of texts, and not just of isolated sentences, has been a major determinant of applicability in this area, as has the interest of systemic linguists in linking text to context and, beyond this, to the ideologies at work in the creation and reception of texts.

 Structure and Function

.. Translation and contrastive studies Work on machine translation has already been reviewed briefly in the section on computational applications. There has also been other work on the application of FG and SFG to translation studies. Within the range of approaches covered by FG, the Functional Lexematic Model provides a potentially fruitful model for application to translation, in view of its lexical and cognitive orientation. There is a range of contrastive studies of English and Spanish in particular areas of the lexicon: see, for example, Faber & Sánchez (1990) on verbs expressing manner of speaking and sound verbs; Faber & Pérez (1993) on verbs concerned with light; Faber (1994) on verbs of perception. The model has been applied to the study of Lawrence Durrell’s Alexandria Quartet and its translation into Spanish (Sánchez García 1994, 1995/1996, 1996a, 1996b, 1996c, 1997). Features of SFG which have proved particularly fruitful in the area of applications to translation are multifunctionality (see Halliday 1992 and especially the extended treatment in Bell 1991: Chapter 4) and the emphasis on the properties of texts, including textual macrostructure, thematic progression and cohesion (see e.g. Newmark 1987; Taylor 1993; Ventola 1995b; Fernández Polo 1995; Munday 2000). A recent volume of papers on translation by scholars working with systemic models (Steiner & Yallop 2001) emphasises the advantages of going beyond the concept of texts as repositories of content, advocating an approach in which the text is seen in terms of configurations of multidimensional meanings.

.. Language pathology There has been some use of SFG in the investigation of language disorders: Rochester & Martin (1979) show significant differences in cohesion, and especially in types of reference, in the speech of thought-disordered schizophrenics, non-thought-disordered schizophrenics and non-disadvantaged speakers; disturbances of cohesion and other textual systems in patients with language disabilities have also been studied by Fine and his colleagues (Bartolucci & Fine 1987; Fine 1985, 1988, 1991, 1994, 1995; Fine & Bartolucci 1981; Fine, Bartolucci & Szatmari 1989; Fine et al. 1991; Fine et al. 1994) while Gotteri (1988) outlines the potential contributions of systemic grammars to the work of speech therapists, and Mortensen (2000) describes how systemic theory is being applied in the context of describing and interpreting communication impairment through brain injury in adults. The work of Kemmerer (1996) on the language of patients with Parkinson’s Disease makes use of principles from RRG. To my knowledge, there has been no use made of FG in language pathology.

..

A (semi-) final word on applicability Throughout this section on applicability, we have seen that systemic linguistics has proved particularly productive as a basis for applied work, in areas as diverse as computational

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linguistics, stylistics and language pathology. We have also seen that this productivity can be traced to the differences in underlying aims and assumptions about language and the study of language between SFG on the one hand, and FG and RRG on the other. I shall return to the issue of applicability, and its relationship with the evaluation of linguistic theories, in the next chapter.

Chapter 6

Functional Grammar, Role and Reference Grammar and Systemic Functional Grammar A final assessment and some pointers to the future

Now that we are nearing the end of our long journey along the pathways of Functional Grammar, Role and Reference Grammar and Systemic Functional Grammar, it is time to take a final critical look at these theories from the point of view of the extent to which they achieve the various goals to which a structural-functional grammar might aspire. I shall first review each theory in terms of the criteria of adequacy which proponents of the theory themselves consider important. I shall then pose the question of whether we should be satisfied even with a good approximation to adequacy in a limited number of areas prioritised by a particular theory. A negative answer to this question then leads me to propose a composite set of criteria to which I believe a truly functional theory should aspire. I then discuss the implications of these criteria for the shape of a new integrated model, reviewing the potential of the various structural-functional grammars as contributors to such a model. Not surprisingly, then, this chapter strikes a tone which is both more personal and more provocative than much of the preceding material. In the course of the discussion, frequent reference will be made to discussion in earlier chapters and in Part 1, so that this chapter will also act as a summary of many of the important points raised throughout this work.

.

Assessment of theories in terms of their own goals

..

Functional Grammar It is now a quarter of a century since the publication of Dik’s (1978) seminal work Functional Grammar. Over that time, as we have seen, there have been numerous contributions to the theory, not only by Dik himself, but also by other scholars in the Low Countries, Denmark, Spain, the United Kingdom and elsewhere. In this section I shall attempt to assess the extent to which this work has contributed to the achievement of the goals which FG sets for itself. After an initial note on descriptive adequacy, there follows a brief gen-

 Structure and Function

eral discussion of the success of FG in accounting for the motivation of form by semantic and pragmatic function. I shall then discuss the three types of adequacy explicitly set out by Dik: pragmatic, psychological and typological. In recent work, pragmatic adequacy is closely related to what I have dubbed ‘discoursal’ adequacy, a criterion which is clearly implied in Dik’s TFG2.1

... A note on descriptive adequacy in FG As we saw in §3.1 of Part 1, Dik proposes that any functional grammar should meet a standard of descriptive adequacy modelled on that proposed in Chomskyan accounts of language: in other words, such a grammar must be able to “give a complete and adequate account of the grammatical organization of connected discourse in that language” (Dik 1997a: 12). Two aspects of this characterisation of descriptive adequacy require further comment: the goal is to describe the grammatical organisation of the language, and this must extend to connected discourse. The extent to which FG succeeds in achieving “a complete and adequate account” of the sentence grammar has been commented on in the detailed exposition of various areas of the grammar throughout the present work, and I shall say no more about particular areas here. It is, however, worth reminding ourselves of Bakker’s comments (Bakker 1999, 2001; Bakker & Siewierska, forthcoming) in relation to the expression rule component of FG, as discussed in §3.4 of Part 1 and §4.2.6.3 of the present volume: the fact that there are few constraints on the expression rules in Dik’s account means that these rules are very powerful and so capable of massive overgeneration; on the other hand, it can be shown that there are types of expression found in the world’s languages which cannot be accounted for in terms of the rules of the standard model. Bakker’s own work, as we have seen, aims to remedy some of these deficiencies. When we move beyond the sentence grammar to look at structure and function in connected discourse, the descriptive and explanatory (especially pragmatic) standards of adequacy become so closely related that it makes little sense to attempt separate treatment. I shall therefore discuss pragmatic and discoursal aspects together in §6.1.1.3. Before we leave the matter of descriptive adequacy, we should remind ourselves that as noted in §3.1.4 of Part 1, Hengeveld & Pérez Quintero (2001), building on ideas in Boland (1999), have recently proposed a realignment of Dik’s criteria, such that typological criteria form part of the conditions for descriptive adequacy, while pragmatic and psychological criteria remain as explanatory. One important consequence of this shift is the prediction that the same types of restriction (e.g. various implicational hierarchies) should apply both within and across languages. We saw in §3.2.4.4 that Hengeveld & Pérez Quintero themselves provide evidence for this claim with respect to the grammar of adverbial clause types. . A discussion of criteria of adequacy in Functional Grammar is also available (in Spanish) in Butler (1999), on which parts of the discussion in the present chapter are based.

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... Explaining form in terms of function in FG We saw in our initial discussion of functional explanation in §1.5 of Part 1 that Dik (1986) proposes a number of functional pressures which contribute to an explanation of why language is as it is: the aims and purposes for which language is used, primarily the transmission of meanings, social and affective as well as representational; pressures arising from the nature of the means of communication, primarily vocal-auditory, and from the nature of processing mechanisms; and the relationship between language and the social contexts in which it is used. Functional pressures from social context and processing mechanisms will be dealt with later under the headings of pragmatic and psychological adequacy; here, I want to concentrate on the relationships between the forms of language and the meanings they convey. In §1.5 of Part 1 we saw that Dik recognises a principle of iconicity, according to which there is frequently some degree of similarity in the patterning of forms and meanings, although because of the effects of competing motivations we may expect the whole range from an essentially arbitrary relationship to full biuniqueness. Dik also points out that even a non-iconic relationship can still provide guidelines for processing, as its systematicity will help the language user to fit new instances of a phenomenon into the general pattern. To what extent, then, can explanation in the shape of form-meaning correspondences actually be recognised in FG? Certainly there are a number of points in Dik’s TFG1 and TFG2 where iconic principles are invoked, often together with processing principles, largely in the set of constituent ordering principles which contribute, sometimes antagonistically, to the final ordering pattern seen in a clause (see §3.2.3 of Part 1): the Principle of Iconic Ordering, according to which ordering reflects semantic content; the Principle of Linear Ordering,2 which may be motivated iconically and through processing constraints; the Principle of Centripetal Organisation, according to which ordering is determined by relative distance from the head of the construction, and this distance in turn reflects iconically the closeness of the link between head and dependents; the Principle of Functional Stability, which says that items with the same functional properties tend to occupy the same position; the Principle of Pragmatic Highlighting, which places constituents with special pragmatic functions such as certain types of Topic and Focus in special positions, of which one is normally the cognitively-salient clause-initial position, according to the ‘first things first’ principle; the frequently attested iconicity between the scope of π-operators and the ordering of the realisations (Hengeveld 1989, taken up in Dik 1997a: 414). There is, then, clear evidence, from at least one area, of Dik’s programme of functional explanation. The realisation of this programme, however, is in my view hampered by a serious deficiency in FG which I remarked on in §6.2.1.1.1 of Part 1: the lack of an explicitly syntactic level of description in Dik’s version of the theory. If we are trying to establish correlations between form and function, we need to have clear descriptions of both forms and functions. Dik’s model of the underlying structure of the clause attempts to be both formal and functional, and yet the only clearly syntactic information built into . This general principle, it will be remembered, has as one instantiation the Principle of Increasing Complexity, reflected in the Language-Independent Preferred Order of Constituents (LIPOC).

 Structure and Function

this structure is the assignment of Subject and Object functions, where appropriate, to particular constituents. The syntax is implicit in the expression component, but syntactic structures are not themselves systematically modelled except, to a very limited extent, in the constituent ordering templates proposed. In this respect, further developments of Bakker’s (1999) model of the expression component, which effectively attempts to provide a syntax for FG, will be important. Also relevant here is one particular aspect of work within the Functional Lexematic Model. As we saw in §3.5 of Part 1, the recent work of Faber & Mairal Usón (see Mairal Usón 1994; Faber & Mairal Usón 1994, 1998a, 1998b, 1999) has been concerned not only with the semantics of verbal lexemes but also with their syntax, and has demonstrated a clear relationship between the two, in that there is considerable evidence from English for the Principle of Lexical Iconicity, stated as follows: The greater the semantic coverage of a lexeme, the greater its syntactic variations. (Faber & Mairal Usón 1994: 211, 1998a: 8)

More specifically, Faber & Mairal Usón show that the range of complementation patterns is greater for verbs which are higher up in a particular lexical hierarchy than for those lower down the hierarchy.

... Pragmatic and discoursal adequacy in FG Let us first remind ourselves of Dik’s own definitions of pragmatic adequacy. In §3.1 of Part 1, I set out a number of quotations from Dik’s work which illustrate two rather different positions; these will be repeated below. First, a group of statements which can be considered to represent a strong view of pragmatic adequacy (in each case, the italics are mine): Since a natural language is an instrument used for communicative purposes, there is little point in considering its properties in abstraction from the functional uses to which it is put. The system underlying the construction of linguistic expressions is a functional system. From the very start, it must be studied within the framework of the rules, principles, and strategies which govern its natural communicative use. In other words, the question of how a language is organized cannot be profitably studied in abstraction from the question of why it is organized the way it is, given the communicative functions which it fulfils. This means that linguistic expressions can be understood properly only when they are considered as functioning in settings, the properties of which are codetermined by the contextual and situational information available to speakers and addressees. Language does not function in isolation: it is an integrated part of a living human (psychological and social) reality. (Dik 1997a: 6) . . . the basic requirement of the functional paradigm is that linguistic expressions should be described and explained in terms of the general framework provided by the pragmatic system of verbal interaction. (Dik 1997a: 4)

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. . . we must not think of linguistic expressions as isolated objects, but as instruments which are used by a Speaker in order to evoke some intended interpretation in the Addressee, within a context defined by preceding expressions, and within a setting defined by the essential parameters of the speech situation. (Dik 1997a: 13)

The italicised portions of these quotations could be taken as indicating Dik’s commitment to a theory of language which really does take pragmatics as primary, with semantics as its servant and syntax, lexis and intonation as the means of expression for both. This, in my view, would mean starting with the question: ‘What do we know about how language is actually used in communication between human beings?’ – a vast question, of course, but one to which some partial (and at times conflicting) answers are readily available in the linguistic literature. We know, for instance, that the type of language used varies with situational factors, both dialectal and diatypic (‘register’). We know that much of what we communicate is unsaid, in the sense that as interlocutors we are constantly generating meanings in the form of inferences from what our conversational partners are saying – and indeed, from what they are not saying – and from our knowledge of the world, the recurrent situation types of the culture, and the particular situation in which we find ourselves, including our knowledge of others taking part in the interaction. We know also that what is expectable at a particular point in discourse depends on what has gone before. All these we might regard as valid starting points for a pragmatically and discoursally adequate theory, and all are concerned with one of the main factors, pressure from (social and discoursal) context, which Dik recognises as being crucial for the functional explanation of why languages are as they are. As I pointed out in §3.1 of Part 1, however, this is not the line which Dik actually takes. Cheek by jowl with the above statements we get another set, this time espousing a much weaker position: again the italics are mine. . . . although in itself a theory of linguistic expressions is not the same as a theory of verbal interaction, it is natural to require that it be devised in such a way that it can most easily and realistically be incorporated into a wider pragmatic theory of verbal interaction. (Dik 1997a: 4) We saw above that a functional grammar must be conceptualized as being embedded within a wider pragmatic theory of verbal interaction. Ultimately, it would have to be capable of being integrated into a model of NLU [the Natural Language User (CSB)]. We shall say that the degree of pragmatic adequacy of a functional grammar is higher to the extent that it fits in more easily with such a wider, pragmatic theory. (Dik 1997a: 13)

And this, as we have seen, is the programme Dik actually chooses to follow. The problem with this approach, however, is that in order for him to be able to demonstrate that the grammar is indeed being constructed in such a way that it will fit well into a theory of verbal interaction, at least the outlines of that encompassing theory must be articulated clearly. Certain processes which are undoubtedly important in a pragmatically adequate account of language, such as inferencing, do find a place in Dik’s computational modelling of the natural language user; nevertheless, the various components of the model appear to

 Structure and Function

come simply from Dik’s own thoughts on the matter, scantily supported by references to other models, or to work which could be taken as evidence for his own approach, let alone any which might challenge it. In order to put a little flesh on the bare bones of these comments, let us review briefly Dik’s treatment of two areas which cry out for treatment in pragmatically and discoursally adequate ways: illocution and information distribution. We saw in §1.2.1 that Dik’s account of illocution stays very close to the formal aspects of speech acts, that is, their reflection in the opposition between declarative, interrogative, imperative and exclamative, with their subtypes: his interest is in illocution as encoded in the expression. Certain types of ‘illocutionary conversion’ are considered to belong within the grammar, but only those which have some clear grammatical reflex, such as tags on declaratives and imperatives. Other types of conversion belong to the theory of verbal interaction. Significantly, there is no discussion of the conditions which lead to the choice of one type of realisation of a given illocutionary intent rather than another. Similarly, we saw in §2.2.1 that Dik’s account of information distribution in the clause allows the assignment of Topic and Focus pragmatic functions only where a language gives distinctive formal treatment to these functions: Dik is concerned not with topicality and focality in themselves, but with the encoding of these properties by specifiable linguistic devices. Again, apart from a few brief comments, there is no systematic treatment of the factors which lead a speaker to choose particular information distribution strategies from those available. Among the factors which need to be taken into account when thinking about why a speaker or writer chooses particular options in illocution or information distribution, both social and discoursal context loom large. We have seen that social context is not discussed in any detail in Dik’s work;3 on the other hand, we also saw in §4.2.3.1 that in his posthumous TFG2 Dik makes it clear that FG should also aim for a theory of discourse: . . . the theory of FG, if it is to live up to its self-imposed standards of adequacy, should in the long run account for the functional grammar of discourse. In other words, it should show how clauses can be combined into coherent stretches of talk, conversation, or written text. At the same time, it is evident that this is a very high aim for a theory of grammar to strive for, and that we have only the bare outlines of what a theory of discourse should look like. (Dik 1997b: 409)

Unfortunately, as was clear from our discussion of Dik’s model, his account is far too programmatic to be capable of offering a framework within which questions of motivation for illocutionary or informational decisions might be posed and answered. Dik’s discourse model suffers from the disadvantage of being a late addition to the theory, grafted on to the sentence grammar, and largely modelled on it, in terms of layers of hierarchical structure, with the possibility of recursion. As such, it gives the impression of being an add-on, responding to the pressures of an accelerating trend towards discourse analysis. . Anstey (forthcoming) asks, rhetorically, whether there is anything in current FG which would answer Hymes’ (1971/1972: 272, page reference to 1972 version) criticism of the kind of linguistics which centres on the isolated individual rather than people operating in social contexts.

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FG, RRG and SFG: A final assessment and some pointers to the future 

In summary, I think it has been demonstrated in our discussion throughout this volume and Part 1 that Dik’s own work is seriously lacking in pragmatic and discoursal adequacy. Not only does he fail to fulfil the promise we can interpret from the statements giving his stronger view of pragmatic adequacy, he also fails to achieve the weaker degree of adequacy, because he makes no serious attempt to specify in enough detail, let alone to justify, the properties of a theory of verbal interaction with respect to which the degree of fit with FG could be assessed. What, then, of later work which has suggested expansions of, and alternatives to, Dik’s account? Certainly the recent work of scholars such as Bolkestein, Connolly, Hannay, Hengeveld, Kroon, Liedtke, Mackenzie, Moutaouakil, Nuyts, Risselada, van den Berg and Vet, which I have reviewed at various points, takes the theory in promising directions, representing an opening out of thinking beyond the narrow confines of the grammar, yet still with that grammar as an anchor. The recency of the work means that a number of avenues are still at early stages of exploration, and it may be some time before any consensus emerges, if indeed one emerges at all. The general tendency, as we have seen, is towards a modular approach which preserves, at least to some degree, Dik’s original distinction between the grammar itself and the theory of verbal interaction.4 We saw, especially in §1.2.2.4.4, that several of the scholars mentioned above have proposed accounts of speech acts involving a grammatical and a pragmatic module; in §2.2.2.2.1 we found that such a model also appears attractive for an adequate account of information distribution. So far, however, these proposals remain at too general a level to be testable. Particularly problematic and under-discussed is the crucial issue of the interface between the pragmatic and grammatical modules. Three sets of proposals seem to me to offer particular promise. Firstly, the work of Mackenzie & Keizer (1991) and of Hannay (e.g. 1991), as we saw in §2.2.2.2.1, offers the possibility of bridging the gap between a product-oriented and a process-oriented approach to discourse in the area of information distribution, and I suggested that Hannay’s ‘modes of message management’ might fruitfully be seen as part of the interface between pragmatic and grammatical modules mentioned above. Secondly, Mackenzie’s Incremental Functional Grammar, sketched briefly in §4.2.6.2 and in §3.7.2 of Part 1, stresses the role of holophrastic utterances, not only in language use itself, but also in terms of the derivability of ‘full’ utterances from these reduced forms, rather than the reverse. Although Mackenzie’s own account foregrounds the contribution of this model to psychological adequacy, to be discussed later, we can also see that it is attractive with respect to some issues related to pragmatic and discoursal adequacy. Holophrases, as Mackenzie observes, are often used, in preference to a fully specified clause, as responses in dialogue. Furthermore, Mackenzie’s model incorporates Hannay’s modes of message management. Thirdly, Nuyts’ Functional Procedural Grammar seems to me extremely promising in its breadth of coverage and in the very strong line it takes on what it means for an account . An important exception to this generalisation is, as we have seen, the work of Nuyts’, who rejects modularity in favour of a gradual transition between conceptual and linguistic structures.

 Structure and Function

of language to be pragmatically adequate. It is worth citing again the opinion quoted in §6.1.1 of Part 1: Thus FG does not intend to describe the pragmatic rules, it only wants to be compatible with them. But I believe that this criterion is rather a matter for description [. . . ]. A grammar that does not describe these characteristics of expressions is not a FG at all. (Nuyts 1983: 383)

This is a view with which I entirely agree: an approach to language which claims to account for “the rules, principles, and strategies which govern its natural communicative use” (see the earlier extended quotation from Dik 1997a: 6) simply cannot do without a detailed specification of the (discourse) pragmatics, whether regarded as a component or module, or more closely integrated with the grammar. However, Nuyts’ own model, like Mackenzie’s, remains at a very general level of specification in crucial areas, and Nuyts (1992: 256, 1995, 2001: 273) has explicitly defended this position in terms of the need for caution in formalising those dimensions of a model for which the current state of research offers scanty and at times even conflicting evidence. We have seen that certain areas of the grammar, in particular those concerned with modality, have been treated in considerable depth by Nuyts, within the overall framework of his FPG model; nevertheless, key issues such as the influence of social and discoursal context on the selection of grammatical resources remain to be explored in the detail which will be required if this approach is to offer a satisfying degree of pragmatic and discoursal adequacy. One particularly important facet of the various nascent FG models of discourse is the extent to which discourse patterning is seen as an upward extension of grammatical patterning. The extensive literature on discourse analysis (which I take here to include ‘conversational analysis’), largely ignored by Dik, suggests that there are important aspects of patterning at these higher levels which cannot be plausibly modelled by analogy with the clause or sentence levels. Even Dik’s tentative approval of Rhetorical Structure Theory turns a central tenet of that approach on its head: instead of accepting the RST concept of projection from the rhetorical categories of discourse on to the categories of clause complexing, Dik proposes the reverse, again centring the model on the grammar. Hengeveld’s (1997) initial model of discourse, though differing from Dik’s in detail, maintains the approach of upward extension from the grammar. Kroon (1997) is wise, then, to question the Dik/Hengeveld upward layering scheme, and to see an important qualitative difference between the highest unit of the clause hierarchy (the speech act, defined in terms of illocution as coded in the grammar and lexis of the clause) and the lowest unit of the discourse hierarchy (the discourse act, defined in terms of its communicative function, which is intimately connected with its position in a higher discourse unit). The models of Hannay (1998) and Steuten (1998), Hengeveld’s (forthcoming a, forthcoming b) recent proposals for a Functional Discourse Grammar, and Mackenzie’s (2000, forthcoming) Incremental Functional Grammar all, in their different ways, attempt to bridge the gap between the upward layering approach and the modular proposals of Kroon, which in turn are closely related to the ideas of Vet and others on the distinction

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FG, RRG and SFG: A final assessment and some pointers to the future 

between grammatical and pragmatic modules. These, and also Connolly’s (forthcoming) comprehensive discourse model, all need much more extensive development before they can be properly assessed. Above all, what we need is detailed analysis of a broad range of authentic texts in terms of each model: so far, there has been a tendency to make broad, sweeping proposals with minimal empirical back-up, and although there is clearly much potential in the extensive textual work of the Amsterdam classicists, it is obviously important for the development of a discourse model that it should at least include, if not be centred on, the analysis of spoken, preferably conversational, data from languages in use today.

... Psychological adequacy in FG Dik’s characterisation of psychological adequacy, discussed in §3.1.2 of Part 1, is set out again below: . . . such a grammar must also aim at psychological adequacy, in the sense that it must relate as closely as possible to psychological models of linguistic competence and linguistic behaviour. (Dik 1997a: 13)

As I observed in the initial discussion of the underlying basis of Dik’s theory, we have here the weak form of criterion, according to which the grammar must only be compatible with what is known of actual linguistic processing. A stronger claim would be that our approach to the grammar must be actively guided by processing considerations (as well as by those relevant to pragmatic and discoursal adequacy). In other words, we would need to start by asking the questions ‘What do we know about how we produce and understand language, and how can this help us to formulate a psychologically adequate theory?’, rather than merely trying to show that the proposed theory is not actually in conflict with processing principles. Certainly Dik occasionally invokes processing considerations in his explanations for linguistic principles: for instance, he remarks that although conformity to the Principle of Linear Ordering may be iconically motivated, “it may also be due to other factors, such as ease of production or comprehension” (Dik 1997a: 401). But there is almost no reference to relevant work in psychology or psycholinguistics, and as with pragmatic adequacy, there is evidence, much of it gathered together in Hesp’s (1990a, 1990b) and Nuyts’ (1990, 1992, 2001, forthcoming) criticisms of Dik’s model of the natural language user, and reviewed in §3.6 of Part 1, to suggest that Dik’s theory does not even fulfil the weak criterion he himself sets up. In particular, strong arguments have been advanced against the view that conceptual structures should be modelled in the same way as underlying clause structures. Furthermore, certain key features of Dik’s model of clause structure, such as the process of stepwise lexical decomposition, have been shown to be implausible from the point of view of the child’s acquisition of language. An additional criticism, which I again voiced in §3.1.2 of Part 1, is that Dik’s work pays virtually no attention to issues of non-discreteness of meaning which have exercised the minds of many more cognitively-oriented linguists. Once more, Nuyts’ own Functional Procedural Grammar seems to me to offer a potentially much higher degree of psychological adequacy, though even this approach is not

 Structure and Function

without its problems. We saw in §3.6 of Part 1 that Nuyts’ model does indeed take psychological adequacy very seriously, being “intended to provide a (rough) working hypothesis concerning the organization of the cognitive systems involved in a language user’s production of discourse” (Nuyts 1994: 159). This involves the specification of the various stages through which language production is assumed to pass on the way from an intention to communicate, right through to the final form of the utterance: the use of selected aspects of the Universe of Interpretation, in the process of ‘textualisation’, in order to formulate a situational network, a conceptual structure which includes details of the State of Affairs which the speaker wishes to communicate, organised into a turn structure with appropriate information distribution; the isolation of parts of the situational network which can be packaged into single utterances; the construction, from each packet of information, of a predication consisting of predicates, their arguments and satellites; and finally the expression of the predication in terms of morphosyntactic form and intonation patterns, and ultimately as actual sounds. Although Nuyts does provide detailed discussion of his proposals, with supporting references to relevant literature, his suggestions remain programmatic in a number of important respects. Firstly, he does not propose detailed suggestions for how concepts and their formation might be modelled, believing that such an attempt would be premature, given the state of current research on this issue. Secondly, for much the same reasons, although Nuyts does mention relevant work in a variety of areas including psycholinguistics, Artificial Intelligence and discourse analysis, he does not offer specific motivation, by means of reference to empirical work, for any of the particular components and sequential stages of his model. As we saw in §3.7.2 of Part 1, Mackenzie’s Incremental Functional Grammar also aims to bring FG closer to work in the modelling of production and comprehension and thereby to increase its claim to psychological adequacy. (Mackenzie 2000: 34)

The main feature of Incremental Functional Grammar which is claimed to contribute to this goal is the modelling of the utterance as “a temporal succession of units of human activity” (2000: 35), constituting subacts of reference, predication and discourse organisation within each discourse act. Mackenzie himself points to the links with Nuyts’ FPG and with Bakker’s proposal for an incremental, left-to-right model of the expression component of FG (Bakker 1999; Bakker & Siewierska, forthcoming). Yet again, however, in the work of both Mackenzie and Bakker, we find only brief reference to a few relevant pieces of work in psychology and psycholinguistics to back up the claims made. Mackenzie (2000: 36) refers to Gernsbacher’s (1990) work on the cognitive salience of initial position in the clause while discussing the function of the P1 position in utterances. Bakker (1999: 17) makes passing reference, in a footnote, to work on speech errors; though it should be said that in Bakker & Siewierska’s (forthcoming) discussion of their speaker model rather more reference is made to work on memory and processing. An explicitly cognitive approach to the lexicon and its relationship with the rest of the grammar is taken by Faber & Mairal Usón within the Functional Lexematic Model, as we found in §3.5 of Part 1. In Faber & Mairal Usón (1999) we see a rather more sophisticated awareness of the relevant literature on cognitive aspects of language and language use than

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is evident in other FG work. In a brief review of work in psychology and neurology concerned with the lexicon (1999: 15–18, 204–209), they cite studies on sentence processing, language disorders, lexical memory and categorisation, in order to support their proposals for a hierarchically-based model of the lexicon. What they term the ‘cognitive axis’ of their model is based on the premise that linguistic organisation necessarily reflects conceptual organisation, so that the study of linguistic structures affords a valuable window on the workings of the human mind, though they are careful to point out that “a true characterization of conceptualization is evidently not possible on the basis of only one type of behavior” (1999: 17), even though language provides the most extensive possibilities for such investigations. The apparatus of predicate schemas they propose owes much to the image schemas of Lakoff (1987) and Johnson (1987), which are intended to represent the structuring of bodily experience which underlies the formation of concepts. Faber & Mairal Usón do not, however, fully associate themselves with the theory of prototypes which is supposed by work on image schemas, pointing to Barsalou’s (1992: 29) observation that prototype theory places no constraints on the abstraction process, allowing an infinite number of properties to be extracted for any particular category. They are nevertheless in agreement with Miller’s (1998: 33) suggestion that typicality and hierarchy may coexist, and hypothesise that mental models of fuzzy meaning may be associated with basic level categories. However, despite claiming that the schema is “an abstract prototype” (1999: 211), they do not develop this dual line of thinking, even though they admit (p. 18) that “hierarchical organization is evidently not the whole story behind paradigmatic structure”. This, I think, is a pity, since the borderlines between the lexemes they discuss are certainly by no means clear cut. For instance, when does an act of guessing become one of predicting, or one of reflecting become one of meditating on something (1999: 287)? The definition of lexemes lower down a lexical hierarchy by adding qualifications to those higher up tends to make lexemes seem more clear-cut than they actually are. Finally, the latest version of the Functional Discourse Grammar model of Hengeveld (forthcoming b) builds in a conceptual component which triggers the operation of the grammatical component. FDG is, however, explicitly a model of linguistic pattern rather than process, although Hengeveld suggests a dynamic implementation of the model in which the levels of the grammar (interpersonal, representational and finally structural) operate together, though with a short lag between one level and the next. My conclusion is, then, that work in FG is now taking psychological adequacy much more seriously than before, but that there is still a very long way to go before the proposals made by Nuyts, Mackenzie, Bakker & Siewierska and Hengeveld can be considered to be supported by the solid empirical evidence which, in my view, is essential if these suggestions are to be seen as more than just interesting hypotheses. A particularly weak point in all the FG work, in my opinion, is the lack of attention it pays to prototypicality effects: as we have seen, even the proposals of Faber & Mairal Usón, which do more than most in taking account of the psychological literature, rather shy away from this area. Certainly prototype theory, like any other, has its problems, but this should not make us neglect the importance of fuzzy meaning for the way in which we use and manipulate language.

 Structure and Function

... Typological adequacy in FG I pointed out in §3.1.3 of Part 1 that Dik’s commitment to the typological adequacy of his theory shows none of the reserve which characterises his statements about pragmatic, discoursal and psychological adequacy. A very rough indication of this emphasis can be gained from the fact that the index of TFG1 lists 71 languages and language families, that of TFG2 74. What is more, the spread of language types is very wide indeed. As Siewierska observes: Typology is one of the strong points of FG. The goal of typological adequacy has been pursued persistently from the very beginnings of the theory. In fact all the developments within the grammar owe much to cross-language studies. (Siewierska 1991: 16)

In the chapter in TFG1 headed ‘Some basic concepts of linguistic theory’, in addition to a discussion of functional notions, we find material on linguistic universals, hierarchies and priorities, and markedness, all of which have a crucial part to play in work on language typology. Dik (1997a: 27–30) discusses unconditional and implicational universals of both absolute and statistical kinds, as distinguished in Greenberg’s work (Greenberg 1963). He also comments on the importance of hierarchies (such as, for instance, those relating to colour terms) in typological work: Hierarchies [. . . ] epitomize in compact form the typological organization of a certain subdomain of the language system. They are powerful tools for capturing the underlying crosslinguistic pattern, while at the same time providing a systematic specification of how languages may differ from each other in the relevant subdomain. (Dik 1997a: 31)

He observes (1997a: 31–34) that hierarchies permit us to predict properties of language systems: which should be possible and which impossible, within a particular subdomain; what the occurrence of one phenomenon predicts about that of other phenomena; possible and impossible systems of diachronic change; points at which native speakers are unsure of their linguistic judgments, and areas of likely dialectal change near cut-off points on hierarchies; correlations with frequency of occurrence of items across languages and within a language. A number of particular hierarchies are discussed at various points in TFG1: those relating to person, animacy, gender, definiteness; those of semantic, syntactic and pragmatic function; also combined hierarchies of person/animacy and person/definiteness. Dik (1997a: 39–40) also comments briefly on explanations for the existence of these hierarchies. Markedness (Dik 1997a: 41–47), in the sense of a difference in the extent to which a particular choice is expectable, is also seen as a useful concept in typological work, and shifts in markedness as an important element in the diachronic development of languages. Despite the wide range of languages, from a wide variety of types, referred to in Dik’s work, there is considerable unevenness in the distribution of references to data from specific languages among the various chapters of TFG1 and TFG2. Figure 6.1 (based on the diagram in Butler 1999: 252) shows this distribution for TFG1, and was constructed from the page references given for individual languages in the index. The figure shows that 59% of the references are in just two areas of the book: those dealing with Subject/Object

FG, RRG and SFG: A final assessment and some pointers to the future 

Chapter 6

Basic concepts 7% Expression 38%

Predication, SoAs 14% Terms and term operators 12%

Predication to clause, pragmatic function 8%

S/O assignment, SFH 21%

Figure 6.1. Distribution of references to all languages in TFG1

assignment and the Semantic Function Hierarchy (21%) and those concerned with the expression component (38%). If we look at the percentage of references to English, as compared with the total range of languages (Figure 6.2, based on Butler 1999: 253), it becomes clear that in the chapters dealing with basic concepts and with the nuclear predication and States of Affairs, almost half of the references are to English. Assuming that this reflects the current state of knowledge in FG (a fair assumption for this particular area), it suggests that more work may need to be done on States of Affairs in other languages, if this area of the theory is to achieve a high degree of typological adequacy. If we now turn to the distribution of references to particular languages in TFG2 (Figure 6.3, based on Butler 1999: 254), we see that 47% of the references are concentrated in just three areas (verbal restrictors, embedded constructions and illocution), and that the areas of anaphora, discourse, polarity, accessibility and extra-clausal constituents are par100% 90% 80% 70% 60% 50% 40% 30% 20% 10% 0%

% Non-English % English

S/O Basic Predication, Terms Predication Expression and term assignment, to clause, concepts SoAs SFH operators pragmatic function

Figure 6.2. Distribution of references to English and to other languages in TFG1

 Structure and Function

Extraclausal constituents 7%

Discourse 2%

Accessibility 5% Structure/expression discrepancies 8%

Predicate formation 11% Verbal restrictors 18%

Focus constructions 10% Illocution and interrogatives 14%

Embedded constructions 15% Polarity 4% Coordination 4%

Anaphora 2%

Figure 6.3. Distribution of references to all languages in TFG2

Discourse

Extraclausal constituents

Accessibility

Structure/expression discrepancies

Focus constructions

Illocution and interrogatives

Anaphora

Coordination

Polarity

Embedded constructions

Verbal restrictors

% Non-English % English

Predicate formation

100% 90% 80% 70% 60% 50% 40% 30% 20% 10% 0%

Figure 6.4. Distribution of references to English and other languages in TFG2

ticularly poorly exemplified by reference to linguistic data. The proportions of language references which are to English are shown in Figure 6.4, and show quite high proportions of references to English for the sections on coordination and focus constructions.5 Again, this might be taken to indicate a need for work on these areas across a broader range of languages. Work by FG linguists (see Rijkhoff et al. 1993; Rijkhoff & Bakker 1998) has elaborated methods by which representative samples of the world’s languages can be assembled for typological work, and guidelines given about minimum sample sizes. Such data has been used as a testing ground for FG proposals. Siewierska (1996a, 1996b, 1997a) has stud. Figure 6.4 is a corrected version of the diagram in Butler (1999: 255), where an unfortunate error in data processing led to erroneous figures which exaggerated the bias towards English.

FG, RRG and SFG: A final assessment and some pointers to the future 

Chapter 6

ied case and agreement marking, and also their relationship with word order typology, in a sample of 237 languages, and a volume of papers (Siewierska 1997b) is devoted to constituent order phenomena in 137 European languages.

.. Role and Reference Grammar In assessing the extent to which Role and Reference Grammar attains the goals it sets for itself, I shall start from the list of candidates given by Van Valin & LaPolla for what it is that a linguistic theory should explain: a. b. c. d. e. f.

how speakers use language in different social situations; why human languages have the structure that they do; what is common to all human languages; why human languages vary structurally the way they do; how human languages change over time; how speakers produce and understand language in real time;

g. h.

the nature of native speakers’ knowledge of their language; how children learn language. (Van Valin & LaPolla 1997: 3–4)

The authors go on to say (p. 15) that RRG is concerned with all of these except (a) and (e), so assigning a low priority (for now, at least) to the study of language in relation to social context and the diachronic study of language. Goal (b) is one which all functionalists share; goals (c) and (d) are clearly connected with typological adequacy and universals; (f) is essentially a criterion of psychological adequacy; (g) is also concerned with cognitive matters, and leaves open the possibility of various types of knowledge related to language; while (h) is concerned with learnability, or ‘acquisitional adequacy’. Note that there is nothing in the above list which quite corresponds to Dik’s criterion of pragmatic adequacy in terms of the theory fitting into a wider theory of verbal communication, and indeed although Van Valin & LaPolla do quote Dik’s definition of pragmatic adequacy, they do not explicitly associate themselves with it. Rather, for RRG, the issue here is the extent to which pragmatic, as well as semantic, factors can be used to explain syntactic behaviour. This, then, is where we shall begin.

... Explaining form in terms of function in RRG As with the discussion of FG, I shall consider psychological/cognitive and typological adequacy in separate sections, concentrating on form/meaning correlations here. RRG has, in my view, been very persuasive in its attempts to demonstrate how semantic and pragmatic function can be seen as a partial motivation for linguistic form, while not explaining it away completely. At numerous points in Van Valin & LaPolla’s (1997) account of RRG, as also in various articles by Van Valin and others, syntactic behaviour is shown to be predicted by the underlying semantics and discourse pragmatics. Notable examples, from among many which could have been chosen, include reflection of operator scope in the ordering of elements in the clause, the selection of Privileged Syntactic Argument status in relation to a reinterpretation of the Actor-Undergoer Hierarchy (see §4.12 of Part 1), the

 Structure and Function

interaction of discourse pragmatics and syntax in the area of focus structure (see §2.3), and the Interclausal Relations Hierarchy which predicts testable relationships between the degree of semantic linkage between two clauses and their degree of syntactic integration (see §3.3.5). The success of this programme of explanation is surely due, at least in part, to the clear recognition of semantic, syntactic and lexical components of the overall RRG model of language.

... Psychological/cognitive adequacy in RRG Van Valin & LaPolla (1997: 14) accept Dik’s criterion of psychological adequacy as a goal for RRG. They list three sets of questions which, they believe, are fundamental not only in the cognitive sciences, but also in most current linguistic research: Processing: What cognitive processes are involved when human beings produce and understand language on line in real time? How specialized to language are these processes? Knowledge: What constitutes knowledge of language? How is it organized? How is it represented? How is it employed in language processing? How does knowledge of language relate to knowledge in other cognitive domains? Acquisition: How do human beings come to have knowledge of language? What is the nature of the acquisition process? Is coming to know language similar to or different from acquiring knowledge in other cognitive domains? Does it involve knowledge from other cognitive domains? (Van Valin & LaPolla 1997: 4)

Although the authors do not explicitly say that these are goals for RRG, they certainly give the reader the impression that this is so. Yet there are very few references to language processing in Van Valin & LaPolla’s detailed account of RRG, or indeed elsewhere in the RRG literature. As we saw in §4.13.1 of Part 1, the different demands of production and comprehension are cited as evidence for the need for separate linking algorithms going from semantics to syntax and vice versa; reference is also made, though only in the ‘further reading’ section of a chapter, to work by Kemmerer (1996) which implements the linking algorithms in a neurolinguistic model of language processing. This, though, is the extent of the discussion. Issues related to knowledge of language fare little better: the only discussion is part of a brief review of Chomsky’s position on language acquisition. On the other hand, RRG achieves a much higher degree of sophistication and success in the area of language acquisition. We saw in §5.2.2 that there has been a considerable amount of work on child language, and that these studies have shown persuasively how the theoretical apparatus of RRG can explain a range of facts about the acquisition of morphosyntax in a number of languages of different types. Furthermore, phenomena such as extraction constraints, widely believed to support the Chomskyan argument for innateness from the poverty of the stimulus, are shown to be learnable from the input to the child, plus more general cognitive properties.

Chapter 6

FG, RRG and SFG: A final assessment and some pointers to the future 

... Typological adequacy in RRG As will be clear from our discussion throughout this volume and Part 1, a very high degree of typological adequacy is achieved in RRG. As with FG, typological considerations were built into the theory from its very inception: recall Van Valin’s comment that RRG arose out of an attempt to answer the question . . . what would linguistic theory look like if it were based on the analysis of Lakhota, Tagalog and Dyirbal, rather than on the analysis of English? (Van Valin 1995: 461)

At all stages in Van Valin & LaPolla (1997), and in other works by RRG scholars, this orientation is very much in evidence, and is arguably the basis for some of the most striking differences between RRG and other theories. For instance, the RRG treatment of grammatical relations, which involves the rejection of the category of Subject and the adoption of a more general category of Privileged Syntactic Argument (see §4.12 of Part 1), arose from detailed observation of a wide variety of languages, and languages which turn out to be crucial for this part of the theory, such as Acehnese, are among the least familiar and widely-studied. Similarly, the theory of complex sentences in RRG, involving the intersection of three types of juncture (clausal, core and nuclear) with three types of nexus (coordination, cosubordination and subordination), arises from the analysis of data from an impressive range of languages of differing types. There is, I hope, no need for further exemplification here: the work of the RRG linguists stands as one of the best demonstrations of the need for linguists to free themselves from Indo-European preconceptions if they are to formulate linguistic theories which are capable of addressing both the similarities and the differences across languages, so contributing to what most linguists would regard as the major overarching goal of linguistics, the characterisation of what constitutes a human language.

.. Systemic Functional Grammar Assessment of the extent to which SFG achieves its goals is made somewhat difficult by the fact that although there is plenty of discussion of the general orientation of the theory, the specific goals must be often inferred from the practice. For instance, in the (admittedly very condensed) summary of systemic theory given in Halliday (1994b), we find statements on the origins and development of the theory, the basic concepts with which it works, the orientation towards language as social process, the prominence given to text, influences from other theories, and possible future trends – but no explicit discussion of exactly what goals the theory is attempting to achieve. We can, however, find some brief statements of aims, which were introduced in the sections of Part 1 dealing with the underlying basis of SFG, so let us start by reminding ourselves of these. The clearest statements of goals are concerned with two interrelated issues. Firstly, as we saw in §5.1.5 of Part 1, Halliday has always set himself the goal of producing a grammar which is useful as a tool for those engaged in a range of applications of linguistics. He observes (1994a: xxx) that SFG has been applied in text analysis, stylistics, computational linguistics, developmental linguistics, the study of socialisation and educational applica-

 Structure and Function

tions, as well as the analysis of functional variation and the relationship between language and the contexts of situation and culture – areas which were reviewed in Chapter 5. Applicability is seen as particularly important because Halliday and his close colleagues take the ideological line that linguistics should be a form of social action, capable of facilitating intervention in social processes such as education. Closely connected with the goal of applicability is that of producing a grammar which can be used to describe texts. In his introduction to An Introduction to Functional Grammar, he says: The aim has been to construct a grammar for purposes of text analysis: one that would make it possible to say sensible and useful things about any text, spoken or written, in modern English. (Halliday 1994a: xv)

In his 1994 survey of SFG, he states: . . . systemic theory gives prominence to discourse, or ‘text’; not – or not only – as evidence for the system, but valued, rather, as constitutive of the culture. (Halliday 1994b: 4506)

The emphasis on text, and the practice which arises from it, also makes it reasonable to assume that an important goal of the theory is to account for the structure of texts, not only at the clause or sentence level, but also in terms of phenomena which transcend these limits. It is also clear that another major goal is to show how texts are related to their contexts of production and reception, and beyond this to the culture, as implied by the quotation given immediately above. Finally, it is clear that, like other structural-functional approaches, SFG aims to demonstrate the relationships between form and function in language. For consistency with the discussion of other theories, this is where I shall begin.

... Explaining form in terms of function in SFG Let us start by reminding ourselves of Halliday’s statements on the relationship between form and function, as given in §2.5.2 of Part 1: The particular form taken by the grammatical system of language is closely related to the social and personal needs that language is required to serve. (Halliday 1970: 142) Language has evolved to satisfy human needs; and the way it is organized is functional with respect to these needs – it is not arbitrary. A functional grammar is essentially a ‘natural’ grammar, in the sense that everything in it can be explained, ultimately, by reference to how language is used. (Halliday 1994a: xiii) . . . both the general kinds of grammatical pattern that have evolved in language, and the specific manifestations of each kind, bear a natural relation to the meanings they have evolved to express. (Halliday 1994a: xviii)

The second of these quotations shows us that Halliday in fact takes a very strong line on functional explanation: everything in the grammar is to be related, ultimately, to the communicative functioning of language.

Chapter 6

FG, RRG and SFG: A final assessment and some pointers to the future 

What, then, are the functions of language which motivate the grammar so completely? We have seen that Halliday’s theory prioritises the social and cultural factors involved, taking this orientation from its antecedents in the work of Firth and Malinowski, at the expense of psychological aspects: indeed, recent work in SFG takes a very Whorfian position on the relationship between language and cognition, interpreting the latter in terms of the former (see §5.1.6 of Part 1).6 Crucial to this view of language is the concept of ‘language as social semiotic’(see §5.1.1 of Part 1): A social reality (or a ‘culture’) is itself an edifice of meanings – a semiotic construct. In this perspective, language is one of the semiotic systems that constitute a culture; one that is distinctive in that it also serves as an encoding system for many (though not all) of the others. (Halliday 1978a: 2)

As I remarked in §5.1.2 of Part 1, we could thus see the ultimate goal of SFG as being to construct a theory of meaning as a semiotic construct, though with the proviso that since form and meaning are two sides of the same coin, this stance also implies an account of the forms which realise the meanings. In a sense, then, the whole of Halliday’s output, and that of like-minded systemicists, could be seen as a contribution to the achievement of this major goal. It seems to me, however, that this enterprise is seriously compromised by a problem which I have already mentioned in relation to FG – though its severity is, I think, greater in SFG: the lack, in Halliday’s work, of a truly formal level of representation. We saw in §5.6 of Part 1 that Halliday’s level of ‘lexicogrammar’ is not purely syntactic, but heavily semanticised, in accordance with the view that: . . . there is no clear line between semantics and grammar, and a functional grammar is one that is pushed in the direction of the semantics. (Halliday 1994a: xix)

As outlined in §6.2.1.2 of Part 1, the semanticisation of the grammar has given rise to both criticism and defence: Huddleston, for example, believes that it leads to unwarranted complications in the grammar, while Martin and Matthiessen contend that it facilitates a richer interpretation of the semantics, and that this in turn gives a more effective interface with the level of context. Crucial to the argument, I believe, is the observation of McGregor (1997: x) that Halliday’s grammar simply does not take account of many of the complex syntactic phenomena which are the bread and butter of many other theories, such as raising, control, agreement and island constraints, and that although some such problems have had to be faced in computer implementations, the solutions proposed have not led to fundamental reassessments. Basically, the grammar prioritises those areas which can most plausibly be shown to be motivated by the underlying factors with which Halliday’s work is concerned, leaving aside phenomena which some approaches would deem to be ‘purely formal’, but which other functional theories such as FG, and particularly RRG, with their rather different angles on explanation, have been able to account for in functional terms. Semanticising the lexicogrammar itself obviously makes it easier to motivate in terms of . Fawcett (1993a: 628) reports that Halliday has said “I stop at the skin”.

 Structure and Function

semantic function: the real challenge is to explain syntactic behaviour which, at first sight, appears to have no functional motivation. A central but problematic area of Halliday’s attempts to motivate form in terms of function is his claim that the lexicogrammar is itself organised in terms of the three major metafunctions, ideational (split into experiential and logical), interpersonal and textual. We saw in §6.4 of Part 1 that the evidence for this proposal, from the organisation of system networks themselves, and from putative correlations with modes of expression and with ‘higher’ categories of contextual description, is fraught with difficulties, and that the Cardiff version of SFG, operating with more explicitly articulated criteria, recognises no fewer than eight different strands in the semantic networks which parallel the lexicogrammatical networks of the Sydney grammar. The concept of functionally different layers of structure is a valuable one, and one which, as we have seen, has been adopted in FG. There is, however, a crucial difference between Halliday’s model of layering and that of FG: in SFG the metafunctional strands of functional structure in the clause operate in parallel, whereas in FG the representational and interpersonal levels of structure are in a scopal relationship. Halliday’s model provides no explanation, in terms of the functional layers themselves, for the scoping phenomena investigated in FG and RRG. Also problematic in the recent work of the Sydney group is the relationship between the already semanticised lexicogrammar and the upper level of semantics now proposed in accounts such as Matthiessen (1995a), Halliday (1996) and Halliday & Matthiessen (1999). For instance, in §8.3.1.1 of Part 1 I raised the issue of the relationship between the configurations of process, participants and circumstances which are said to form ‘figures’ at the semantic level, and the identically named elements of transitivity structure at the lexicogrammatical level. On a more general note, it is worth mentioning a point made by Hudson (1986: 799) in his review of the first edition of An Introduction to Functional Grammar, namely that the achievement of Halliday’s aim, to explain in functional terms why English is as it is, is made very difficult by the use of categories which are lacking in precision of definition, a point which has come up at frequent intervals in our discussions. As more and more strata are proposed in the overall theory, including not only the levels of phonology/graphology, lexicogrammar and semantics, but also register, genre and ideology, the need for transparent and well-explained terminology becomes even more important than it was at the time of Hudson’s review, especially in view of the fact that systemic linguistics is “an extravagant theory, not a parsimonious one” (Halliday 1994a: xix). Yet in recent systemic work we find a plethora of terms, often obscure to the non-systemicist, and frequently not sufficiently explained. As the kind of analysis undertaken by many systemicists would itself be able to point out, this has the effect of aiding solidarity among linguists who work in this framework, and mastery of the terminology can be seen as one aspect of the induction of scholars into the theory; on the other hand, it acts as a barrier to outsiders, some of whom, I am sure, are put off by what sometimes seems to go considerably beyond the need to coin or adopt new terms for new concepts, a need which is common to all scientific endeavour. We saw in §5.7 of Part 1 that the Cardiff grammar of Fawcett and his colleagues differs crucially from the Sydney grammar in treating the networks of transitivity, mood, theme,

Chapter 6

FG, RRG and SFG: A final assessment and some pointers to the future 

etc. as semantic, and recognising a separate syntactic level, which has recently been described in detail in Fawcett (2000). Furthermore, the Cardiff grammarians have begun to tackle certain syntactic phenomena, such as raising, which have been important areas of debate in non-functional theories. This model of the relationship between syntactic and semantic phenomena offers the potential for a much clearer programme of explanation of how semantics motivates syntax. Unfortunately, although in my view the Cardiff model represents a substantial improvement on the Sydney account, this opportunity for functional explanation still goes largely unexploited. Fawcett, in his introduction to the Cardiff model of syntax for a systemic grammar, emphasises the importance of computational implementation, and also of textual analysis, in testing the adequacy of the grammar: . . . when a theory of language has demonstrated its value through its use in both the large-scale analysis of texts and in a large-scale, principled computer implementation for NLG [Natural Language Generation – CSB] and NLU [Natural Language Understanding – CSB], it has met three of the most demanding of all possible tests of a theory. (Fawcett 2000: 5)

As we saw in §5.3.1, computational implementation is indeed extremely valuable in checking one aspect of the adequacy of a grammar, namely whether the rules encoded in the computer program are actually capable of generating the required grammatical output, or parsing input without misunderstanding. As such, generation and parsing projects have an important role in providing feedback for the developer of the syntax and its associated semantics, discourse component, planning procedures, and so on. In themselves, however, such implementations do nothing to help us explain why the syntax of English is as it is, let alone why human language is as it is.

... SFG and textual analysis There can be no doubt that SFG has lived up to its claim to be a text-oriented theory of language, in three senses: firstly, it has achieved a much wider coverage of English grammar than other approaches, this being especially true for the Cardiff grammar: secondly, it has articulated subtheories of textual macrostructure and of the relationships between text and context; thirdly, there has been a great deal of work on the analysis of texts of various types using systemic frameworks, both at the lexicogrammatical and at the macrostructural levels. The first of these points needs no further discussion here, as it has been exemplified in detail throughout the present work. I do, however, want to say a little more about the second and third points. It is greatly to the credit of systemicists that they have developed detailed accounts of text structure and its relationship with context: as will be apparent from the discussion in Chapter 4, SFG is far in advance of FG in this area, and RRG so far has nothing to offer beyond an essentially grammatical account of phenomena with cohesive importance, such as anaphora and switch reference. Halliday & Hasan’s (1976) Cohesion in English (see §4.4.2, §4.4.3), while susceptible to criticism on a number of fronts, was seminal and led to later refinements as well as applications in textual studies. Martin’s expansion and reworking of Halliday’s concept of register, and of the parameters of field, tenor and mode

 Structure and Function

(§4.4.4.2), has given us much more detailed contextual categories to work with in the description of text/context relations. The accounts of generic structure by Martin and by Hasan (§4.4.4.3), though representing two different and in some ways incompatible views, have taken us much further in the understanding of textual macrostructure, and it is to be hoped that large scale empirical work will be done in order to clarify and help to resolve some of the differences between the two approaches. Work on the ideological implications of systemic choice in texts has contributed to the goal of using linguistics as a form of social action, especially successful in the area of educational applications. It is important to recognise, however, that descriptions derived on the basis of theoretical frameworks can only be as good as the theories on which they are based. This is essentially the point made by Hudson in his review of the first edition of Halliday’s An Introduction to Functional Grammar, in relation to the goal of providing a grammatical framework for text analysis: Is there any point in applying a classification system unless one is reasonably confident that it is in some sense ‘right’? (Hudson 1986: 801)

Clearly there is an assumption here which Halliday himself would resist, namely that it is helpful, or even valid, to talk about ‘right’ and ‘wrong’ analyses: although some analyses are self-evidently ‘wrong’ if they are descriptively inadequate, Halliday has always been a firm believer in the ‘horses for courses’ view of linguistic theory and description. Hudson surely has a point, though: for comparison of textual analyses to be legitimate, we need to know not only that the categories on which the descriptions are based are identical (and this, as we have seen, is problematic in a theory in which definitions are often imprecise and recognition criteria frequently not made sufficiently explicit), but also that the theoretical considerations on which they are based can be shown to hold water. The same kinds of criticism could be levelled at Halliday’s characterisation of register in terms of the values of field, tenor and mode: as we saw in §4.4.4.1, there are quite serious problems of definition in this area. Fortunately, Martin’s (1992a) reinterpretation and expansion of these parameters offers a rather clearer picture, though an ambitious and well-structured programme of textual analysis on the basis of his model will be required if it is to be tested adequately. A criticism of a rather different kind has been made by Widdowson (1997), who argues that although Halliday’s grammars are highly revealing about the deployment of meaning resources in texts, and so are useful ‘text-based grammars’, this is not the same thing as being a ‘grammar of text’. In particular, Widdowson objects to Halliday’s claim that analysis of a text in terms of the grammar allows us to show “how, and why, the text means what it does” (Halliday 1994a: xv). His main point is the following: In normal circumstances of use, you do not read possible meanings off from a text; you read plausible meanings into a text, prompted by the purpose and conditioned by the context: in other words (my words) you derive a discourse from it and it is that which realizes the text as text. (Widdowson 1997: 151, emphasis in original)

Chapter 6

FG, RRG and SFG: A final assessment and some pointers to the future 

Here, Widdowson is using the term ‘discourse’ in the way defined in §4.1: “[d]iscourse [. . . ] is the process of conceptual formulation whereby we draw on our linguistic resources to make sense of reality”, and “text is the linguistic product of a discourse process” (Seidlhofer & Widdowson 1999: 206). A grammar, then, cannot be at one and the same time a grammar of the system and a grammar of the text, as Halliday claims. The ‘meaning’, or significance, of a text is a pragmatic matter: for instance, interpreting a text involves selective attention to those aspects which seem to be particularly relevant contextually. Widdowson’s conclusion, then, is that . . . contrary to the claims often made for it, systemic-functional grammar as a grammar, cannot account for language use, and should not be expected to. (Widdowson 1997: 166)

It would be interesting to know how Widdowson reacts to more recent work in systemic linguistics than that represented by Halliday’s An Introduction to Functional Grammar. Certainly much of the work on genre, register and ideology summarised in §4.4, and particularly the emphasis placed by some systemicists on dynamic approaches to discourse, is relevant to what Widdowson regards as the pragmatic aspects of the relationship between a text and the discourse we create for ourselves when we interact with the text. De Beaugrande (1998: 92), indeed, in a somewhat scathing riposte to Widdowson, points out that no distinction between semantic and pragmatic phenomena is drawn in SFG, and contends that “[b]oth ‘understanding’ and ‘context’ are omnipresent in every order of ‘linguistic analysis’” (p. 91, emphasis in original), so that such analysis is never subject to the factors claimed by Widdowson to vitiate the use of a grammatical description to understand the meaning of a text.

... The applicability of SFG As shown in §5.3, systemic linguistics has proved to be highly applicable in areas as diverse as computational linguistics, stylistics, educational linguistics, translation and clinical linguistics, and in this sense, could be said to have achieved in good measure one of its main goals. Nevertheless, there are again some important issues here. Firstly, the goal of applicability is closely connected to that of providing a theory on which descriptions of the linguistic properties of texts can be based. This is particularly clear in areas such as stylistics or the teaching of writing, but it is also relevant to the computer-based generation or parsing of textual materials and even to the assessment and remediation of language disorder, which includes dysfunction of text-forming and text-understanding abilities. The validity of applications is thus highly dependent on that of Systemic Functional linguistics as a theory of textual properties, and we saw in the previous section that there are some important problems in this area. Secondly, doubts can be cast on the goal of applicability itself, as a criterion of the success of a linguistic theory. There is good reason to be suspicious of Halliday’s contention that The test of a theory of language, in relation to any particular purpose, is: does it go? Does it facilitate the task in hand? (Halliday 1994a: xxx)

 Structure and Function

Clearly, a theory which doesn’t ‘go’, for some particular application, is at best inappropriate, at worst useless. But are we really to take seriously a claim that if a theory and the descriptions derived from it are usable, then this means the theory has been vindicated? It is surely quite possible for (aspects of) a theory to be useful, and yet capable of being shown to be incorrect, incomplete or otherwise unsatisfactory. The traditional definition of a noun as ‘the name of a person, place or thing’ would no doubt allow analyses of nominality in texts which would cast some light on those texts, but few linguists would be content, in terms of linguistic theory, to limit themselves to such a definition. Unfortunately, though understandably, many end-users of SFG have neither the expertise nor the interest to be able or willing to scrutinise the theoretical solidity of the approach they adopt because it ‘works’ for what they want to do. I share McGregor’s concerns when, discussing what he perceives as the insularity of SFG, he writes: . . . I find it worrying that links have been made more with applied linguistics and educational theory than with linguistic theory – not because I regard these disciplines as inferior to theoretical linguistics, but rather because it seems to constitute a means of escaping the need to repair the foundations. Given their goals, applied linguists and education theorists are going to be more interested in how the theory can help them, than in the details of its infrastructure. (McGregor 1997: xi)

Moreover, not all applied linguists are entirely happy to accept Halliday’s criterion of usefulness as a measure of the validity of the systemic approach. Widdowson, in the same article cited earlier in relation to the impossibility of using grammatical description to discover the meaning of a text, says: . . . you can make use of grammatical description, and therefore make it useful, but use and usefulness cannot be intrinsic design features of the description, and cannot be adduced as measures of its validity. (Widdowson 1997: 145)

Theoretical linguistics, he suggests (p. 166), must be “at a remove from reality” if it is to remain theoretical: its job is to propose abstract systems which underlie reality, even if it is motivated by external factors such as the predilections or ideological positions of its practitioners. Ultimately, he believes, “[w]hether a linguistic theory is useful or not is not for linguists to decide” (p. 166), but rather lies in the province of applied linguistics, a practical, interventional activity which he distinguishes sharply from ‘linguistics applied’: indeed, if the linguist does design a theory with particular applications in mind, the theory will be less likely to have general validity. De Beaugrande (1998: 88–89) considers this position ‘perverse’, and indeed considers Systemic Functional linguistics to refute it, through Halliday’s demonstration of how bearing particular applications in mind “guides, supports, and justifies the development of the theory”.7 . Indeed, de Beaugrande (1998: 88) claims that in Halliday’s An Introduction to Functional Grammar, “no claims were lodged for ‘validity’ anyway”. Since the technique used in this critique is to use large amounts of direct quotation linked by interpretive and critical comments, it could be the case that de Beaugrande is saying that Halliday does not use the term ‘validity’: true, but if we combine the statements that “[a] theory

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The point which underlies Widdowson’s position is, I believe, a crucial one, though I would want to phrase it somewhat differently and amplify its application: in fact, it takes me to the subject matter of the next section, which will end by suggesting a way of increasing the likelihood that a linguistic theory will be applicable, without building application to particular purposes into the design.

.

The limitations of individual theories I have so far tried to limit myself to comments, those of others as well as my own, about FG, RRG and SFG in relation to the criteria of adequacy which practitioners working within these theories themselves set up for their grammars. Some would say that this is where things should stop: surely, they would say, we cannot legitimately criticise a theory for not doing something it was not set up to do? It is, of course, quite right that we should first try to assess a theory on its own criteria and this, as I say, is what I have so far attempted to do. In my view, however, we need to go beyond this, to look back at the basic goals of the functionalist enterprise in general and see how they can best be fulfilled. I am not, of course, suggesting that linguists should be forced, in some kind of academic gulag, to work within theoretical approaches they find unsatisfying, unconvincing or even distasteful: individuals and research groups clearly have every right to work on whatever strikes them as interesting. What I am saying is that I believe there is something that we can recognise as ‘the functionalist enterprise in general’, and that if we are to make progress with this enterprise, we need a more global vision of our task than is evidenced by any of the three theories with which the present work has been concerned, or indeed by any other functionalist approach. Some of the most interesting of man’s artistic artefacts – whether novels or symphonies – are cyclic: a return to the initial ideas, now seen through the lens of the reader or listener’s experience of the work, often reveals new insights. Let us, then, go back to the ideas I presented in the initial chapters of Part 1, regarding the characteristics of functional approaches to language. In the list of such characteristics given at the beginning of Chapter 2, the first was “an emphasis on language as a means of human communication in social and psychological contexts”: it is surely not going too far to suggest that all functionalists, of whatever persuasion, would agree that language is both a social and an individual phenomenon, and that both sociocultural and biological (physiological and psychological/cognitive) factors are involved in explaining why languages are as they are, and how they came to be that way. Proponents of specific theories have particular angles on this: for instance, Halliday ‘stops at the skin’, concentrating on sociocultural factors, while Van Valin prefers to leave the influence of social context out of account, at least in the present state of development of his theory; neither, though, denies the importance

is a means of action” (Halliday 1994a: xxix) and that “[t]he test of a theory of language, in relation to any particular purpose, is: does it go?” (1994a: xxx), then we surely have something that is very close to a claim about validity.

 Structure and Function

of those aspects of functional motivation with which his theory is not greatly concerned. Furthermore, different angles on language bring with them different ways of thinking and working: I have emphasised, at various points in this book and Part 1, the need to take the underlying aims of a theory into account when evaluating the methodologies of that theory and the insights gained through it. The important point here is that while the situation I have just outlined is perfectly understandable – and indeed completely justified from the point of view of the individuals and groups involved in pushing forward these approaches – it is also inherently dangerous. And here is where we return to Widdowson’s point, made in the context of applicability, but equally valid within the wider context in which we are now operating. Widdowson (1997), it will be remembered, claims that if a linguistic theory is designed from the beginning with particular applications in mind, this will influence the shape of the theory, so making it, in fact, less applicable across the whole range of ‘things one might want to do with it’, to use a Hallidayan turn of phrase. This is precisely the point I am making about the functionalist enterprise. If we select, from among the different types of functional motivation, just those which we are most interested in, or which we, for whatever reasons, personally consider the most important, then we run the very real danger of distortion: by prioritising certain areas we may end up with a proposal which flies in the face of evidence from other types of motivation. In other words, what I think we need to do is to formulate a much more ambitious model of what language is like and how people use it, which takes into account not just some, but all of the various types of phenomenon which have been discussed under the heading of functional motivation.8 Such a model will clearly need to go well beyond the traditional concerns of the grammarian, to embrace not only texts and their contexts of production and reception, but also the cognitive structures and processes through which we come to produce and understand language. Note that if we succeed in the attempt to formulate a more comprehensive approach, the chances are that what grows from our endeavours will give rise to descriptions which are applicable to a range of purposes such as those listed by Halliday in An Introduction to Functional Grammar: if our theory truly models what languages are and how we use them, then it should be able to provide insightful descriptions of any linguistic product and process we care to examine, because of, rather than despite, the fact that particular types of applicability have not been built into the design. As I put it in an earlier publication: . . . many (probably most) functionally-inclined linguists, myself included, would want to claim that there is one ‘purpose’ which must constitute the principal aim of any theoretical endeavour in functional linguistics, namely to understand the nature of language(s) as a means of communication between human beings, constrained by . Halliday (1997: 19) has pointed out that because the linguistic system is at the same time physical, biological, social and semiotic, it can be viewed from many standpoints, and he states “it seemed to me all the more important, therefore, that a theory of language was itself comprehensive, in the specific sense of accommodating these different modes of being. Otherwise, the parts of the picture are unlikely to fit together”. As we have seen, however, the psychological part of the physical/biological side of language is not prominent in systemic theorising.

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and responsive to the social, cognitive and other factors operative in language use. As Halliday himself has said, we are “trying to characterize human interaction” (Halliday 1978a: 51). If we are anything like successful in this enterprise, our grammars should indeed be applicable to particular types of study (of literature, or whatever) in which language plays a crucial role, since we must, as I have argued, build in models of the various situational and cognitive constraints and their relationships to the linguistic system. But applicability cannot, in and of itself, be validly treated as a criterion of adequacy: it is perfectly possible for aspects of a grammar to be useful, even where they rest on dubious theoretical foundations. (Butler 1991: 65)

In the final section of this chapter, I shall attempt to sketch the criteria which a more comprehensive approach would need to aim at.

.

Criteria for a more comprehensive model

.. Descriptive adequacy: The nature of the data The issue of descriptive adequacy has been rather neglected in the functionalist literature. We have seen that Dik proposes that any functional grammar should meet the standard of descriptive adequacy proposed in Chomskyan accounts of language: in other words, such a grammar must be able to “give a complete and adequate account of the grammatical organization of connected discourse in that language” (Dik 1997a: 12). Van Valin & LaPolla (1997: 8) mention descriptive adequacy in giving a brief summary of Chomsky’s position, but do not elaborate on this in the context of their own proposals, except to say that a number of functional approaches, including RRG, “would agree on explanation as the highest goal, with description as a secondary but important goal” (Van Valin & LaPolla 1997: 15).9 In what follows, I want to examine the concept of descriptive adequacy in a little more detail. The important question, it seems to me, is exactly what a functionalist theory should aim to describe – in other words, the nature of the data to be taken into account. The underlying rationale of what I have called the functionalist enterprise, as I see it, is to understand how the forms of human linguistic communication are related to the functions they serve in the exchange of meanings under conditions defined by the social and cognitive contexts of use, and by the structure of the ongoing interaction itself. If we accept this basic aim, then it surely follows that in selecting the data on which our descriptions are based we should give priority, whenever possible, to language as actually produced in authentic, naturally occurring communicative situations, though this is by no means to say that other forms of data should be ruled out. At the risk of tedious repetition, let us again remind ourselves of Dik’s claim: . Robert Van Valin (personal communication) has remarked that in fact “RRG is committed to balancing the demands of theory and description, so that it can be both a strong theory of UG [Universal Grammar – CSB] but also be flexible enough to capture what Sapir called the ‘structural genius’ of each language”.

 Structure and Function

The system underlying the construction of linguistic expressions is a functional system. From the very start, it must be studied within the framework of the rules, principles, and strategies which govern its natural communicative use. (Dik 1997a: 6)

It is difficult to see how we can possibly achieve success in elucidating the principles and strategies which govern the natural communicative use of language if we do not base our work at least predominantly on samples of that natural communicative use. Fortunately, very large amounts of authentic linguistic productions are now available in the form of computerised corpora which can be searched and manipulated by readily available software tools. The use of corpora, though increasingly widespread, has not been without its detractors, primarily though by no means exclusively among formalist linguists. A detailed analysis of the objections which have been raised to corpus work, and of the responses made to these objections, would take us well beyond the scope of the present discussion, so I shall make only a few rather general remarks here. One point which is frequently raised is that even large corpora are finite in size and will not contain instances of all the constructions and lexical items of a language; furthermore, the type of linguistic creativity with which Chomskyan linguists are particularly concerned is not one which could even theoretically be modelled only in terms of the phenomena found in a corpus. The other side of the coin, as McEnery & Wilson (1996: 12) have pointed out, is that the lack of certain sentences or constructions in a corpus is itself an interesting fact which demands an explanation. As is painfully brought home to the learner of a foreign language, native speakers normally select, from the various grammatically impeccable ways of saying something, particular options which have developed as idiomatic in that language. A second criticism often levelled at the analysis of authentic data is that such material necessarily contains all kinds of ‘performance errors’, such as hesitations, changes of structure and examples of what native speakers themselves would regard as ‘mistakes’ if asked to reflect on what they had said. But no corpus linguist feels it is his or her job to account for everything in the data, warts and all; rather, the line taken is that all systematic patterning should be accounted for, and that there is a great deal more of such patterning, often very complex and subtle in nature, than is recognised in approaches which do not base themselves on authentic data. Furthermore, it has been shown, for instance by Labov (1969), that the overwhelming majority of sentences in actual performance are in fact grammatical. A further relevant point is that ‘performance errors’ such as data from slips of the tongue actually provide useful data for those linguists who want to make their grammars sensitive to the mechanisms underlying the online production of utterances. The corpus linguist’s prioritisation of authentic, ‘performance’ data contrasts strongly with the practice on which most linguistic theorising has been carried out, namely that of introspective data gathering, often though not always by linguists themselves. Undeniably, both methodologies have their strengths and weaknesses. McEnery & Wilson observe: The great advantage of the rationalist approach is that by the use of introspection we can gather the data we want, when we want, and also gather data which relates directly

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to the system under study, the mind. Chomsky had rightly stated that a theory based on the observation of natural data could not make as strong a claim on either of these points. (McEnery & Wilson 1996: 11–12)

Furthermore, as Fillmore (1992: 38) observes, the very ability to judge that certain phenomena are absent from a corpus is based on the intuitive knowledge of the speaker. On the other hand, as McEnery & Wilson go on to point out, the use of a corpus has the advantage that the observations made are observable and verifiable, unlike those resulting from the use of introspection to retrieve the intuitions of the native speaker. As Fillmore puts it: The most convincing part of the case for using a corpus was that it makes it possible for linguists to get the facts right. (Fillmore 1992: 38)

Leech (1992: 113) likewise argues that a corpus methodology has the advantage that the results are open to public verification and replication. There is abundant evidence from the literature that intuitions and corpus studies often present very different pictures of ‘linguistic reality’. For instance, it has frequently been found that while introspection tends to retrieve the most concrete sense(s) of a given word, corpora reveal that in many cases abstract, often metaphorical, usages are far more common in usage (for an example, see Sinclair (1991a: 112) on the English word back). McEnery & Wilson (1996: 12) point out that intuitions are very vague as regards the frequency of words or constructions; more generally, Stubbs (1993: 17) claims that intuition is unreliable on matters concerned with statistical tendencies in lexical distribution. Indeed, a further area in which intuition is an unreliable guide to usage is that of collocation. Sinclair comments as follows: The need for corpus evidence arises because of the extent of the variation that occurs in the realisation of lexical syntagmatic relations – so much so that the mental retrieval processes (called “intuitions”) of competent users of the language are quite inadequate for identifying the underlying regularities. (Sinclair 1999: 6)

As Sinclair (1991b: 494) points out, if we ask an informant about the meaning of a word, we are not likely to get an answer which takes account of the complex sets of choices which determine the meanings of words in their co-texts and contexts of use. However, this does not mean that there is no relationship at all between intuition and corpus evidence in these areas. Patterns such as those of collocation are subliminal, so that when presented with the evidence, we intuitively recognise the ‘rightness’ of these patterns. There is, as Sinclair (1991b: 494) says, “a systematic correlation between the language patterns of which we are normally aware, and those that are subliminal”. Sinclair does not, then, rule out a role for intuition in the study of language; rather, “the patterns [. . . ] established on a basis of recurrence are then evaluated against mental recognition processes (also called intuitions)” (Sinclair 1999: 6). Observations such as these are given a plausible explanation in terms of the model proposed by Wray (2002), in which the lexicon is able to contain both irregular and regular multiword strings, as well as polymorphemic words and single morphemes. Wray (2002: 277) proposes that although, when we tap our intuitions regarding a particular

 Structure and Function

word, we have access to the whole lexicon, the processing effort involved in retrieving single words from within holistically stored formulaic strings ensures that we normally look up the word only as a single unit entry, which will, of course, not reflect the whole range of uses to which the word is put. This will bias the response towards concrete rather than abstract, metaphorical meanings, and will play down those differences in meaning (e.g. between small and little in English) which rely on the patterning of these items within larger formulaic word strings. Arguments such as those reviewed briefly earlier are set within a wider framework in an illuminating paper by Chafe (1992b), in which linguistic methodologies are categorised along two dimensions. Firstly, we have the distinction discussed above, between introspective data and that which is derived from the observation of overt behaviour of some kind. Chafe points out that although behavioural observations have the advantage of verifiability, they provide only indirect evidence for the underlying mental phenomena, whereas introspection is an attempt to tap these phenomena more directly. Chafe’s second distinction is between artificial manipulation and the observation of naturally occurring phenomena. Artificial techniques have the advantage that we can isolate particular variables for study; furthermore, we do not have to wait for the phenomena under study to occur naturally. On the other hand, the results of such studies may turn out to be uninteresting or even irrelevant. The advantage of naturalistic studies is their greater closeness to reality, but as against this, we have to wait until an instance of what we are interested in actually occurs, if indeed it does so at all. Chafe (1992b: 84) gives examples of the four types of study entailed by his classification: experiments and elicitation techniques are behavioural and artificial, while judgments concerned with invented language examples are introspective and artificial; corpus and ethnographic studies are behavioural and natural, while daydreaming is cited as a technique for collecting natural data introspectively. Chafe’s conclusions from his more extended discussion of these types of technique are worth quoting at length: It emerges from the discussion above that corpora have the following advantages and disadvantages. Based on overt behaviour – overt language – they are available to whoever wants to examine them, and thus they satisfy the demand of verifiability. Whereas behavioral data always suffer from the indirectness of their access to mental processes, language is not nearly as problematic in this regard as is button-pressing. Language does provide a complex and subtle, even if imperfect window to the mind. It is certainly the best single window available to us. Being natural rather than manipulated, corpora are in that respect closer to reality. The dark side of naturalness is the inability to target particular phenomena without waiting for them to occur. As we have noted, however, that drawback is mitigated by the fact that the frequent occurrence or the non-occurrence of some phenomenon is in itself an interesting fact in need of explanation. (Chafe 1992b: 88)

The ‘accidental’ nature of corpora leads Chafe to conclude that their use needs to be supplemented by other techniques:

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My principal message is that we should combine all available techniques of observation, keeping in mind the advantages and disadvantages of each, and that corpora occupy a favored place among them. (Chafe 1992b: 88)

This is precisely the view I am taking in the present work. The review in Chapter 2 of Part 1 and the more detailed consideration of FG, RRG and SFG in Chapter 4 of the present volume have shown that functionalists have, to varying degrees, accepted the need for the study of stretches of authentic text. We have seen that SFG has always laid considerable emphasis on textual analysis. In the course of Parts 1 and 2 of this book I have also had occasion to mention a considerable amount of text-based work in FG, not only by the Amsterdam classicists and scholars such as de Vries working on hitherto undescribed languages, but also work on English (Mackenzie, Hannay, Keizer, Nuyts, Verstraete, Gómez-González, Butler and others), Dutch and German (Nuyts) and Spanish (Olbertz, Butler). In RRG, given the strongly typological orientation of the theory, the data used again inevitably reflect the collection of ‘corpus’ materials on previously undescribed (or at least under-described) languages, though rather little explicitly textual work is to be found in the RRG literature. In many text-based studies within structural-functional frameworks, particularly the earlier ones, the amounts of material used have been fairly small. There is certainly a place for the detailed study of individual texts, not only in stylistic terms, but also as a source of information about textual organisation and the processes of production and reception. If, however, we are to make the kinds of justifiable generalisations which are essential in formulating an overall model of the kind I have in mind, we need to exploit textual materials on a much larger scale. There is evidence that some structural-functional linguists are now turning to larger corpora which are intended to be representative of a range of varieties of a language. It is, however, still fair to say that this is not yet the dominant methodology, and that much remains to be done to ensure that authentic data are given pride of place in structural-functional theories. There are, of course, good reasons for healthy scepticism about going too far in our commitment to the use of corpora. One probable reason for caution is perceptions about the limitations of corpora themselves. Until very recently, there was a dearth of corpora of spoken language, and although this problem has now been partly addressed, for English at least, by the inclusion of spoken components within major corpora such as the Bank of English and the British National Corpus, any analysis based on these materials soon reveals that they are heavily skewed in the direction of educated, often academic, usage. More generally, there are legitimate questions about the extent to which even large corpora are representative of a language as a whole, or even of particular varieties of the language (for discussions of representativeness in corpus design, see Atkins, Clear & Ostler 1992; Biber 1993a, 1993b). Even where a corpus can indeed be taken to be representative of some variety or set of varieties of a language, there are often deficiencies in the information provided about the situations in which the language was produced and the characteristics of the participants: see Berglund (1999) for comments on this aspect of the spoken component of the British National Corpus which, despite its generally high level

 Structure and Function

of detailed contextual information, nevertheless does not mark up all text and speakers to the same extent. A problem which is particularly important for functional linguistics is that most of the readily available corpora are of English, though currently considerable efforts are being made to construct corpora for other languages. If we accept Hengeveld & Pérez Quintero’s (2001) attractive suggestion that typological adequacy should be an important part of descriptive adequacy (see §6.1.1.1) then it is clear that the achievement of descriptive adequacy requires us to base our descriptions on authentic materials from as wide a range of languages as possible. A further set of limitations is concerned not with the corpora themselves, but with the computer-based methods which must be adopted if huge amounts of language are to be analysed. Certainly, such methods are rapidly getting more sophisticated, but it remains true that most readily available software is capable of performing only a fairly restricted range of analyses, based on surface features of form: ultimately any computer-based analysis is dependent on the recognition of sequences of characters in an electronically encoded representation of language, which means that the easiest operations are those involving word forms and punctuation. The growing availability of corpora tagged with word class categories, and even parsed corpora, is now making possible more sophisticated analyses of some grammatical phenomena. Furthermore, corpora with semantic and discourselevel tagging are now being developed. It remains true, however, that many phenomena of interest to the functional linguist are still outside the range of computational techniques. For instance, in the study of discourse, although the contribution of ‘discourse markers’ of fixed form can readily be investigated through concordances of the forms concerned, a fully automated study of Hallidayan Theme or (more difficult still) the category of Topic would present grave difficulties. A further problem is concerned with the nature of the units under investigation. Because computer-assisted analysis prioritises word forms, it is not surprising that the word has been the unit under focus in many studies of this kind. Indeed, the contribution of corpus linguistics to the production of a more adequate treatment of words in dictionaries has been spectacular (see e.g. Sinclair 1987). This orientation does, however, lead naturally to a lexically-based approach, and this is no doubt seen by some as distorting the concept of a grammar. However, two further points are relevant here. Firstly, as I noted in §3.5 of Part 1, there has been a movement, in recent years, towards a more lexically-oriented view of language, in grammars occupying various positions on the formal/functional continuum (e.g. Lexical Functional Grammar, Hudson’s Word Grammar, the Functional Lexematic Model). Secondly, this shift does not entail the abandonment of syntax, but rather the recognition that syntax and lexis are strongly interdependent aspects of linguistic patterning. Out of the word-oriented nature of corpus-based work, together with the timeconsuming nature of detailed concordance and collocational analysis, arises a further important issue: most corpus-based studies provide detailed descriptions of the behaviour of individual words or groups of words, and it is difficult to see how these close-up snapshots of small areas fit into the larger picture of the lexicogrammar as a whole. Recently,

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some headway has been made in this area (see especially Hunston & Francis 2000); it is nevertheless understandable that at this stage in the development of corpus linguistics, many linguists prefer to take a more global view than that which is evident in most corpus-oriented work. A further problem, for functionalists as well as for other linguists, is that the results of corpus studies present very serious challenges which can strike at the very heart of traditional assumptions about language patterning and how we should describe it. This is clearly highly uncomfortable for many linguists, as it requires a radical rethinking of the ways in which we approach linguistic description and theorising. This sense of discomfort, compounded by the ‘mechanical’ nature of the initial analysis by computer, and by the sense of loss of control in the face of numbers of words running into the hundreds of millions, is probably the most important factor holding functional linguists back from using corpus analysis. For some functionalists, even full engagement with language in use seems threatening: for instance, as we have seen, despite Dik’s rhetoric about ‘natural communicative use’, in practice he sanitises the grammar by separating it from an unspecified, unresearched ‘theory of verbal interaction’. The limitations of corpus-based analysis are real, and we need to be suitably cautious about our interpretations; on the other hand, if we are to take seriously our commitment to the study of natural language in communicative use, we must take on board those phenomena, revealed by corpus analysis, in which we can have some confidence. Space precludes the development of this line of argument in detail here,10 so that I shall simply summarise here what in my view are the most important conclusions to emerge from recent work on corpora. Let us begin with a general point mentioned briefly earlier: corpus studies reveal time and again the dangers of relying on our intuitions as a guide to the ways in which we actually use words and constructions, such as the complex but stable patterns of co-occurrence (collocation and colligation)11 which it would be impossible to discern without the use of computer-readable corpora. In particular, corpus studies, as well as work on first and second language acquisition, aphasic language, and the processing and evolution of language, consistently demonstrate the quantitative and qualitative importance of multiword sequences.12 As we saw briefly in §6.2.2.2 of Part 1, Sinclair has proposed that the hierarchical, word-combining view of language, in which the construction of a stretch of language is seen in terms of open choice from the patterns sanctioned by the grammar, is, . I hope, however, to develop some of these ideas in further work. . The term colligation, as originally used by J. R. Firth, strictly refers to co-occurrence of grammatical categories (e.g. adjective + noun), but is now often used for co-occurrence relationships between grammatical words (articles, pronouns, etc) and other grammatical or lexical words. . For a review of this evidence and an assessment of its importance for Functional Grammar, see Butler (1998a), and for work on multiword sequences in Spanish and its implications for FG, Butler (1997). A sophisticated model of ‘formulaic language’ is developed in the recent work of Wray (Wray 1999, 2000, 2002; Wray & Perkins 2000).

 Structure and Function

by itself, a rather poor model of language-in-use, requiring supplementation from a rather different model based on the ‘idiom principle’: The principle of idiom is that a language user has available to him or her a large number of semi-preconstructed phrases that constitute single choices, even though they might appear to be analysable into segments. (Sinclair 1991a: 110)

Note that Sinclair is not simply claiming that there are multiword items (‘idioms’) which are unanalysable in terms of the rules of the normal grammar and semantics, but that even many of the grammatically regular sequences are, in fact, better treated as pre-formed items which the language user can access without recourse to the open choice grammar. Preliminary work suggests that the existence of multiword units is not necessarily incompatible with the kinds of grammar proposed in, for example, FG and RRG. In my own work on Spanish (Butler 1997), I found that the overwhelming majority of the frequently repeated sequences in the corpora used had a grammatical item as their first word, usually an article, preposition or pronoun, so that it appears that the idiom principle, to the extent that it is reflected in the frequency of sequences, may apply largely within the domain of nominal structures. A working hypothesis might be, then, that what we need to do is enrich our model of nominals to build in, in some as yet unclear way, a component based on the idiom principle. Further work, however, may well demonstrate that this is too simple a picture, and if so, then we must try to find a way of reconciling the idiom principle with the constituency analyses which appear to be needed in order to give a convincing account of typological similarities and differences across languages. An awareness of this problem is evident in recent approaches to FG which attempt to build in processing considerations, such as Mackenzie’s Incremental Functional Grammar. Highly relevant to the resolution of these difficulties will be the work of Wray mentioned earlier: in her model (see Wray 2002) parallel and interactive processing is proposed for units conforming to the idiom principle and those generated, during processing, through the grammar itself. It is also worth noting that multiword units also fit naturally into the approach to language taken in Construction Grammar. A second important point revealed by corpus linguistics is that although dictionaries normally deal with lexical phenomena in terms of a set of ‘lexical items’ or ‘lexemes’, some of which are able to take a number of grammatical forms, corpus evidence strongly suggests that the individual grammatical forms of lexemes tend to have their own cooccurrence profiles, which overlap only partially with those of other forms of the same lexeme (see e.g. Sinclair 1985: 91 on forms of decline; Sinclair 1992: 13 on move; Stubbs 1996: 172–173 on educate). Thirdly, the patterning shown by particular words or sets of words is often strongly dependent on the variety of language concerned. For instance, in Butler (1998b: 187) I demonstrate that the imperative form of the verb consider is much more frequent in academic written English than in other registers.

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Chapter 6

.. Explanatory adequacy If our aim is to go beyond descriptive adequacy, to formulate a theory which is capable of explaining why the language we describe is as it is, there are several types of criterion we need to take into account.

... Discoursal adequacy If we are to take, as our primary data, records of the language use in which people actually engage and of the contexts in which this occurs, then we must recognise from the start that we are concerned with very much more than just the description of sentences and the processes by which they are constructed and understood. In other words, the model must take seriously the requirement that language and language use be described and accounted for at all levels of organisation, from the organisation of sounds and written marks right through to that of whole discourses. Furthermore, we must recognise that, as Clark (1994: 986) reminds us, a discourse is not just a stretch of text larger than a sentence, to be described in purely structural terms, but “a joint activity carried out by an ensemble of two or more people trying to accomplish things together”. The criterion which I shall call discoursal adequacy is thus not simply a descriptive one: as well as extending our descriptions to include the structure and functioning of discourse, a fully adequate theory must demonstrate how the properties of language are conditioned by the fact that it is the vehicle for joint activities in which participants in interaction negotiate meanings. In Chapter 4 I reviewed the approaches, within the structural-functional theories under focus, to the modelling of discourse and its realisation in text, of which several (especially those within the overall framework of FG) are very much in their infancy. It is far too early to know which approaches, if any, are likely to lead to models which prove capable of responding to the criteria of adequacy suggested here. Certainly there will be a need to take account of work already done within a variety of approaches, within and outside the area of functional grammars. Van Dijk (1997b: 2) has observed that there are three principal dimensions of discourse, all of which should be represented in our model: firstly, discourse is language in use; secondly, it involves the cognitive activities of participants; and thirdly, it is a form of interaction in social contexts. The following list of desiderata owes much to van Dijk’s (1997b: 29–31) own statement of the principles of discourse study. • • •

The study of discourse must, as I said earlier, deal with authentic, naturally-occurring data. It must recognise the inherently dynamic nature of discourse. It must identify and describe the formal units into which texts can be divided, taking account of the predominantly linear, sequential nature of discourse, and recognising hierarchies of units where appropriate. For instance, we saw in Chapter 4 that the Sinclair & Coulthard rank scale has been appropriated for spoken discourse by several FG-based accounts.

 Structure and Function

•

•

• • •

•

•

It must describe the functional, semantic relationships between the units, as does, for example, Rhetorical Structure Theory, not only popular with systemicists, but also mentioned in Dik’s work.13 It must account for discourse as rule-governed activity, governed by socially constituted norms, while at the same time recognising that discourse rules may be broken, passed over or altered for particular purposes. It must account for the mechanisms by which coherence is achieved in texts. It must be capable of describing texts of any mode (spoken, written, written to be spoken, etc.). It must be capable of dealing with variations in text structure in different genres – and not only those familiar in Western cultures. Here, the work of Hasan, Martin and others within a systemic framework would be important, though much other work in discourse analysis would also be highly relevant. It must take into account the fact that participants in discourse are not acting solely as individuals, but also as members of particular social and cultural groupings. This aspect of discourse is, as we have seen, particularly highly developed in Systemic Functional linguistics. It must give an account of the cognitive structures and representations involved when we engage in discourse.14 This takes us into the area of psychological/cognitive adequacy, discussed in §6.3.2.3.

It is, then, within such an encompassing theory of ‘discourse as text in context’ that any submodel of semantic, syntactic and lexical units and relations must be developed.

... Sociocultural adequacy The model must also take fully on board the fact that discourses are not produced in a vacuum, but in contexts which both shape and are shaped by the ongoing interaction. These contexts are of two basic kinds. Firstly, we have the context provided by the discourse itself up to any particular point; that part of this context which is present in the physical record of the discourse activity we may call the ‘co-text’. A specification of the co-text could be seen as part of the discoursal adequacy outlined above. But secondly, every discourse, and every constituent part of such a discourse, takes place within a complex environment of social and cultural knowledge and assumptions, which we may call the ‘sociocultural context’. Our model must contain a sub-model of this context and of its relationship with the structures and processes at all levels of the discourse, in order to fulfil the criterion which I shall refer to as sociocultural adequacy. Again, it is still far from clear how the sociocultural context should be modelled, though certainly the work done by Systemic Functional linguists, reviewed in Chapter 4, should not be ignored here. It is essential to bear in mind, however, that sociocultural . It should be noted, however, that RST is very much biased towards written language, and that any adequate model of discourse must also provide an account of spoken interaction. . For a survey of cognitive models of discourse, see Graesser, Gernsbacher & Goldman (1997).

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constraints are mediated through the experience and activities of individual minds, so that what we should be concerned with is not some putative external sociocultural ‘reality’, but rather the conceptual representations which participants in interaction construct for themselves. This leads us, then, to a further criterion of adequacy, discussed in the following section.

... Psychological/cognitive adequacy Our theory must contain a model of the cognitive structures and processes involved in the storage, production and understanding of language, and these structures and processes will be concerned with representations of everything we need in order to engage in discourse, including sociocultural factors. I shall use the term psychological/cognitive adequacy for this criterion. It should now be clear that the process-oriented component of the model must go far beyond the ‘dynamic’ perspective proposed by systemic linguists to complement the ‘synoptic’ treatment focused on the linguistic product: we are concerned not only with the staging or sequencing of discourse, and the alternative pathways available to interactants, but also with the processes which are involved in language use, and the cognitive structures which such processes make use of. For instance, our model of discourse coherence must be essentially a mental one, involving pragmatic inferencing devices as well as the overt grammatical and lexical mechanisms studied by systemicists under the label of cohesion. There must be a mental representation of communicative intentions, at various levels, corresponding to the hierarchy of discourse units: a whole conversation or speech may respond to a particular overall intention, and the parts of it, right down to the individual utterance (and maybe even beyond, as in the sub-acts of Mackenzie’s Incremental Functional Grammar), will also be designed in relation to more specific intentions. Furthermore, each speaker/hearer will have a model of the communicative intentions, both past and projected, of the other participants. Participants must also have a cognitive model of the context of situation for the interaction: the properties (geographical and social provenance, age, sex, attitudes, etc.) of the other participants; an assessment of their knowledge in relation to the concerns of the interaction; the setting; and the registral properties of the interaction at that point (field, tenor and mode, to use the systemic terminology). Clearly, there must also be a model of the co-text: what concepts have already been introduced, what point in the structure of discourse has been reached, what further developments are expected. The cognitive area is one in which I believe functional theories of linguistics are currently rather weak. Part of the problem here is the term ‘cognitive’, which has become fashionable in recent years, and has, of course, given rise to a whole complex of approaches to language which go under the general title of ‘cognitive linguistics’. It seems to me that although such approaches have provided extremely valuable insights into language and its use,15 especially in areas such as metaphor and metonymy, their interpretation of the term ‘cognitive’ is rather different from, or at least more restricted than, that intended . Construction Grammar (see e.g. Goldberg 1995, 1996, 1999; Fillmore 1988; Fillmore & Kay, forthcoming; Croft 2001) is perhaps the model which would be most attractive to many structural-functional lin-

 Structure and Function

here. Cognitive linguistics pays considerable attention to one aspect of cognition – the importance of human categorisation – but generally stops short of engagement with many other aspects of cognitive psychology, and tends not to formulate its claims in ways which leave them open to empirical falsification, and still less to an investigation of the underlying processing mechanisms involved.16 Indeed, as Nuyts (2001: 16–19) has pointed out, Langacker (1987: 239–240) explicitly rejects a process view of the grammar, arguing for a difference between a processing perspective, on the one hand, and a ‘phenomenological’ perspective in terms of the experience constituted by language processing, on the other. According to Langacker, the former is the province of the neuroscientist and only the latter the concern of the linguist. The position taken here is that we need to take account of work in a whole range of approaches to language and its use: not only the work of linguists but also that of psychologists, neuroscientists and others working on processing mechanisms. One caveat is, however, in order at this point. As has been pointed out for example by Nuyts (1992: 14–15), we need to be careful about interpreting the results of experimental studies. As I pointed out earlier in relation to the discussion in Chafe (1992b), the very nature and purpose of experimental work involves the isolation of a small number of variables for study in such investigations, other sources of variation being kept to a minimum. The conditions under which such studies are made thus tend to be somewhat artificial, and it is not always obvious that the results can be extrapolated to the more ‘normal’ processing conditions of everyday interaction. Furthermore, not all aspects of processing are readily amenable to experimental study. Nevertheless, it seems to me that the isolation of particular variables for study is an important preliminary step in the investigation of complex phenomena and that empirical studies can be of considerable usefulness provided that their limitations are taken into account. It is clearly important, in a later stage of the work, to go beyond the initial phase, looking at the interactions of previously studied factors and, wherever possible, studying the various factors and their interplay in a more naturalistic setting.

... Acquisitional adequacy We must also model the structures and processes involved in language acquisition, explaining why acquisition proceeds as it does. This criterion of acquisitional adequacy will guists, and there has indeed been some cross-fertilisation between this model and the Functional Lexematic Model (see e.g. Martín Arista 1999; Faber & Mairal Usón 1999: 22–35). . See also Croft (1998: 152), who claims that “cognitive linguists are sometimes debating positions that are unresolvable with the introspective data that they are discussing”, and goes on to suggest that such data needs to be supplemented by reference to other sources, including corpora and psycholinguistic experimentation. Note, however, that there is one honourable exception to this generalisation: certain scholars working in the Construction Grammar framework have indeed used empirical techniques in their studies (see e.g. Bencini & Goldberg 2000, who asked informants to sort sentences according to meaning and showed that the informants were more likely to sort by constructions than by the morphological form of the verb). Goldberg (1996: 69) also makes a commitment to the use of attested data (from corpora and other records of discourse) in Construction Grammar. I am grateful to Francisco Gonzálvez García for making me aware of this work.

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involve all the other criteria mentioned above: we must account not only for how the child arrives at the rules and principles which govern the expression of meaning in lexis, morphosyntax and intonation, but also for how s/he learns to engage in discourse; we must show how sociocultural factors affect, and are affected by, the structures and processes of the child’s language, but also how they impact on the process of acquisition itself; and we must model the cognitive structures and processes involved in the child’s developing language and the effect of cognitive constraints on the course of acquisition.

... A note on other possible criteria of adequacy The criteria of adequacy reviewed above are, of course, familiar from previous discussions (although they have been made rather more demanding here than in many previous accounts), and are closely related to the characteristics of functional approaches discussed in Chapters 1 and 2 of Part 1. Note, though, that I have not used the term pragmatic adequacy, because it seems to me that this concept, as introduced by Dik, is multifaceted: the ‘pragmatic knowledge’ of the interlocutors in an interaction involves knowledge of the sociocultural and discoursal contexts, and this knowledge is itself clearly bound up with the cognitive states of the speakers. Before we leave the question of criteria of adequacy, it is worth mentioning a possible further criterion which we might call computational adequacy, namely that each level and dimension of a model should be worked out to a degree of precision where it is possible to simulate it computationally. We have seen that many aspects of both the Sydney and Cardiff versions of SFG have been tested in large computer-based systems, and that the information so obtained has fed back into the models themselves; in FG, too, there has been work on computational implementation, while RRG has not so far been tested in this way. A note of caution is needed here, however: computer simulation is useful in order to test whether the rules and principles we propose in a given model actually do generate the structures we claim they generate, or provide correct parses, but as noted in §6.1.3.1, it is not in itself explanatory: there is no guarantee whatever that a model which passes such tests bears any relation to what actually goes on during linguistic processing. I would therefore see computational adequacy as on a different level from, and very much subsidiary to, the other types. .

Towards an integrated model One fact is immediately obvious: if we are to move towards an account which will do justice to all the criteria of adequacy proposed above, a very considerable research programme will be needed. Furthermore, this programme will have to be based on work in a wide range of areas, including (at least) the following: sociolinguistics and pragmatics; psychology, pscyholinguistics and neurolinguistics;17 child language studies; studies of the linguistic and sociocultural systems of languages belonging to as many different typolog-

. We need to bear in mind again here the caveat given in §6.3.2.3 about the limitations, as well as the usefulness, of experimental work in psychology, psycholinguistics and neurolinguistics.

 Structure and Function

ical groups as possible. It will therefore require the collaboration of scholars with widely varying types of expertise, in an effort to overcome the parochialism of much linguistic theorising. If we needed to start absolutely from scratch, the programme I am suggesting would perhaps be so ambitious as to be unworkable. We do not, however, need to wait until all the appropriate data is available: this is simply not how science works. There is a lot that we can achieve on the basis of work that has already been done, though we shall need to interpret such work carefully, bearing in mind differences in the goals, assumptions and criteria which underlie the work. This is clearly not the place to launch into a detailed discussion of what our new model might look like: that must be left for future publications. All I can do here is indicate, briefly and without full justification, some of the implications of our criteria of adequacy for the shape of the model. I shall concentrate largely on matters relating to psychological/cognitive adequacy, since, as I have already said, I believe this to be the weakest area of present-day structural-functional theories, though efforts are being made, especially within FG, to remedy these deficiencies.

.. Language and conceptualisation One very large and important area for consideration will be that of conceptualisation and its relationship with the grammar, as broadly conceived. We have seen that the work of Nuyts has already provided abundant evidence for the need for a prelinguistic conceptual level of organisation: further discussion can be found in Pederson & Nuyts (1997) and the discussion of ‘linguistic categories and non-linguistic thinking’ by Levinson (1997). As noted by Pederson & Nuyts (1997), there is very little in the way of a consensus about how conceptual organisation should be represented, or even about exactly what concepts are. These authors characterise the differences of approach in terms of two main parameters: the format of conceptual representation (basically, propositional (i.e. predicate-argument), image-based or some combination of the two), and the issue of universality versus variability across cultures and even individuals. According to Pederson & Nuyts, the existence of yet further, more minor differentiating factors leads to a situation in which we have a large range of positions, many of which are somewhat vaguely articulated, and for or against which it is difficult to find conclusive arguments or evidence, in view of the difficulties inherent in the study of human conceptualisation. One particular problem is that because language actually encodes conceptual information, it has something of a privileged status as a source of information about conceptualisation, as compared with other types of behaviour (e.g. making something, playing a game, or following a particular route) which do not themselves encode the conceptual information on which they are based. It is thus not surprising that research on language has informed most major theories of conceptualisation – and even so, no basic consensus has been reached. As Pederson & Nuyts note, the positions taken range from the view that thinking actually happens in language, to the claim that language and thinking are quite separate, being linked only by mapping relations of an arbitrary nature. Intermediate positions are, of course, frequently attested.

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Pederson & Nuyts make the point that, unsurprisingly, those models which bring conceptualisation closest to language (i.e. basically the propositional approaches) have generally reached a higher level of sophistication in the modelling of the relationship between concepts and language than have other types of model. As the authors observe, however, in order to understand conceptualisation in depth, it will be necessary to study data from various types of behavioural system. One solution to the problem of integrating information from different behavioural modalities into a single representation system for conceptual organisation is to translate imagistic representations into a propositional form through the use of spatial predicates, as in the work of Kosslyn (1980). This is also the approach taken by Kintsch in his influential model of discourse comprehension (see e.g. Kintsch 1998: 44–47), though it is recognised that such a model introduces a linguistic bias, which must be compensated for by trying to ensure that relationships which are particularly important in perception and action are captured as far as possible. Nuyts himself gives very little detail on how he sees the structure of the conceptual database, within his Functional Procedural Grammar model. He does, as we have seen, reject a view of conceptual organisation which collapses it with the underlying linguistic organisation of sentences, but this need not rule out a basically propositional type of organisation, with conceptual ‘predicates’ and ‘arguments’, for the concepts integrated into the situational network in his model, provided that we make a clear separation between the underlying concepts and their linguistic realisation. It is clear that what, following Halliday, we might call the ideational part of the knowledge base will have to contain concepts relating to the following, together with a specification of the relationships among the concepts: • • • •

physical entities in the ‘real’ world and in possible fictional worlds, animate, inanimate and abstract; properties of entities; actions, events and states; properties of such actions, events and states, including the roles associated with them.

Such complex networks of concepts are often referred to as ontologies, and are frequently discussed in relation to the systems for natural language processing proposed by computational linguists. A good example of such a computationally-oriented ontology is that constructed by members of the Computing Research Laboratory at New Mexico State University as part of the Mikrokosmos Knowledge Based Machine Translation system (Beale, Nirenburg & Mahesh 1995; Mahesh 1996; Mahesh & Nirenburg 1995a, 1995b; Nirenburg & Raskin, forthcoming; see also Moreno Ortiz & Pérez Hernández (2002), who re-examine the proposals in Mairal Usón & Faber (2002) from the viewpoint of ontological semantics, taking the Mikrokosmos ontology as a basis). In terms of the format of conceptualisation, such an ontology initially appears attractive as a way of representing the conceptual structures underlying a model such as that being proposed here. In terms of the content or substance of conceptualisation, however, there are some important prob-

 Structure and Function

lems, arising from the very different aims and assumptions of computational ontologists and linguistic theorists. Firstly, ontologies as used in AI are to some degree task-dependent: the Mikrokosmos ontology specifically excludes certain kinds of knowledge because they are not deemed necessary for the machine translation context in which the ontology operates (Mahesh 1996: 41). On the other hand, an ontology which formed the knowledge component of a comprehensive linguistic model could not be restricted in this way. Secondly, the Mikrokosmos system is not seen as modelling what language users actually do, but is rather intended to achieve comparable performance. Thirdly, computational models of knowledge, constructed as ontologies of concepts and their properties and relationships, frequently make the assumption of language-independence: indeed, this assumption is crucial for the use of such ontologies in systems for machine translation, where the database of concepts, properties and relations acts as an interlingua. However, as recognised by ontologists themselves (see e.g. Moreno Ortiz 1997: 162–16318), the sociocultural world in which a person lives does have an effect on the ‘reality’ which is to be modelled, and also on how that person categorises that reality; furthermore, it is likely that the categories permitted or imposed by the language we speak also facilitate certain ways of categorising and inhibit others, even if many of us would not wish to go the whole Whorfian hog on this. In particular, any model which builds in factors related to the social context of interaction must take account of differences between societies and their cultures in the groups of concepts which are prioritised – to use systemic terminology, the fields, tenors and modes of interaction which characterise recurrent social contexts. Our model of the knowledge base must, then, strike a delicate balance. On the one hand, it must be general enough to allow for the practical possibility of translation, though with varying degrees of difficulty, between languages, even when speakers of those languages have very different sociocultural as well as linguistic backgrounds. On the other hand, it must reflect the differences in conceptual organisation which inevitably arise from these differences in background. One approach to this problem which might be worth following up is that of Wierzbicka (see e.g. Wierzbicka 1988, 1991, 1992, 1996, 1997, 1999; Goddard & Wierzbicka 1994, 1997, 2002), which seeks to discover a small set of conceptual primitives, in terms of which the meanings of both lexemes and grammatical constructions in all languages can be described, and which link to lexical items in any given language which are themselves indefinable, and can be used to characterise all other words in the lexicon of that language. This aspect of Wierzbicka’s work is indeed particularly relevant to the enterprise we are engaged in here, since it is her contention that the rigorous use of a set of conceptual primitives can help us not only to discover what the meanings embodied in the world’s languages have in common, but also the ways in which different languages prioritise particular kinds of meaning. It is important to note that the putative decomposability of meaning in terms of universal atomic concepts does not mean that when we are producing and understanding . The page reference given here is to the version of the thesis available (in Spanish) on the internet at http://elies.rediris.es/elies9/

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language we have to actually perform such decomposability operations all the time. As Levinson (1997: 27) notes, and has been amply demonstrated in the work of Wray referred to earlier, there is good evidence from the psychology of ‘chunking’ information that we overcome the limitations of our working memory by packaging information into complex bundles which are systematically reusable. It is likely, then, that much of our thinking and inferencing manipulates a system of what Levinson calls ‘molar’ rather than atomic concepts. As Levinson reminds us, the combination of atomic into molar concepts is a culture-specific process, so that it seems we cannot totally escape from the pervasive influence of our native language and its cultural background. The above discussion has focused on concepts of an ideational, representational nature. The knowledge base must, of course, also contain information relating to interpersonal meanings such as those concerned with speech acts, modalities and the like. There appears to be much less discussion of how interpersonal concepts can be represented:19 this would seem to be an important area for future work. It is also important to note that knowledge about language itself, in terms of (tacit) knowledge of text structures, semantic and formal patterning in the grammar and lexicon, sound patterning, etc., must also be represented in the knowledge base so that it can be called upon in the processing of discourse. In other words, metalinguistic concepts must form part of the knowledge base. Finally, it is worth pointing out that the distinctions made in the ontological component of our model should, like the rest of the model, be based on the extensive analysis of authentic language in a range of languages, and not purely or even primarily on the intuitions of native speakers. It is interesting to note that in their recent proposal to combine the onomasiological hierarchies of the Functional Lexematic Model with the logical structure representation of RRG (see §6.2.2.3 of Part 1), Mairal Usón & Faber (2002) propose to link the logical structures to an ontology. In an analysis of manner-of-cutting verbs, they make the following proposal: . . . a more lexical-conceptual representation is necessary in order to distinguish between verbs within the same lexical class. A first step to specifying such a representation would be anchoring each lexical template to a well-designed conceptual ontology by means of which word senses would be related to each other on the basis of an underlying model of the world. (Mairal Usón & Faber 2002: 68)

Mairal Usón & Faber go on to show how the semantic representations can be linked to the Mikrokosmos ontology. Here, somewhat unsatisfactorily, we must leave the vexed area of conceptual representations and their relationship with semantic representations, an area in which further work is urgently needed. Before we finally take our leave, however, one further positive characteristic of an encyclopaedic knowledge base such as that encapsulated in the Mikrokosmos ontology is worth stressing. The basis of an ontology is a paradigmatic classification: in. As we have seen, the work of Nuyts on modality in relation to issues of conceptualisation is an important exception to this generalisation (see especially Nuyts 2001).

 Structure and Function

deed, it would be very easy to re-express an ontology such as Mikrokosmos in the form of a system network. I argued in §6.3 and §8.4.5 of Part 1 that considerable advantages are to be gained by having a paradigmatic base for the grammar. I also hinted at the solution advocated here, namely that this base might be seen as conceptual rather than as belonging to the grammar itself.

.. Modelling the grammar ... The components of the grammar The requirement of psychological/cognitive adequacy has particularly important implications for the modelling of the lexicogrammar itself. Although work on the processes involved in the production and comprehension of spoken and written language still has a very long way to go before we have a clear, consistent picture, enough information is available to allow us to make intelligent guesses at how a cognitively adequate grammar should be organised.20 Firstly, if we accept the arguments in favour of separate conceptual and semantic representations, then our model must have a semantic level, which will need to account for the semantics of predicates and their arguments, and of satellites/adjuncts, including the associated semantic roles, also the content and structuring of the meanings dealt with in terms of operator systems in FG and RRG. Furthermore, the mapping between clusters of concepts and the semantics of lexis and grammar will involve a great deal of what, in previous discussions, I have called discourse pragmatics. One area of lively debate in language processing work is the ordering of syntactic and lexical components of processing. As Schönefeld (2001: 56) points out, for comprehension there are three logical possibilities: syntactic parsing may precede lexical access or follow it (both consistent with a serial, modular approach), or both may operate in parallel (an interactive approach). The first of these, as argued also by Garman (1990: 320–321), can be dismissed: it is hardly likely that listeners normally parse a sentence without word recognition, since words are normally recognised very rapidly; exceptions might occur in unusual circumstances such as the processing of ‘Jabberwocky’-type material. The debate, then, is about the second and third types, each of which exists in a number of variants. There are similar debates about language production: do we produce a grammatical schema which is filled in by appropriate lexical items, or do the concepts to be expressed activate lexical . For a brief review of models of production, see Fromkin & Bernstein Ratner (1998) and for a more detailed survey Schönefeld (2001). A short account of comprehension models is available in Reeves, HirschPasek & Golinkoff (1998), and further detail in the survey articles by Cutler & Clifton (1999) on the comprehension of spoken language and by Perfetti (1999) on reading. For details of one influential model of production, see Levelt (1989, 1999). Two very different approaches to discourse comprehension can be found in the ‘construction-integration’ model of Kintsch (1988, 1998), which is rooted in experimental cognitive psychology, and the ‘text worlds’ model of Werth (1999), which is concerned with the specification of the mental models we create in response to a text embedded in its situation, rather than with neurocognitive processes themselves.

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items together with their syntactic properties, or is the true situation more complex than either of these, with interleaving of syntactic and lexical stages?21 Although it would appear that the jury is still out on the question of lexical versus syntactic priority in processing, it is at least fair to say that there is a good deal of evidence in favour of a key role for the lexicon: for instance Schönefeld (2001) concludes, if somewhat cautiously, that the evidence is in favour of both production and comprehension being lexically-driven. If we accept this conclusion, at least provisionally, then the consequence must be a central role for the lexicon in our model. As in most other models, the lexicon is the point of intersection for information of various kinds: a given lexeme points to a (cluster of) concept(s) in the conceptual network; it also has attached to it information about its syntactic potential, any morphological irregularities, and its pronunciation/spelling. The information contained in the lexicon is required at various points in the production and understanding of utterances, even possibly being consulted, in the production of utterances, before selections from the conceptual knowledge base are converted to a linguistic representation, in order to assess the ease or difficulty of lexical expression for particular clusters of concepts. There may thus be ‘shunting’ between the knowledge base and the lower levels of the model, with consequences in terms of the storage and later modification of partially-formed structures. Clearly, any psychologically adequate model of the lexicon must take fully into account what is known of mechanisms of lexical storage and access. Even if we accept that production and parsing are lexically driven, this does not mean that syntax has no role to play in processing. Levelt’s production model, for instance, has a phase of grammatical encoding in which the syntactic structure generated satisfies the constraints imposed by the syntactic properties of activated lexical items. The importance of a syntactic component in language production is also suggested by data from aphasic patients: those with Broca’s aphasia, who have lesions in Broca’s area of the left frontal convolution of the brain, produce language with little discernible grammatical structure, while the language of patients with Wernicke’s aphasia, involving damage to Wernicke’s area in the left first temporal gyrus, mostly does have clear grammatical structure but makes little sense, suggesting disablement of areas concerned with semantic processing (see Dingwall 1998).22 Syntactic units also seem to be important in ‘normal’ language production. Fromkin & Bernstein Ratner (1998: 321–322) observe that self-correction and pausing phenomena in spoken language confirm the importance of major syntactic constituents (phrases, . Much of the discussion of this area hinges on experimental investigation of the processing of potentially ambiguous stretches of language, and so is subject to the criticism that tightly controlled experimental situations may not be validly generalisable to the real-world contexts of everyday interaction. . It is only fair to point out, however, that Broca’s area exhibits considerable structural and functional variability, and that studies on localisation of function reveal considerable variability amongst individuals (see Uylings et al. 1999; Caplan 1994). Furthermore, Hagoort, Brown & Osterhout (1999: 297–298) conclude on the basis of recent studies that the syntactic deficit in patients with Broca’s aphasia may be more limited than has so far been assumed.

 Structure and Function

clauses) in production:23 when speakers go back to correct themselves, they usually return to the beginning of the syntactic constituent in which the error occurred; pauses tend to occur before clause boundaries or other major structural transitions, as well as at places where lexical decisions need to be made, being more frequent before content words than before function words. Most speech errors involving exchange of words take place within a single clause, and evidence from rule-governed phonological changes at word boundaries (e.g. d# #j → 3, as in did you → dI3u) also suggests that clause boundaries, which block such changes, are important in processing. Some word transposition errors, however, occur over more than one clause, suggesting that speakers may plan even further ahead than the end of the current clause. There is a strong general consensus in the processing literature that syntactic processing is a central component of comprehension24 as well as production: . . . it is a nearly universally accepted notion in current models of the production and interpretation of multiword utterances that constraints on how words can be structurally combined in sentences are immediately taken into consideration during speaking and listening/reading. (Hagoort, Brown & Osterhout 1999: 273)

As a simple illustration of the importance of syntax in comprehension, Hagoort, Brown & Osterhout point to the fact that we can, exceptionally, parse sentences without understanding their meaning, in cases where nonsense words are embedded in a normal syntactic structure. A frequently cited example is from Lewis Carroll’s poem Jabberwocky from Through the Looking Glass: when we read or hear ’Twas brillig, and the slithy toves did gyre and gimble in the wabe, there is a lot that we can deduce about the structure: brillig and slithy are adjectives, tove and wabe nouns, gyre and gimble verbs; slithy is a modifier of toves; and so on. There is also evidence from reading studies that reading rate decreases at clause boundaries, indicating that such boundaries are important in online processing (for a summary see Wingfield & Titone 1998: 236–237). Thus the importance of syntax in comprehension seems to be beyond doubt, although the detailed operation of syntactic parsing in language comprehension is still the subject of vigorous debate, as Cutler & Clifton (1999: 142–143) point out. Perfetti’s (1999: 182–186) brief summary of work on parsing during reading presents a similarly diffuse picture of the state of the art. Evidence from processing thus strongly suggests that we need a syntactic component in our overall model. This conclusion reinforces that drawn from our consideration of structural-functional theories themselves. We have seen, for example, that the lack of a specifically syntactic component in Dik’s model of FG has given rise to well-founded criticism, and I have argued that the semanticisation of the lexicogrammar in Sydney-style . See also Bock & Levelt (1994), which summarises studies supporting a model involving (inter alia) processes of syntactic function assignment, constituent assembly and inflection. . An introductory treatment of the role of syntax in sentence processing can be found in Wingfield & Titone (1998), and a much more detailed account, angled towards neurocognitive considerations, in Hagoort, Brown & Osterhout (1999).

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FG, RRG and SFG: A final assessment and some pointers to the future 

SFG to some extent assumes, rather than attempts to demonstrate, the closeness of the relationship between meaning and form. There is also evidence that morphological structure has an important role to play in processing. Fromkin & Bernstein Ratner (1998: 324–327) refer to speech error information which supports the on-line construction of morphologically complex words. There is also evidence that function words and affixes behave differently from content words. Speech errors also demonstrate the speaker’s tacit knowledge of rules such as those involved in inflectional and derivational morphology. So far, then, I hope to have shown that our model of the grammar itself will need semantic, syntactic and morphological components, brought together via entries in the lexicon. The likelihood that semantic and discourse pragmatic information is used in the determination of syntactic structures during processing means that the various components, though separate, interact in complex ways, and this is fully consistent with a functional approach. The final component needed in the model is an expression device, to convert lexicalised syntactic structures, with their semantic mappings, into the final form of the utterance. An important consideration here is that the overall consensus of opinion on language processing appears to favour an incremental mechanism for both production and comprehension (see, for example, the production model of Levelt and the comprehension model of Kintsch, referred to earlier). In view of this, the expression component of our model should build structures gradually rather than all at once.

... Towards an appropriate grammatical model Now that we have a set of criteria of adequacy and an outline of specifications for the components of our model, let us cast our minds back to the characteristics of the three theories which have been the subject matter of this book, to see whether any of them, perhaps with modifications, might serve adequately as the basis for the grammar, as widely conceived, in an integrated model. From the perspective developed here, SFG as currently conceived is rather unattractive as a basis for the grammar, for a number of reasons. Firstly, we have seen that although recently there has been some discussion of typological issues, and an increasing amount of work on languages other than English, typological adequacy of the kind to which FG and RRG are committed was not built in as an aim of the theory during the years in which its main lines were set. The view taken here, however, is that whatever model of the grammar we adopt, it must be capable of accounting for data from the whole range of language types. Secondly, the Sydney version of the grammar has no syntactic level as such: we have seen that there is a ‘lexicogrammatical’ level, but that this is itself strongly semanticised. The Cardiff grammar, however, does have a separate level of syntactic representation, so this in itself need not rule out SFG as a whole, although the fact that the Cardiff grammar has concentrated even more heavily on English than the Sydney grammar reduces its attractiveness.

 Structure and Function

Thirdly, we have seen that SFG does not have a lexicon as such, since lexical items are generated in a top-down fashion through the specification of combinations of choices in networks. In our model, we need to combine the idea of a network with that of the lexicon. The network concerned is, however, at the prelinguistic level of conceptual knowledge. Combinations of concepts from the knowledge base form the basis for the specification of lexical items, but these specifications must also contain information on the syntactic, phonological and graphological properties of the items. Although in principle SFG allows the properties of lexical items to be inferred from the paths taken from systemic networks, and from the associated realisation rules both within and between levels of patterning, the lack of any component where the properties of a lexeme are all brought together is a drawback in terms of the perspective taken here. Furthermore, the Hallidayan concept of ‘lexis as most delicate grammar’ does not fit well with the lexically-driven view of language processing for which, as we have seen, considerable evidence is available. To the extent that grammatical realisations are generated by ‘early’ (i.e. less delicate) choices in the traversal of systemic networks, while lexical realisations are generated by ‘later’ (more delicate) choices, the SFG approach appears to reverse the priorities of processing. In contrast, FG and RRG, in addition to taking typological adequacy very seriously, do have the lexicon as a central component of the overall theory. Furthermore, RRG has a separate level of syntactic representation, while FG does not; however, it is possible, as pointed out earlier, that Bakker’s work on the expression component, as developed recently by Bakker & Siewierska, may effectively provide a syntax for FG. Is it possible, then, that FG, RRG or some combination of the two might provide the kind of lexicogrammatical model we need? Particularly attractive for our purposes, in my view, is the model put forward in Mairal Usón & Van Valin (2001) and Mairal Usón & Faber (2002), especially if the concept of prototype can be given a greater role. As we saw in §6.2.2.3 of Part 1, these authors propose to integrate ideas from the Functional Lexematic Model with the semantic representations of RRG, in the formulation of grammars for lexical domains which are intended to do justice to both the semantic relationships within an onomasiologically based lexicon and the syntactic properties of lexemes within particular domains. This model thus seems to be just the kind we need, in that it is centred on a semantically-organised lexicon, within whose domains the syntactic properties of particular lexical classes of predicates can be systematically specified. Furthermore, as we saw earlier, Marial Usón and his colleagues propose to link semantic representations to an ontological component acting as a conceptual database. Although we have seen that there are some problems with the use of existing computational ontologies as components of a linguistic model, we may hope that such difficulties may be resolved in future work. One important issue, however, remains. We have seen that for cognitive adequacy we need an expression component which operates incrementally. The mapping rules of RRG are, however, simply that: they map a semantic structure on to a syntactic structure, or vice

Chapter 6

FG, RRG and SFG: A final assessment and some pointers to the future 

versa, with no attempt to model the way in which this might occur during processing.25 An important area for future research, therefore, is the extent to which the FLM/RRG model might be compatible with, for instance, the expression rule model of Bakker & Siewierska (Bakker 1999, 2001; Bakker & Siewierska, forthcoming) which, as we have seen, does provide the right sort of emphasis on incremental processing. Bakker & Siewierska themselves express an open mind on this issue: Although this setup [the RRG representations and linking rules – CSB] is not unlike that in FG, at least as far as underlying representations are concerned, it remains to be seen whether RRG linking rules turn out to be equivalent to FG expression rules, especially in the dynamic form we give to them. Only a meticulous comparison between FG and RRG in terms of the division of labor between underlying representation and expression may bring clarity here. (Bakker & Siewierska, 2002: 172–173)

... From form to substance Although in this work we have not been much concerned with the levels of phonology/graphology and phonetics/graphetics, obviously a comprehensive model must include them. They tend to have been somewhat neglected in functional approaches, and deserve greater attention in the future.26 .

Envoi It will be clear, even from the brief discussion in this chapter, that the research programme needed to develop the model I have outlined offers exciting possibilities not only for the expansion of existing ideas but also for further collaboration between linguists working with different functional and cognitive frameworks. It seems fitting to end with a few suggestions for areas which need to be developed in future work. The encyclopaedic knowledge base: Ontologies such as that developed by the Mikrokosmos team may prove to be a useful starting point, but given that computational goals are paramount in this work, and given also the pragmatic and somewhat unsystematic approach taken to the question of cultural relativity, it is unlikely that such ontologies will be usable, in a model such as that envisaged here, without considerable modification. I have suggested that it might be worthwhile to investigate whether a list of putatively universal conceptual primitives such as that proposed by Wierzbicka and her colleagues could be used as a basis for the definition of concepts in the ontology. Further important questions will relate to the paradigmatic structure of the knowledge base, scoping relations among concepts, and the extent and nature of any layering. The grammar: If Nuyts (see e.g. 1998: 283, forthcoming) is right, we should be able to simplify considerably the handling of the semantics, since much of the complication, for

. Of course, the provision of separate semantics-to-syntax and syntax-to-semantics mapping rules is itself motivated partly by considerations of the differences between production and comprehension. . There is, for instance, clear evidence of the importance of prosodic patterning in the comprehension of spoken language (see Wingfield & Titone 1998: 245–246; Cutler & Clifton 1999: 145–151).

 Structure and Function

instance in matters of layering, will already have been dealt with at the conceptual level. I have suggested that one approach which is worth developing is the marriage of ideas from the Functional Lexematic Model and RRG proposed in the recent work of Mairal Usón and his colleagues. It may well be that ideas from cognitive linguistics, especially Construction Grammar, will also find an important place in future developments in this area. These developments should lead to a lexically-based grammar which retains the power of the FLM to describe the paradigmatic relationships among lexemes and the relationships between semantic specificity and syntactic patterning within lexical domains, while adopting the RRG system of semantic structures and their connection, by linking algorithms, to a separate level of syntactic representation. There remains the important problem of converting the static RRG linking rules into an incremental expression component. Discourse structure: There is a great deal of work to be done in comparing the various models of discourse structure which have been proposed in the literature, including those situated within structural-functional theories and discussed in Chapter 4, as well as those arising from more cognitively-oriented work such as that of Kintsch and Werth. There are, I think, some grounds for optimism in the endeavour to formulate a model which will accommodate the structural properties of discourse in a way that lends itself to an account of language processing that takes on board both the cognitive and the sociocultural aspects of discourse as an interactive phenomenon. Language processing: The state of the art in language processing presents a complex and somewhat confusing picture, and there is still a long way to go before we can be confident that we understand the processes involved in both production and comprehension. Attention will need to be given to all levels of language, from discourse macrostructures right down to phonetics/graphetics. The overall model: Concomitantly with the development of individual components, we need to consider how these components will fit together within an overall model which responds to the various criteria of adequacy proposed. In all of the above, particular emphasis will need to be given to the study of the authentic products of linguistic interaction, in the form of corpora of texts and the contextual information associated with them, and to the processing mechanisms which operate in normal communicative settings. This requirement clearly cannot be more than partially fulfilled until we have available corpora (including spoken language) for a much wider range of languages than at present, and until more adequate techniques have been developed for the study of processing in natural, or at least naturalistic, settings. Perhaps the most useful function of the sketchy proposals in this chapter – indeed, the most valuable contribution which this whole work could make – would be to give some indication of the sheer size and complexity of the task ahead for those of us who believe that functionalism needs to go beyond the skewed approaches of individual theories, and to stimulate wide-ranging interchange of ideas, with a view to exploiting the immensely valuable work which has already been done, and planning an ambitious research programme which might lead to an approach that truly responds to sociocultural, discoursal, psychological/cognitive, acquisitional and typological criteria of adequacy.

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Name index

A Ai, X. 148 Albrow, K. H. 425 Alonso Belmonte, M. I. Anstey, M. P. 456 Asher, R. E. 198 Atkins, S. 481 Austin, J. L. 18

141, 149

B Bakhtin, M. M. 325 Bakker, D. 98, 308, 327–329, 397, 433, 452, 454, 460–461, 464, 498–499 Barnard, C. 426 Barsalou, L. W. 461 Bartolucci, G. 448 Bateman, J. A. 149, 171, 430, 434–438, 440, 442 Beale, S. 491 Bell, R. T. 447–448 Bencini, G. M. L. 488 Benson, J. D. 446 Berger, P. L. 18–19, 58 Berglund, Y. 481 Bernstein, B. 387, 415, 418, 425–427 Bernstein Ratner, N. 494–495, 497 Berrendonner, A. 318 Berry, M. 131–132, 139, 142–145, 158, 173, 347–349, 375–376, 383 Biber, D. 138, 481 Birch, D. 447 Birk, D. 425 Bloor, T. 138 Bock, K. 496 Boland, A. 400–401, 452

Bolkestein, A. M. 9–10, 17, 20, 22, 56, 58, 83–87, 90, 92–93, 97, 176, 205, 306–307, 313, 397, 457 Bowcher, W. 389 Braecke, C. 69, 84 Braine, M. D. S. 413 Brazil, D. 347 Broca, P. P. 495 Brown, C. M. 495–496 Brown, G. 306, 340, 354–355 Burton, D. 446–447 Butler, C. S. 36, 55, 191, 195, 337, 339–340, 347, 355, 373, 375–376, 424, 441, 443, 452, 462–464, 481, 483–484 Butt, D. 414, 446 C Caffarel, A. 44, 149 Caplan, D. 495 Carroll, L. 496 Carroll, S. 373–375 Carter, R. A. 444, 446–447 Chafe, W. L. 81–82, 84, 101, 140, 159, 303, 324, 480–481, 488 Chaucer, G. 446 Cheng, M. 148 Chomsky, N. 403, 409–410, 412, 428, 441, 452, 466, 477–479 Christie, F. 426–427 Clahsen, H. 400 Clark, H. H. 485 Clear, J. 481 Clifton, C., Jr. 494, 496, 499 Cloran, C. 41, 337, 387, 389, 424–425 Coffin, C. 426 Cohen, L. 447

 Name index

Comrie, B. 195 Connolly, J. H. 306, 308, 324–325, 398, 430, 433, 457, 459 Conrad, J. 445 Cook, G. 304–305 Cornish, F. 86, 98, 304, 313–314 Coulthard, M. 319–320, 322, 325, 345–347, 398, 485 Crevels, M. 213 Croft, W. 487–488 Cruttenden, A. 146 Cummings, M. 146–149, 173 Cutler, A. 494, 496, 499 Cutrer, M. 259 Cuvalay, M. 211, 213, 400–401 D Daneš, F. 136, 177 Davey, A. 434 Davies, B. L. 390–392, 394–395 Davies, E. C. 52–55, 59 de Beaugrande, R. 373, 375, 474 de Groot, C. 87, 95, 191 Delin, J. 154 de Roeck, M. 299 de Schutter, G. 94 de Villiers, J. G. 412 de Vries, L. 84, 95, 171, 298, 307, 481 Dickinson, E. 443 Dignum, F. 433 Dik, H. 84 Dik, S. C. 1–13, 15–18, 20–23, 25–29, 56–59, 61–81, 83–87, 90–95, 97–100, 157–161, 163–165, 167–171, 174–176, 178–180, 183–193, 195–213, 282, 294, 296, 299, 306–314, 316–318, 324–325, 396–401, 430–433, 439, 443, 451–459, 462, 465–466, 477–478, 483, 486, 489, 496 Dingwall, W. O. 495 Donne, J. 444, 447 Dore, J. 418–419 Doughty, P. 425 Downing, A. 78–79, 89, 94, 98, 128, 137–143, 176, 180, 307, 446 DuBois, J. 398 Durrell, L. 448 Duurkoop, K. 192

E Eckert, U. 441 Edwards, D. 419 Eggins, S. 384, 426 Eliot, T. S. 444 Enkvist, N. E. 131, 139–140 Eschenberg, A. 113

F Faber, P. 213, 448, 454, 460–461, 488, 491, 493, 498 Fairclough, N. 387 Fang, Y. 148 Fawcett, R. P. 43, 45–52, 59, 150–156, 169, 292, 390–395, 438–443, 469–471 Fernández Polo, J. 448 Feu, M. J. 443 Fillmore, C. J. 479, 487 Fine, J. 448 Finegan, E. 138 Firbas, J. 113, 136, 143 Firth, J. R. 324, 469, 483 Foley, W. A. 246, 255, 406 Fortescue, M. 330–331 Fowler, R. 387 Francis, G. 483 Fries, P. H. 42–43, 52, 94, 113, 129, 135–138, 140, 144–145, 158, 179, 341 Fromkin, V. A. 494–495, 497 Fronek, J. 146, 161–163 Fumero Pérez, M. 81, 87, 90–92, 157–159, 174–175 G Garcés Conejos, P. 426 Garman, M. 494 Gatward, R. 433 Geluykens, R. 93 Genee, I. 208 Gernsbacher, M. A. 171, 460, 486 Ghadessy, M. 138, 447 Givón, T. 64, 80–81, 89, 232, 308, 313, 334, 398 Goatly, A. 446 Goddard, C. 492 Goldberg, A. E. 487–488 Golding, W. 444–445

Name index 

Goldman, S. R. 486 Golinkoff, R. 494 Gómez-González, M. A. 82, 92, 94–95, 98, 111, 113, 135, 138, 146, 329–330, 397, 481 Gómez Soliño, J. S. 321–322 Gonzálvez García, F. 488 Goossens, L. 177 Gotteri, N. 448 Graesser, A. 486 Graves, R. 444 Greaves, W. S. 446 Greenbaum, S. 3 Greenberg, J. H. 207, 462 Gregory, M. J. 147, 373–376, 444, 447 Grice, H. P. 16, 411, 413 Grieve, R. 419 Grimes, J. H. 64 Gulla, J. A. 308, 398 Gundel, J. K. 81, 135 Gussenhoven, C. 145–146 H Hagoort, P. 495–496 Haller, J. 440 Halliday, M. A. K. 30–42, 44, 46, 51–56, 58–59, 96, 113–137, 139, 141–142, 144–148, 150–152, 155–156, 158, 160–165, 168–169, 171, 173–177, 179–181, 259–292, 295–299, 303–304, 311, 316, 324, 335–342, 345, 347, 349–361, 363–364, 368–370, 373–377, 380–381, 383, 385–388, 396, 414–427, 429, 434, 436–437, 439, 442–448, 467–477, 482, 498, 491 Han, J. 111–112, 171 Hannay, M. 77, 86–90, 94–98, 158, 161, 173–176, 180, 191–192, 296, 307, 323–324, 401, 457–458, 481 Hansell, M. 259 Harder, P. 211, 323 Hartnett, C. G. 137 Hasan, R. 41–43, 52, 129, 135–136, 144–145, 147, 303, 311, 335–341, 344–345, 350–360, 369–370, 373, 376, 379, 381–390, 425–427, 446–447, 471–472, 486 Hasegawa, Y. 259 Haverkate, H. 5 Hawkins, P. R. 425

Heid, U. 441 Hemingway, E. 444, 446 Hengeveld, K. 3, 5, 8–13, 17, 20, 23, 56, 98, 180, 201–205, 210–211, 298, 307–308, 311, 314–318, 320–324, 326–329, 397, 400–401, 452–453, 457–458, 461, 482 Hernández Hernández, M. A. 387 Hesp, C. 431, 459 Hirsch-Pasek, K. 494 Hjelmslev, L. 384, 387–388 Hoey, M. 341 Hoogenraad, R. 419 Hoppenbrouwers, S. 433 Hopper, P. J. 398 Hori, M. 44–45, 149 Housman, A. E. 446 Hovy, E. H. 368–369, 394, 430, 438, 440 Huang, C.-T. J. 410 Huang, G. 152–154 Huddleston, R. D. 41–43, 51, 128–135, 139, 142–143, 145, 177, 259, 279–291, 354–355, 469 Hudson, R. A. 42, 55, 133, 347, 425, 470, 472, 482 Hunston, S. 483 Hymes, D. 310, 324, 456 I Inchaurralde, C. 322 J Jacobsen, W. H. 259 Janssen, T. M. V. 433 Jiménez Juliá, T. 95 Johnson, M. 461 Johnson, S. R. 433 Jones, J. 426 Joyce, J. 445 K Kahrel, P. 431 Karttunen, L. 434 Kasper, R. T. 438 Kay, P. 434, 487 Keenan, E. L. 195–196, 308 Keijsper, C. E. 95

 Name index

Keizer, M. E. 84–89, 91, 93, 95, 158–159, 163, 165, 174–175, 180, 307, 481 Kemmerer, D. 448, 466 Kempson, R. 411 Kennedy, C. 445 Kintsch, W. 491, 494, 497, 500 Kosslyn, S. M. 491 Kress, G. 381 Kroon, C. H. M. 20, 306–308, 315, 318–320, 322–325, 397–398, 457–458 Kwee, T. L. 282, 311, 430, 432–433, 442

L Labov, W. 321, 478 Lakoff, G. 23, 461 Lalleman, J. 400 Lambrecht, K. 81–82, 94, 101–103, 105, 157–161, 164, 166, 175, 332 Langacker, R. W. 330, 359, 488 LaPolla, R. J. 30, 101–111, 157, 160–161, 164, 166–167, 170–172, 174–175, 178–179, 214–218, 220–221, 223, 225–238, 240–250, 252–255, 257–259, 297–298, 331–334, 396, 409–410, 465–467, 477 Larkin, P. 443 Lavid López, J. 134, 163 Leckie-Tarry, H. 380–381 Leech, G. N. 23–24, 446 LeFanu, J. S. 443 Lemke, J. 377, 426, 446 Levelt, W. J. M. 494–497 Levinson, S. C. 41, 490, 493 Lewis, D. 430, 441 Liedtke, F. 17–18, 57, 97, 320, 397, 457 Limburg, M. 191 Lin, Y. Q. 45, 51, 152, 156, 439–440 Locke, P. 141 Longacre, R. E. 308, 311 Lowe, I. 89, 140 Luckmann, T. 18–19, 58 Lund, K. 400

M Mackay, D. 425 Mackenzie, J. L. 84–89, 91, 93, 95, 97–98, 158–159, 163, 165, 174–175, 180, 307–308,

316–318, 324, 326–327, 329–330, 397, 401, 457–458, 460–461, 481, 484, 487 MacWhinney, B. 400 Mahesh, K. 491–492 Maier, E. 368–369 Mairal Usón, R. 213, 454, 460–461, 488, 491, 493, 498, 500 Malinowski, B. 355, 469 Mann, W. C. 308, 364–366, 369, 434–437 Martin, J. R. 40–42, 129–130, 133–137, 145, 147–148, 158, 160, 177, 184, 275, 278, 280–281, 283–284, 286–289, 298, 337, 341–345, 348–350, 355–356, 358, 369–373, 375–381, 383–388, 390–391, 423, 426, 448, 469, 472, 486 Martín Arista, J. 488 Martínez Caro, E. 93–94, 98, 180, 307 Marvell, A. 444 Mathesius, V. 113, 136 Matthiessen, C. M. I. M. 37, 39–40, 42–44, 49, 57, 60, 124–126, 128–131, 133–136, 138, 145, 147, 149, 160, 164, 171, 177, 179, 181, 273, 277–284, 286–291, 299–300, 311, 354–355, 363–364, 367–368, 372–373, 375–377, 390, 426, 434–440, 442, 469–470 Mauranen, A. 426 Maynard, S. K. 149 McCabe, A. 303 McCabe, A. M. 141, 149 McDonald, D. D. 434 McDonald, E. 148 McEnery, A. 478–479 McGregor, W. B. 2, 39, 134, 136, 161, 180, 192, 237, 263–264, 296, 336, 359, 469, 474 McIntosh, A. 373, 424–426 McKeown, K. R. 434 Meijs, W. 432 Melrose, R. 426 Melville, A. 446 Miller, G. A. 461 Mohan, B. 425 Montgomery, M. 346, 446 Moreno Ortiz, A. 491–492 Morgan, J. L. 339, 354 Mortensen, L. 448 Moutaouakil, A. 15–17, 20–22, 57, 59, 93, 95, 308, 317, 457 Munday, J. 149, 448

Name index 

N Nesbitt, C. 278 Newmark, P. 448 Nirenburg, S. 491 Noonan, M. 210 Nuyts, J. 97, 203, 307–308, 325, 329, 397, 431, 457–461, 481, 488, 490–491, 493, 499 Nwogu, K. 138 O O’Donoghue, T. F. 439 Ohori, T. 259 Olbertz, H. 481 Olson, M. L. 218, 226, 298 Osterhout, L. 495–496 Ostler, N. 481 Otal, J. L. 28 O’Toole 447 P Painter, C. 419–424, 428–429 Paris, C. L. 438 París, L. A. 217 Park, K.-S. 112 Parsons, G. 341 Patten, T. 430 Pavey, E. 113 Pearce, J. 425 Pederson, E. 490–491 Pérez Hernández, C. 448, 491 Pérez Hernández, L. 14, 26–29, 307, 320 Pérez Quintero, M. J. 210–211, 452, 482 Perfetti, C. A. 494, 496 Perkins, M. R. 483 Perrett, G. 426–427 Peters, A. 411 Pickvance, R. 425 Pine, J. 412 Piñero, E. 443 Plath, S. 447 Plum, G. 278, 288 Poe, E. A. 446 Poynton, C. 379–380, 424 Prince, E. F. 81–82, 84, 101, 154, 159, 308 Q Quirk, R. 14, 94, 144, 183, 229

R Ramm, W. 149 Raskin, V. 491 Ravelli, L. J. 131, 143 Reeves, L. M. 494 Reid, I. 381 Rijkhoff, J. 9–10, 21, 211, 317, 321, 325, 464 Rijksbaron, A. 84, 191–192, 211 Rispoli, M. 403–409 Risselada, R. 12–15, 17, 25, 27, 57–59, 306–307, 457 Roberts, J. 218 Rochester, S. 448 Rodionova, E. 113 Roeper, T. 412 Rose, D. 426 Rösner, D. 441 Ross, J. R. 409–410 Roth, B. 441 Rothery, J. 426–427 Roulet, E. 318, 324 Rowland, C. 412 Ruiz de Mendoza Ibánez, F. J. 14, 22–29, 307, 320

S Sadock, J. 43 Samuelsdorff, P. O. 432 Sánchez García, J. M. 443, 448 Sánchez-Macarro, A. 426, 447 Sapir, E. 477 Schaub, P. 425 Schieffelin, B. 408 Schleppegrell, M. 427 Schmidt, P. 440–441 Schönefeld, D. 494–495 Searle, J. R. 18, 20, 53, 55, 324–325 Seidlhofer, B. 303–305, 473 Sellner, M. B. 339, 354 Shimojo, M. 113 Short, M. H. 444–446 Siewierska, A. 80–87, 89–90, 92–95, 98, 100, 159, 308, 327–329, 397, 452, 460–462, 464–465, 498–499 Silverstein, M. 232 Simpson, P. 446

 Name index

Sinclair, J. M. 319–320, 322, 325, 345–346, 398, 443–444, 479, 482–485 Slobin, D. 405 Smith, C. 405 Smits, A. 90, 95 Spencer, J. 373, 444 Sperber, D. 22, 101 Stainton, C. 131 Stanchev, S. B. 98 Steinbeck, J. 445 Steiner, E. 149, 436, 440–441, 448 Stenström, A.-B. 324 Steuten, A. A. G. 322, 325, 397–398, 458 Stevens, W. 446 Stillar, G. 446–447 Strevens, P. 373, 424–426 Stubbs, M. 479, 484 Szatmari, P. 448 T Taglicht, J. 132 Taylor, C. 448 Taylor Torsello, C. 446 Teich, E. 436 Tench, P. 51, 156 Tennyson, A. 446 Thibault, P. 375 Thompson, B. 425 Thompson, S. A. 281–282, 308, 311, 364–369, 372, 394, 398, 437 Thornton, G. 425 Thornton, R. 412 Threadgold, T. 381, 447 Titone, D. 496, 499 Togeby, O. 15, 17, 84 Tomlin, R. S. 80 Toolan, M. 446 Torr, J. 423 Tucker, G. H. 45, 51, 152, 156, 438–440 Turner, G. J. 425 U Uylings, H. B. M. V Vainikka, A.

412

495

van de Grift, M. 307, 313 van den Berg, M. 18–19, 28, 57–59, 97, 307–308, 320, 397, 457 van der Auwera, J. 192, 197, 296–298 van der Korst, B. 434 van der Mije, A. 390–393 van Dijk, T. A. 485 van Hoorick, B. 87 Van Valin, R. D., Jr. 30, 101–111, 157, 160–161, 164, 166–167, 170–172, 174–175, 178–179, 214–221, 223, 225–238, 240–250, 252–255, 257–259, 297–298, 331–334, 396, 402–404, 406, 409–413, 429, 465–467, 475, 477, 498 van Wissen, C. 390–393 Vasconcellos, M. 149 Veel, R. 426 Ventola, E. 348–349, 384–385, 391, 426, 436, 448 Verschueren, J. 27 Verstraete, J.-C. 359, 481 Vester, E. 77, 191–192, 296 Vet, C. 9–12, 17, 19, 22, 28, 57–59, 97, 307–308, 320, 322, 397, 457–458 Vismans, R. M. 70, 94–95, 98 Voogt-van Zutphen, H. 432 Vossen, P. 432 W Wakker, G. 211–213 Waletzky, J. 321 Watters, J. R. 171, 259 Weerasinghe, A. R. 439 Weigand, H. 433–434 Wells, H. G. 140 Wells, W. H. G. 69 Wernicke, C. 495 Werth, P. 305, 494, 500 Whorf, B. L. 359, 439, 469, 492 Widdowson, H. 303–305, 472–476 Wierzbicka, A. 492, 499 Wignell, P. 426 Wilkins, D. P. 234–235 Williams, G. 427 Wilson, A. 478–479 Wilson, B. 411 Wilson, D. 22, 101 Wingfield, A. 496, 499

Name index 

Winograd, T. 434 Wodak, R. 426 Woolf, V. 446 Wordsworth, W. 444 Wray, A. 479, 483–484, 493 Y Yallop, C. 448 Yang, B. 259

Young, D. 375 Young, L. 427 Yule, G. 306, 340, 354–355

Z Zelinsky-Wibbelt, C. 440 Ziv, Y. 84, 99 Zwicky, A. 43

Language index

A Acehnese 109, 246, 249, 467 Aghem 7, 67, 72, 93, 171 Algonquian 65, 334 Arabic (Modern Standard) 15–16, 21, 44, 72, 93, 95, 213 Australian Aboriginal languages 100, 192, 234 B Bambara 258 Bantu 67, 252 Barai 226–228, 243 Basque 7, 198 Bulgarian 98 C Caucasian 111 Cebuano 99 Chinese/Mandarin 44, 106–107, 147–148, 152, 243, 245, 249, 259, 436 Chukchi-Kamchatkan 315 Czech 162 D Danish 187 Dutch 5, 8, 12–14, 70–72, 75, 93–94, 98–100, 110, 174, 193, 196–197, 207, 211, 400, 431, 481 Dyirbal 64, 110, 243, 245–246, 249, 334, 467 E English 3–4, 6–8, 12–15, 17, 20–23, 30–31, 36, 41, 43–44, 46, 50, 52–53, 55, 60, 64, 68–69, 71–72, 75–77, 79–81, 86–87, 89–90, 93–95,

98–100, 103–106, 108–110, 113–115, 120, 125, 126, 128, 137–138, 141–143, 145, 147–149, 152, 158, 160, 162, 164, 169, 171–177, 179–181, 184–185, 190, 192, 194–196, 198–199, 206–207, 211, 214–215, 217–218, 220, 223, 226, 228–229, 231–235, 242–243, 245–246, 248, 251–252, 254, 259, 264–265, 273–274, 278, 291, 294–295, 298, 307, 314, 319, 323–324, 327, 330, 332, 334–339, 341, 346, 350, 354–357, 359–364, 368, 372, 397, 400–401, 404, 408–412, 425–429, 431, 434–436, 442, 447–448, 454, 463–464, 467–468, 470–471, 479–482, 482, 497 F Finno-Ugric 196 Finnish 30, 196 French 11–12, 21, 44, 75, 106, 113, 147, 149, 190, 196, 217, 243, 314, 379, 404, 431, 434 G German 5, 75, 99, 110, 147, 149, 162, 181, 196–197, 204, 207, 338, 379, 400, 412, 436, 440–441, 481 Germanic 196 Godié 79 Gooniyandi 2, 192, 264 Greek (Classical, Ancient) 211–213, 306 H Hebrew (Modern) 99 Hindi 44 Hixkaryana 192 Hungarian 7, 72, 87, 95, 109, 407, 409, 412, 433

 Language index

I Icelandic 109–111, 172, 252 Imbabura Quechua 198 Indo-European 396, 467 Indonesian 44 Inguish 111 Irish (Old, Middle, Early Modern, Modern) 208, 412 Italian 106–107, 160, 170, 196, 379, 407, 409 J Jakaltek 111 Japanese 44–45, 81, 95, 104, 106, 109, 113–114, 134, 147, 149–150, 171, 179, 197, 259, 404–406, 436–437 K Kaluli 407–409 Kâte 147 Kinyarwanda 252 Kombai 307 Korean 44, 111–113, 171, 197, 214, 259 Koryak 315 L Lakhota 30, 109, 236, 238, 249, 258, 333, 410–411, 467 Lango 111 Latin 10, 13–14, 20, 205, 306–307, 319–320, 333, 431 Luganda 190 M Mandarin see Chinese Mande 172 Mari 197 Mojave 76 Mparntwe Arrernte 234 Murinypata 198 N Native American 334 Niger-Kordofanian 258 Nilo-Saharan 110 Niuean 252

Nootka 259, 330

O Old English 148–149 Papuan 64, 67, 218, 223, 226, 297–298, 307, 407 Philippine 99–101, 147–148 Polish 72, 87, 89–90, 99, 113, 404 Polynesian 252 Portuguese 149

R Romance 196 Romani 412 Russian 106, 113, 357, 379

S Sama 111, 249 Serbo-Croatian 72 Sesotho 106, 172 Slavic 179 Sotho 106 Spanish 5, 21, 25–26, 30, 77–79, 81, 93–94, 98, 103–105, 109, 141, 149, 170, 180, 191, 194–196, 208, 213, 217, 292, 307, 316, 319, 323, 333, 379, 448, 452, 481, 483–484, 492 Sudanese 99

T Tagalog 76, 147–148, 467 Tamil 197–198 Tepehua 243 Thai 44 Toura 172 Turkish 7, 72, 109, 197, 259, 400, 404, 407

U Urdu 447 Usan 79, 198 Ute 111 Uto-Aztecan 111 W Wambon 64, 67, 72, 95, 171, 307

Language index 

Y Yateé Zapotec 334 Yuma 198

Z Zulgo 79 Zuni 334

Subject index

A aboutness (in relation to topicality/Theme) in FG 62, 81, 83, 95, 159, 175 in RRG 104, 157–158, 175 in SFG 52, 125, 132–137, 139–141, 175, 177 referential vs. relational 135, 158 accentuation 6, 67–69, 71, 83, 86, 88, 98, 112, 120, 146, 159 see also prosody accessibility of referent see referent achievement predicate (in FG) see predicational term acoustic component (in Functional Discourse Grammar) 20 Acquilex project see computational linguistics acquisition of language see learning languages acquisitional adequacy 400, 465–466, 488–489, 500 act ascriptive 323, 325, 329 discourse in Birmingham model of discourse 338, 345–346 in Cardiff SFG model of discourse 393–394 in FG 19, 98, 318–320, 322–327, 458 correlation with intonation unit 324 subact (in Incremental Functional Grammar) 460, 487 ascriptive 326–327 referential 326–327, 460 illocutionary 18 interactional 322 locutionary phatic 18 phonetic 18

rhetic 18 referential 323, 325 type of embedded clause (in SFG) 272, 295 activation state of referent see referent activity sequence (in SFG) see cohesion: in SFG: relations: in Martin’s discourse semantics: ideation Actor (in RRG) see macrorole Actor-Undergoer Hierarchy (in RRG) 112, 251, 256, 407, 465 adjacency pair/sequence 6, 52, 158, 324–325, 335, 340, 345 see also cohesion: relations: organic address, forms of 379 adverb(ial) acquisition of see learning languages: in relation to FG clause in FG 199, 209–213, 433 complexity external 209, 213 internal 209–211, 213 concession 213 condition 11, 78, 207, 211–213 illocutionary vs. predicational vs. propositional 212–213 implicational hierarchy in relation to realisation types 210–211 in written English 211 purpose 207 temporal 207 in RRG 227, 237, 242 condition 232 purpose 232 sequential 232

 Subject index

temporal 232 in SFG 263, 268–269, 280–282, 291–292 see also enhancement: hypotactic advice see illocution affect (in SFG) 379–380 see also evaluative language (in SFG): appraisal agentivity 42 agreement phenomena 108–109, 407–408, 465, 469 Aktionsart, in relation to language acquisition see learning languages: in relation to RRG amplification (in SFG) see evaluative language (in SFG): appraisal anaphora in FG 312–314, 318, 432–433, 463–464 anaphorical relation 312–313 antecedent 312–313 discourse anaphora 312 effects of predicator on anaphor interpretation 314 expression types 313–314 in relation to cohesion 317 in relation to coordination 187 in relation to participant tracking 307 in relation to Topic 64–65, 68, 86, 159, 312 in relation to variables in underlying clause structure 1, 75, 188, 313 representation of anaphors 315 sentence anaphora 312 zero anaphora 64, 186, 194–195, 198, 294 in RRG 102, 107, 109, 242, 334, 408, 471 anaphoric negation see learning languages: in relation to RRG: negation in SFG see cohesion: in SFG: relations: in Halliday & Hasan’s approach: phoric relations antecedent see anaphora: in FG antipassive see voice antonymy (in SFG) see cohesion: in SFG: relations: componential: lexical aphasia see pathology applicability, as criterion of adequacy for linguistic theory 442, 449, 467–468, 473–477

applications see computational linguistics, educational linguistics, language pathology, stylistics applied linguistics 474 apposition in FG 198 in RRG 237, 239–241, 411 in SFG 264–265, 271, 273, 356, 360 appraisal (in SFG) see evaluative language appreciation (in SFG) see evaluative language (in SFG): appraisal ASCOT project see computational linguistics aspect 34, 43, 66, 127, 148, 188, 203, 226–228, 231, 314, 439 acquisition of see learning languages: in relation to RRG: aspect aspectual relation (in RRG) 232–233 attentional frame 92, 98, 330 B backgrounded vs. foregrounded information in FG 206, 321 in SFG 444–445 begging see illocution belief system (in Cardiff SFG) see knowledge base: in SFG bottom-up 18, 321, 323 business communication 131, 322 bystander (in FG) 10, 321, 325 C Cardiff grammar (SFG) 471, 497 complex sentences 263, 273, 291–292, 296–297, 299–300 computational linguistics 438–441, 489 discourse grammar 390–395, 398 functional explanation 470–471 illocution/mood 30, 45–52, 56, 59 information structure (Theme, given/new, voice) 150–156, 169–170 strands of meaning 470 case marking/assignment 259 acquisition of see learning languages: in relation to RRG in relation to information structure 64, 109, 112–113 cataphora

Subject index

in FG 187 in SFG see cohesion: in SFG: relations: in Halliday & Hasan’s approach: phoric relations categorial statement 84 categorisation 23, 461, 488 causative relation (in RRG) 232–233, 243, 246, 251 central vs. non-central token (in SFG) see cohesion: in SFG: lexical chain Centripetal Organisation, Principle of (in FG) 453 CHILDES database 400 child language acquisition see learning languages chooser, semantic see computational linguistics: in relation to SFG: Nigel grammar/Penman project on natural language generation clausal term (in FG) 183–184, 191, 199, 205, 293 clause complex (in SFG) 338 relationships of clauses within see complex sentence system networks for clause complex in English 277–278 thematic ordering within see Theme in relation to units other than the clause vs. sentence (in SFG) 259–260 linkage marker (in RRG) 229–231 see also complementiser satellite (σ5 ) (in FG) 314 cleft and psuedocleft constructions in FG 6, 67, 69, 73–76, 167–169 in RRG 105–106, 167, 225–226, 229 in SFG 51, 62, 119–120, 125, 152–155, 168–170, 281 see also Theme: in Cardiff SFG: enhanced Theme, Theme: in Cardiff SFG: object-as-role-in-event construction, Theme: in Sydney SFG: predicated, Theme: in Sydney SFG: thematic equative clinical linguistics see pathology coclassification (in SFG) see cohesion: in SFG: relations: componential: grammatical code, elaborated vs. restricted 425 coextension (in SFG) see cohesion: in SFG: relations: componential: lexical

cognition Cognitive Discourse Space 330 Cognitive Grammar 330 cognitive commitment 23 cognitive component (in Functional Discourse Grammar) 322, 328, 397 in FG accounts of illocution see illocution in SFG 469 predicate (in RRG) 232–235 cohesion in FG 307, 315–317 see also discourse: in FG: discourse coherence in RRG 233, 471 in SFG 55, 116, 146–147, 150, 162, 335–345, 357–363, 369–372, 396, 417–418, 442–444, 448, 487 as potential and as process 336 cohesive harmony 340–341, 344–345 cohesive tie 336 definition 336 in relation to coherence 311, 339–341, 344–345 intersentential vs. intrasentential 336, 357–358, 369 lexical chain 339–341 focal chain 341 identity chain 340 in Martin’s discourse semantics 344 see also reference chain below in relation to text coherence 341, 344 interaction between chains 341, 344 psychological validity 341 similarity chain 340 non-structural nature 336–337 reference chain (in Martin’s discourse semantics) 356–357 relations in Halliday & Hasan’s approach componential 340, 345 grammatical 340 lexical 337–345 conjunctive 337–338, 340, 357–363 additive 358, 360, 369



 Subject index

adversative 358, 360–361 causal 358–359, 362–363 implicit vs. explicit 363 in relation to categories of expansion 360–363 elaboration 360 enhancement 360–361 elaboration 360–363 internal vs. external 358–359, 361 temporal 357–358, 361–362, 369 ellipsis 278, 337–338, 340, 350, 353–354, 356–357, 376–377, 418, 422 clausal 37, 337, 353–354 nominal 337, 353 verbal 337, 353 organic 340, 345 reference 337–338, 340, 350–352, 354, 357, 423 see also participant identification: in SFG comparative 337, 351–352 demonstrative 337, 351–352 personal 337, 351–352 phoric relations 283, 444 endophoric 350–351, 354–355 anaphoric 122, 161, 350–351, 355–356, 422 cataphoric 350, 355, 357

esphoric 355 exophoric 350–351, 354–355 homophoric 351 substitution 196, 278, 337–338, 340, 350, 352–357, 377 clausal 337, 353 nominal 337, 352 verbal 337, 352 in Martin’s discourse semantics see also participant identification: in SFG conjunction 369–371 additive relations 369–371 comparative relations 369–371 consequential relations 369–371 internal vs. external relations 369–371 temporal relations 369–371 continuity 371–372 ideation, in relation to field 341–345, 380 activity sequence relations 342–344, 380, 385 nuclear relations 343–344 see also collocation taxonomic relations 342–344, 380 composition 342–344 superordination 342–344 colligation 483 collocation 146, 337, 339–340, 343–344, 380, 443–444, 479, 482–483 Columbia school of linguistics 86 command see illocution comment Adjunct (in SFG) see modal Adjunct commentative predicate (in FG) see predicational term commissive 246 see also illocution

Subject index 

COMMUNAL project see computational linguistics: in relation to SFG Communication Linguistics 447 communicative component (in Functional Discourse Grammar) 322, 328, 397 task urgency, principle of 89 complementation 202 in FG 205, 208, 213, 299, 454 see also clausal term, predicational term, propositional term in RRG 234–235 in SFG 291–292, 299 see also hypotaxis complementiser in FG 203–204 in RRG 216, 221, 229 in SFG 292 Completeness Constraint (in RRG) 247–249, 253 complex NP constraint, acquisition of see learning languages: in relation to RRG: extraction restrictions sentence comparison of theories 294–301 in Cardiff SFG 291–292, 296–297, 299–300 in FG 183–213, 293–301 in RRG 214–259, 293–301 acquisition of see learning languages: in relation to RRG in Sydney SFG 259–291, 436 term (in FG) 183–184, 199, 293, 432 see also clausal term, predicational term, propositional term formal properties 206–209 functional properties 205–207 comprehension see processing of language computational linguistics 430–443 computational adequacy 471, 489 in relation to FG Acquilex project 432 ASCOT project 432 FG Computational Model of the Natural Language User (FG*C*M*NLU) 430–431, 455 LINKS project 432 machine translation 434

natural language generation 431–433 parsing 431, 433–434 ProfGlot 309, 431–432, 434 role of lexicon 432 in relation to linguistic theory 430, 432, 441–443 in relation to SFG 163, 364, 467, 469, 473 COMMUNAL project (Cardiff SFG) 45, 152, 390, 438–441, 471 EUROTRA project 440–441 KOMET project 436 natural language generation 434–440, 442 Nigel grammar/Penman project 434–438, 440 semantic choosers 435, 437–438, 440 parsing 438–440 PAULINE project 438 conceptual component (in Functional Discourse Grammar) 20, 323, 329, 397, 461 conceptualisation 20, 212, 303, 320, 323, 330, 457, 459–461, 473, 487, 490– 495, 498–500 see also ontology concession clause see adverbial clause conditional clause see adverbial clause conjunction conjunctive Adjunct (in SFG) 116–118, 148–149 preposition (in SFG) 269, 271–272 in FG 50, 90, 191, 206, 213, 298 in SFG 116–118, 124–125, 140–141, 149, 170, 262, 267–269, 278, 290, 337, 345, 357–363, 422–423 see also cohesion: in SFG: relations: in Halliday & Hasan’s approach: conjunctive, conjunctive Adjunct, cohesion: in SFG: relations: in Martin’s discourse semantics: conjunction in RRG 172, 219, 229, 297–298 reduction (in RRG) 242–243 connector/connective see also conjunction in FG 20, 307, 311–312 in SFG connotative semiotic see genre: in SFG, register constituent order in FG 8, 64, 67, 69–72, 76, 87–88, 90, 93, 95–96, 99, 173, 177, 187, 192–193,

 Subject index

206–208, 299, 307, 317, 400, 453–454, 465 see also Language-Independent Preferred Order of Constituents, orientational field, P1, P2, P3, prefield, postfield, topic: in FG: Topic as pragmatic function: expression of Topic: placement in special positions in RRG 30, 104, 106, 167, 173, 178, 408, 410 see also focus: in RRG: coding of in SFG 46, 127, 170, 173, 178 see also Theme: in Cardiff SFG, Theme: in Sydney SFG, voice: in Cardiff SFG, voice: in Sydney SFG construction (in cognitive linguistics) 26–27 Construction Grammar 484, 487–488, 500 contact (as variable in register in SFG) 378–380, 382–383 context 52–55, 59, 485, 492 cognitive models of 487 contextual component (in Functional Discourse Grammar) 20, 323 contextual level (in Connolly’s model of discourse representation) 325 discourse context/co-text 479 in an integrated functional model 486–487 in FG 4, 18, 81, 86, 90, 92, 309, 314, 320, 330, 355, 454–456, 458 in RRG 102, 111–112, 409 in SFG 53, 420 see also cohesion: in SFG in FG see also discourse context/co-text above social context 18–19, 58, 399, 453–456, 458 manager 19 in RRG 59, 465, 475 in SFG 442 see also field, tenor, mode, register context of culture 355, 376, 380–381, 438, 468 context of situation 45, 336, 355, 373, 375–376, 380–381, 383, 388, 468, 487 contextual configuration 376, 381–382 relationship with metafunctional meanings 374–376, 419

Leckie-Tarry’s conceptual model 380 continuative (in SFG) 118, 124–125, 140 contra-factive predicate (in FG) 199–200 contra-implicative predicate (in FG) 201 contrast see emphasis, focus control construction in relation to RRG 244–251 theory of obligatory control 246–247, 251 in relation to SFG 469 controller (in RRG) 108–109, 245–246, 250, 254, 331, 333 see also control construction, Privileged Syntactic Argument conversation analysis 322, 458 cooperative principle 411, 413 coordination 183, 223 in FG 15, 183–187, 296, 298, 432, 464 covert vs. overt 184 simple 184–186 of clauses 185, 294 of complex terms 186 of sentences 185 simultaneous 184, 187 ‘VP’ coordination 186–187 in RRG 214–215, 218, 232, 237, 296–298, 467 clausal 218–219, 223, 232, 294 core 217, 224, 226, 229, 232, 253, 295, 300 nuclear 226–227, 232 sentential 218 in SFG see enhancement: paratactic, extension: paratactic coreference in FG 312, 319, 432 in RRG 104, 107–109, 172, 246 in SFG see cohesion: in SFG: componential corpus, use of 478–484, 488, 500 advantages and limitations 478–483 in functional linguistics 481 results 483–485 cost-benefit model 24, 27, 29 cosubordination in relation to FG 296–298 in relation to RRG 214, 218, 226, 232, 235, 237, 296–298, 467 clausal 223–224, 232, 242–243, 294, 298

Subject index

core 224–226, 231–233, 253, 295, 300 in noun phrase 240–241 nuclear 217, 227–229, 232–233, 294 in relation to SFG 298–299 co-text see context: discourse context/co-text covariate structure 372 criteria for comprehensive functional model 477–489 critical linguistics 386–387 culmination (in SFG) 126, 164, 179 see also Rheme: New culture 28–29, 321, 325, 345, 349, 365, 369–370, 374, 379–380, 383, 385, 388, 414, 418, 426–429, 446–447, 455, 468–469, 475, 486–487, 489–490, 492–493, 499– 500 see also context: in SFG: context of culture D Daughter Dependency Grammar 347 declaration see illocution declarative 1, 5 see also illocution, mood definiteness/indefiniteness 63–64, 73, 76, 82, 102, 109, 142, 147–148, 159, 168, 195, 314, 318–319, 353, 356, 407, 443–444, 462 see also demonstrative demonstrative 7, 147, 191, 196–197, 314, 337, 351–352 denotative semiotic see genre: in SFG: relationship with register denotatum see referent descriptive adequacy in FG 452, 477, 482 in RRG 477 nature of the data 477–485 diachronic change 208, 259, 462, 465 dialect 230, 373, 424, 444, 455, 462 dialogue 30, 44, 52, 181, 310, 316, 319, 322, 335, 348, 377–378, 391, 394, 415, 417–418, 421–425, 429, 438, 444, 457 diatypic variation see register directive see illocution predicate (in FG) see predicational term directivity scale 27, 29 direct speech 299 in FG 9–10, 199, 205 in SFG 273–275 see also projection: paratactic

discourse 17, 303–398, 500 see also text act see act as product and as process 304 classroom discourse 322, 345–346, 398 definitions of 303–306, 473 discoursal adequacy in FG 452, 456–457, 459, 462 see also pragmatic adequacy in an integrated functional model 485–486, 500 discourse analysis 55, 304–306, 345, 424, 456, 458, 460, 486 Birmingham school 322, 325, 345–348, 391, 398, 485 discourse coherence 486–487 see also cohesion discourse context see context discourse marker 482 see also in FG below discourse module see pragmatic module discourse pragmatics 17, 30, 109, 282, 306, 323–324, 330–331, 396, 458, 465–466, 494, 497 exchange see exchange in FG 28, 80, 95–96, 306–331, 442, 464 anaphoric relations in discourse see anaphora as process vs. product 95–96, 397 coherence 311–314 discourse content 321 discourse context/co-text see context discourse episode 21–22, 311, 323 discourse event 310, 316–317, 325 discourse frame see frame discourse particle/marker 307, 320 Discourse Model 309 discourse world 310 Functional Discourse Grammar see Functional Discourse Grammar functional levels see interpersonal level, representational level, rhetorical level, structural level genre see genre global discourse decisions 310 global structures 310–311 Hengeveld’s early model 314–317 hierarchical structure 310–311 modelled on grammar 308–317, 458



 Subject index

modular approaches see modular approaches to grammar, pragmatics and discourse recursion 311 relational structure 315, 320, 324 representation 324–325 turn 311, 316, 323, 460 in RRG 111, 331–334 in SFG 31, 55, 335–395, 442 discourse and text in relation to cohesion see cohesion discourse and text in relation to metafunction see text discourse grammar in the Cardiff model 46, 297, 390–395 flowchart model see flowchart in relation to Rhetorical Structure Theory 394–395 local discourse grammar 391, 439 planning discourse 390, 438 higher 390, 439 sentence 390, 439 discourse semantics 40–41, 337, 341–345, 348–350, 355–357, 369–370, 377, 379–380, 388, 397 discourse stylistics 446–447 dynamic vs. synoptic approach to discourse 163, 304, 336, 348–349, 356, 372, 380, 384–388, 391, 436, 442–443, 473, 487 paradigmatic vs. syntagmatic relations in discourse 346–347 move see move principles of discourse study 485–486 transaction see transaction vs. text 303–305, 390 disjunct (in relation to SFG) modal 141 relational 141 dislocation left 77, 104, 162 see also left-detached position, P2 position, Theme right 79, 111 see also P3 position, Tail

E education, language in see learning languages: in relation to SFG elaboration Elaboration as pragmatic function in FG 191 Elaboration as relation in Rhetorical Structure Theory 364–367 in SFG 116, 260, 264–267, 277, 343, 348, 360 embedded 270–271 hypotactic 264–268, 271, 297 paratactic 264–265 element (as semantic structural category in SFG) 260, 278 ellipsis 101, 121, 243, 278, 281, 289, 376, 405 as cohesive device (in SFG) see cohesion: in SFG: relations: in Halliday & Hasan’s approach in relation to mood in SFG see mood: in Sydney SFG of VP see ‘VP ellipsis’ embedding 183 in FG 3–4, 10, 76, 94, 179, 183, 185, 187–213, 293–296, 299, 307–308, 432, 463–464 in RRG see subordination: in RRG in SFG 35, 49–50, 154–156, 263, 291, 295–298, 300 of elaborations see elaboration of enhancements see enhancement of expansions see expansion of extensions see extension of projections see projection vs. hypotaxis see hypotaxis emphasis vs. contrast 93 end-weight principle 154 engagement (in SFG) see evaluative language (in SFG): appraisal enhancement (in SFG) 116, 138, 260, 268–269, 277–283, 290, 343, 348, 360–363 embedded 270–272 hypotactic 264, 268–269, 283, 294, 364, 367–368 paratactic 264, 268, 294, 300 episode (as discourse unit in FG) equi-NP deletion see control construction

Subject index 

equivalence (in SFG) see cohesion: in SFG: relations: componential: lexical ergative case/language/construction 64, 100, 110, 334, 408–409, 422, 446 errors, in performance 478, 496–497 evaluative language (in SFG) 349 appraisal 349–350 involvement 349–350 evidential 30, 56–57, 178, 223 exchange (as structural unit in discourse) 319–320, 322–323, 325, 338, 345–346 structure 388 dynamic vs. synoptic perspective 348–349 in Birmingham model of discourse 346 in Cardiff SFG 390–395 in relation to metafunction 55, 347–348 exclamation/exclamative 1 see also illocution, mood existential construction 51, 63–64, 130, 133–134, 142, 154, 159, 307 expansion (in SFG) 260, 263–272, 277, 279, 281, 284, 290–291, 295–297, 300, 337, 343, 348 see also enhancement, elaboration, extension embedded 270–272 experiential metafunction/strand of meaning (in SFG) 42, 49, 51–52, 134, 150, 154–156, 180, 286, 298, 337–345, 355, 359, 377, 379–380, 423, 436, 445, 470 see also Theme: in Sydney SFG: ideational Theme, Theme: in Cardiff SFG: marked vs. unmarked explanatory adequacy see acquisitional adequacy, discoursal adequacy, pragmatic adequacy, psychological/cognitive adequacy, sociocultural adequacy explicature 23, 26 expression rule component in an integrated functional model 497–500 in FG 7, 16, 20, 24, 28–29, 69, 99–100, 299, 325, 327–330, 432–433, 452, 454, 460, 463, 498–499 extension (in SFG) 116, 127, 260, 267–268, 277–278, 343, 348, 360–361, 371 embedded 270–271 hypotactic 264, 266–268, 294–295

paratactic 264, 267, 294, 300 extraclausal constituent (in FG) 93, 176, 185, 298, 324, 464 see also P1, P2, P3 in relation to pragmatic function 77–80 problems with definition and identification 94–95, 173, 178 types Discourse organisation Boundary marking finaliser 77 initiator 61, 77 push and pop 77 topic shifter 77 Interaction management Greeting 22, 56 Minimal response 22, 56 Summons 22, 56 Orientation 198 Condition 77–79, 174–175 General Orientation 77, 79 Setting 61, 77, 79, 89, 171–172, 174–176 Stager 88–89, 176 Theme 61, 75, 77–80, 94–95, 173–175, 211, 318–319 Tail 61, 79–80, 94–95, 173, 179, 206, 318 Discourse execution Response 80 Response Initiator 80 Tag 80 extraction restrictions, acquisition of see learning languages: in relation to RRG extraposition 35, 51, 88–89, 154, 206, 243, 252, 283, 285, 298

F fact, as type of embedded clause in SFG 276, 295 factive vs. semifactive vs. non-factive predicate (in FG) 199, 202, 204–205 field (in SFG) 340–345, 369, 373–378, 380–383, 385, 388–390, 417, 419, 423, 428, 435, 437, 444, 471–472, 487, 492 field-structured text 379 in relation to child language see learning languages: in relation to SFG

 Subject index

figure (as semantic structural category in SFG) 260, 278, 290, 470 final position, in relation to information structure 179 see also culmination, end-weight principle, focus: in Sydney SFG: information focus: marked vs, unmarked, P3, Rheme: New, right dislocation, Tail finite Finite as structural element in SFG 31–35, 37, 42, 44, 51, 115, 118, 120, 125, 129, 147, 353 vs. non-finite verb 70–71, 115, 172, 188, 192–193, 269, 445 flowchart (for discourse description) 348, 385, 390–395, 398 focus/focality 61 in FG 20, 61–62, 65–67, 157, 160, 185, 307, 312, 326–327, 432–433, 456, 464 Focus as pragmatic function 6–8, 61–62, 66–67, 160, 330, 433, 456 Contrastive 66, 69, 85–86, 163 Counter-presuppositional 66, 69, 93, 163–164 Expanding 66–67, 163 Rejecting 66–67, 163–164 Replacing 66–67, 163 Restricting 66–67, 163 Selecting 66–67, 163 Parallel 66, 83, 85, 93, 163, 166 Information gap 66, 163 Completive 66, 68–69, 83, 92, 163, 165–167 predicate focus 93 utterance focus 93 Questioning 66, 163, 167 expression of Focus Focus marking particles 6, 67, 72, 171 placement in special positions 6, 67–76, 174, 179, 453 prosodic prominence 6, 67–69, 164–167, 178, 185, 326 special constructions 6, 67–68, 167–169

in relation to standards of adequacy see pragmatic function in relation to Topic see topic other types proposed completive vs. non-completive 93, 163 contrastive vs. non-contrastive 93, 163 emphatic vs. non-emphatic 93–94, 163 Listing 93 presentative vs. non-presentative 86, 93 problems of definition and identification 92–93 in RRG 331–332, 396, 466 see also presupposition coding of 102, 106–107, 164–167, 171, 236 Focus Accessibility Hierarchy 112 focus domain 103, 105, 410–412 actual 106–107, 112, 164, 410, 412 potential 106, 109, 160, 235–236, 410–412 focus projection 106 focus structure in complex sentences 235–236 in relation to language acquisition see learning languages: in relation to RRG in relation to linking algorithms 108–109 in relation to negation and quantification 107 in relation to pronominalisation 107–108 types of focus narrow 103, 105, 107, 112, 164, 167, 408, 410 marked vs. unmarked 105, 164 broad 103–104, 164 predicate 103–107, 112, 164, 166–167, 242 sentence 103–104, 164 in Cardiff SFG 155–156

Subject index 

in relation to balance in amount of information given 156 in Sydney SFG information focus 121–123, 146, 160–167, 176, 281, 446 in relation to contrastiveness 162–163 marked vs. unmarked 121–122, 126, 145–146, 155–156, 162–167, 176–177, 179 other uses of term ‘focus’ 147–148 formality 27, 43, 310, 374–375 formulaic language 479–480, 483–484, 493 see also idiom principle fractal category (in SFG) 260, 343 frame in FG discourse frame 311–312, 315–316, 321 exchange frame 322 framing relationship (in Semiotic Grammar) 264 illocutionary frame see illocution: in FG: frame text frame 321 Functional Cognitive Discourse Grammar 329–330 Functional Discourse Grammar 20, 98, 180, 322–323, 327–329, 458, 461 functional explanation 475–477 in FG 453–454 in RRG 465–466, 475 in SFG 468–471, 475 Functional Grammar Machine 433 Functional Lexematic Model (FLM) 213, 299, 443, 448, 454, 460–461, 482, 488, 493, 498, 500 Functional Logic (in FG) 16, 212, 431 functional motivation see functional explanation Functional Procedural Grammar (FPG) 97, 307, 325, 329, 457–460, 491 Functional Stability, Principle of (in FG) 453

G gender, social construction of 424

general coextension (as cohesive relation in SFG) see cohesion: in SFG: relations: componential: lexical generalised paralellism hypothesis (in FG) 317 genre 486 in FG 310, 321 in SFG 131, 154, 345, 365, 370, 377, 380–390, 417, 436, 447, 470, 472–473 as connotative semiotic 383–388 generic structure potential 381–384, 446 genre-structured text 379 in Cardiff SFG 390–391 in relation to child language 417 in relation to register 383–390 in relation to Theme 138 in schooling see learning languages: in relation to SFG: language in education schematic structure 384 system networks for genre in English 384 given (‘old’)/new information 61, 80 see also presupposition, referent: activation/cognitive/pragmatic state in FG 20, 62, 65–66, 81–82, 84–86, 88–89, 91–93, 160, 165 see also topic: in FG: types of Topic: Given Topic in RRG 101–103, 108 in SFG (= ‘information structuring’) 335, 377 encoding of given and new information in spoken text 145–146, 160–163 in written text 126, 146 see also culmination in relation to position of tonic in tone group 120–123 see also tonicity in relation to Theme see Theme in Cardiff SFG 150, 153–156 Government and Binding Theory 245 grammatical grammar/grammatical component/module 17–20, 22, 29, 97, 307, 324, 330, 397, 457, 459 in Functional Discourse Grammar 323, 461

 Subject index

metaphor (in SFG) 36, 39, 43, 58–59, 279, 281–282, 284–285, 289, 335, 344, 356 relations (in RRG) see controller, pivot, Privileged Syntactic Argument grammaticalisation 13, 15, 187, 206, 311, 317, 364, 367–368, 372 greeting in FG see extraclausal constituent in SFG see illocution ground/grounding 330, 359, 405

H habitualisation 18, 58 head proximity, principle of (in FG) 193 headed vs. headless constructions 75–76 see also relative clause hierarchy 462 see also Actor-Undergoer Hierarchy, adverbial clause: in FG, Focus Accessibility Hierarchy, Interclausal Relations Hierarchy, relativisation hierarchy, Semantic Function Hierarchy history, writing about 426 holophrase 98, 324, 329, 416, 457 honorifics 45 hyponymy (in SFG) see cohesion: in SFG: relations: componential: lexical hypotaxis/hypotactic (in SFG) 136, 260–263, 277–278, 370 see also elaboration, enhancement, expansion, extension, projection in relation to Rhetorical Structure Theory 364, 367–368 vs. embedding 263, 270, 279–286, 298–299, 368 in Cardiff grammar 291–292, 296 in enhancement (adverbial clauses) 280–282 in non-restrictive relative clauses 283–284 in projection (complement clauses) 282–283 in relation to wh-interrogatives 284–285 vs. parataxis 260–263, 280, 283, 287, 290–291, 296, 298

I Iconic Ordering, Principle of (in FG) 453 iconicity 21, 207, 233, 312, 342, 379, 413, 453, 459 lexical see Lexical Iconicity, Principle of idea (in SFG) 260, 264, 273–278 Idealised Cognitive Model (ICM) 23, 26–29, 307 ideation (in Martin’s discourse semantics in SFG) see cohesion: in SFG: relations: in Martin’s discourse semantics base see knowledge base: in SFG ideational metafunction (in SFG) 36, 55, 57, 96, 126, 147–148, 180, 260, 290, 335, 338, 348, 369, 374, 376, 380, 415, 417, 419, 422–424, 445–446, 470 see also experiential metafunction, ideation, logical metafunction, Theme: in Sydney SFG: ideational Theme identifiability of referent see referent identifying construction 73–76, 119, 167–168, 356, 423 ideology (in SFG) 386–387, 426, 447, 468, 470, 472–474 idiom principle 484 illocution(ary) 304, 306 in Cardiff SFG 45–52, 150 directive 45–48, 50, 56 general suggestion 46–48 request 46–48, 50, 59 self-inclusive 46–48 simple 46–48 in dependent clauses 49 indirect speech acts 45, 50, 59 information giver 45–47, 49–50, 56, 439 information seeker 45–51, 56, 439 in relation to socio-psychological purpose 50, 59 system networks and realisation rules for illocution in English 46–51 in FG 1–29, 78, 95, 180, 307, 318, 320, 323, 464 act see act basic sentence types Declarative 2–4, 7, 10–14, 16–21, 23, 25, 27–28, 56–57, 185, 310, 456

Subject index 

Exclamative 1–3, 5, 10, 21, 56–57, 456 see also exclamation as modality below Imperative 2–3, 5, 10, 12–14, 18–21, 25, 28, 56–57, 185, 200, 456 Interrogative 2–8, 10–11, 13–16, 18–21, 23–25, 28, 57, 59–60, 185, 196–197, 456, 464 disjunctive 6 Q-word 6–8, 66, 70, 76 Q-Focus strategy (in FG) 7–8, 68 Q-Pattern strategy (in FG) 7–8, 68 yes/no 6 cognitive view 8, 22–29 conditionals see adverbial clause: in FG: condition conventionalisation 13, 15–17, 25–26 conversion 12–14, 17, 21, 58 grammatical 4–5, 9–10, 23–25, 57, 456 lexical 4 pragmatic 4, 13, 23, 57 default illocution in relation to genre of discourse 310, 317, 325 encoded in expression (IllE ) 1–2, 12, 17, 57, 59, 456 exclamation as modality 20–22 frame 8–10, 315, 401 illocutionary convention 18, 27, 29 implicated/implied see indirect below in relation to coordination 185 in relation to layering 8–10 indirect 8, 10–20, 22–29 intended by speaker (IllS ) 1–2, 12, 17 interpreted by addressee (IllA ) 1–2, 12, 17 literalised 15 mitigation 5, 9, 11–13, 23–24, 27 modular approaches see modular approaches to grammar, pragmatics and discourse operator 3–12, 16, 18–19, 23–24, 57, 60, 88, 96, 178, 191, 200, 205, 212 see also basic sentence types above

performative analysis 2, 9 predicate 8–10, 56 reinforcement 4–5, 9, 11–12, 21, 23–24 satellite 3–4, 9, 26, 209–210, 212, 324, 401 sequencing of illocutionary acts 316–317 specifier/modifier 11–12 speech act types advice 24, 26, 28 begging 28–29 command 3, 18, 41–42 commissive 18, 27 see also promise below declaration 18 directive 13, 18, 24–25, 27 see also command, order, request above and below invitation 28 metadirective 13 offer 24–25, 28, 41–42 order 12, 18, 24–25, 28–29 promise 27–28 proposal 13–14 question 3, 13, 18, 57, 65–66, 68, 70, 76, 79, 82, 433 echo 167 rhetorical 5, 10 request 4, 13, 15–18, 23–26, 28–29, 57, 200, 326–327 statement 3, 26 suggestion 13, 24–25, 28 threat 4, 28 warning 2, 4, 28 stance (in Incremental Functional Grammar) 326 typology, in Risselada’s work 14 variable 1, 8–9, 11, 17 in RRG 60, 218, 220–221, 223, 235, 404, 411–413 declarative 30, 56, 412 imperative 30, 56, 406 interrogative 30, 56, 223, 413 wh- 105–106, 109, 331–332 acquisition of wh-questions see learning languages: in relation to RRG optative 30, 56

 Subject index

speech function in Sydney SFG 30–31, 51, 359 see also mood advice 36 basic types command 30, 34–36, 38–39, 56, 335, 417, 435 offer 30, 35–36, 39, 41, 56, 335, 345 question 30–31, 35, 38, 56, 115–116, 133–135, 335, 345, 416 see also learning languages: in relation to SFG, literal mood meaning and significance statement 30–31, 35, 38–39, 56, 335, 417 call 35, 39–40, 56 directive 55 see also command above exclamation 35, 37, 39, 56 greeting 35, 37, 39–40, 56 in relation to mood 31, 35–36, 40–41, 349 in verbless clauses 35 invitation 38 prohibition 34, 38 promise 36 response discretionary contradiction 31 disclaimer 31, 345 refusal 31, 345 rejection 31 expected acceptance 31, 345 acknowledgment 31 answer 31, 345 undertaking 31 system networks for speech function in English 39–41 threat 36 warning 36 imperative 1, 5 see also illocution, mood implicative vs. non-implicative predicate (in FG) 201 implicature 16, 23, 161 Incremental Functional Grammar 97–98, 307, 326–327, 329–330, 397, 457– 458, 460, 484, 487

indicative 52 see also mood indirect discourse predicate (in RRG) 232–233 speech 299 in FG 9–10, 199, 205 in SFG 273–275 see also projection: hypotactic free indirect speech 274 indirection scale 25 indirectness scale 27 information distribution/structure 55–56, 58 see also focus, given/new information, rheme, theme, topic, voice comparison of approaches 156–182 in FG 61–101, 307, 330, 456–457, 460 in RRG 101–113, 331, 407, 410 in SFG 113–156, 417 focus (in SFG) see focus: in SFG strategy, in cognitive approach to illocution in FG 28–29 unit (in SFG) 36, 39–40, 120–121, 155–156, 160, 162, 164–165, 169, 209, 281, 324 initial position, in relation to information structure 7, 64, 68–69, 78, 88–90, 92, 98, 171–178, 453, 460 see also orientational field, P1, P2, Theme innateness see learning languages instantial coextension (as cohesive category in SFG) see cohesion: in SFG: relations: componential: lexical institution 18–19, 58, 310–311, 325, 342, 349, 355, 369, 379, 389 integrated structural-functional model 477–500 interaction as structural unit in discourse 320 base (in SFG) see knowledge base: in SFG management (in FG) 22, 311 interactional level of discourse (in FG) 320, 322, 326–327, 397 Interclausal Relations Hierarchy (in RRG) 231–235, 466 in relation to language acquisition see language learning: in relation to RRG interpersonal level in FG in Connolly’s model of discourse representation 325

Subject index 

in Dik’s model of discourse 310–311, 317 in Functional Discourse Grammar 20, 180, 322–323, 328–329, 461 in Gómez Soliño’s model of discourse 321 in Hengeveld’s early model of discourse 315–317 in underlying clause structure 56, 209 grammatical metaphor (in SFG) see grammatical metaphor metafunction/strand of meaning in SFG 31, 43, 49, 55–57, 96, 126, 147, 161, 180–181, 281, 296, 338, 345–350, 352–353, 359, 369, 374, 376–377, 379–380, 417, 419, 422, 445–446, 470 see also illocution: speech function in Sydney SFG, modality: in SFG, mood: in Sydney SFG, Theme: in Sydney SFG: interpersonal Theme semiotic, in Semiotic Grammar 180, 264 interrogative 1 see also illocution, mood intertextuality 426, 446 intonation 5, 14–15, 17, 24–25, 33, 92, 171–173, 179, 190, 324, 329–330, 414, 439, 455, 460, 489 see also prosody in child language in SFG see learning languages: in relation to SFG in relation to acquisition of illocutionary force see learning languages: in relation to RRG: illocutionary force in relation to clause complex structure in SFG 265–266, 268, 271, 277–278, 285, 297 in relation to extraclausal constituents in FG 94–95, 171, 174 in relation to Focus in FG see focus in relation to focus structure in RRG see focus: in RRG: coding of in relation to information structuring in SFG 113–114, 120–124, 132, 137, 145–146, 153–156, 160–167, 176–177 in relation to mood and speech function in SFG 36–39, 43–44, 46–51 see also key in relation to Topic in FG see topic intuition see methodology of linguistic investigation

invitation see illocution involvement (in SFG) see evaluative language island constraint 469

J judgment (in SFG) see evaluative language (in SFG): appraisal juncture (in RRG) 413 clausal 214, 218, 232, 293–294, 467 core 214–217, 224–226, 232, 247, 252–253, 255, 293, 467 nuclear 214–217, 226–229, 232, 293, 467 sentential 214, 218, 293 jussive imperative (in SFG) see mood: in SFG: imperative predicate (in RRG) 232–233, 246–247, 251

K key (in SFG) 36–40 knowledge acquisition or loss, predicates of (in FG) see propositional term base in an integrated functional model 493, 495, 498–499 in FG 309, 433–434 in SFG 435, 437–440 long-term vs. short-term (in FG) 309, 311, 322–323

L Language-Independent Preferred Order of Constituents (LIPOC) (in FG) 72, 179, 193, 206–208, 211, 453 layers and levels of description in FG in relation to adverbial clauses 209 in relation to complementation 205 lack of explicit syntactic level 453–454, 496 in RRG layered structure of clause in relation to language acquisition see learning languages: in relation to RRG

 Subject index

layered structure of noun phrase 236–241 in SFG lack of explicitly syntactic level in Sydney SFG 469–470, 496–497 learning languages child language acquisition 489 acquisition of questions, across FG, RRG, SFG 429 constructionist vs. adaptationist position 402, 409, 428 in relation to FG 399–401, 459 acquisition of adverbs 400–401 in relation to RRG 402–413 Aktionsart 404–405 aspect 404–406 case-marking 405–409 complex sentences 413 extraction restrictions 403, 409–413, 466 focus structure 408, 410–412, 428 grammatical relations and macroroles 403, 407–409 illocutionary force 404 Interclausal Relations Hierarchy 413, 428 layered structure of the clause 403 negation 403–404 relativisation 412 Subject-auxiliary inversion 412–413 tense 403 topicalisation 412 verb subcategorisation 403, 405–407 verbs with Undergoer omission 409 wh-questions 403, 410–413, 429 yes/no questions 410–411, 429 in relation to SFG 413–424 adult metafunctions in relation to child language 415, 417, 419, 422, 428 cause-effect relations 423–424 critical reaction to Halliday’s account 418–420

field, tenor and mode in relation to child language 417–418, 423–424 functions in child language heuristic 415–416, 420–421 imaginative 415 instrumental 415–416, 420–421 interactional 415–416, 420–421 mathetic 416, 419, 421–422 personal 415–416, 420–421 pragmatic 416, 419, 421–422, 429 regulatory 415–416, 420–421 representational/ informative 415, 421 intonation in child language 414–417, 421, 429 language as learning resource 422–424 language in education 424–427, 467–468, 473 phases in child language 414–418, 420–422 social structure in relation to child language 418 study of Hal 419–422, 429 study of Nigel 414–422, 429 study of Stephen 422–424 teaching English as native language 424–426 teaching of genre 425–426 innateness 399, 402–403, 409–411, 413, 428, 466 ‘poverty of the stimulus’ argument 402, 409–411, 413, 428, 466 relationship between linguistic theory and account of acquisition 402–403, 413–414 foreign/second language learning in relation to FG 399–400 in relation to SFG 426–427 left-detached position (LDP) (in RRG) 104, 109, 111–112, 171–175, 178, 218 see also dislocation: left left dislocation see dislocation

Subject index 

lesson (as structural unit in classroom discourse) 345–346 lexical chain (in SFG) see cohesion cohesion (in SFG) see cohesion rendering (in SFG) see cohesion: in SFG: lexical chain repetition (in SFG) see cohesion: in SFG: relations: componential: lexical storage/access 495 vs. syntactic priority in processing see processing of language Lexical Functional Grammar 245, 441, 482 Lexical Iconicity, Principle of (in Functional Lexematic Model) 213, 454 lexicogrammar, relationship with semantics (in SFG) 40, 290–291, 470 lexis as most delicate grammar (in SFG) 435, 498 limitations of individual theories 475–477 Linear Ordering, Principle of (in FG) 453, 459 linking algorithms (in RRG) in complex sentences 241–259, 299, 405 see also focus: in RRG: in relation to linking algorithms in clausal junctures 242–243 in complex noun phrases 255–259 in core junctures 242–259 control constructions 245–251 matrix-coding constructions 251–255 subordinate junctures 243–244 in nuclear junctures 242–243 in relation to FG expression rules 499 LINKS project see computational linguistics locution (in SFG) 260, 264, 273–278 logical metafunction (in SFG) 150, 260, 290, 295, 298, 337–338, 357–372, 423, 446 see also Theme: in Sydney SFG: logical Theme semiotic (in Semiotic Grammar) 264 logico-semantic relation 260, 263–279, 290, 296, 299, 343, 363 see also elaboration, enhancement, expansion, extension, projection logogenesis (in SFG) 138, 377

M macrorole (Actor, Undergoer) 108, 110–112, 180–181, 244–253, 256–258, 334, 407–409 see also Actor-Undergoer Hierarchy manifestness 23, 26 mapping 10, 17, 20, 52, 58–59, 92, 99, 109, 126, 144, 147, 180, 248, 322, 329, 348–349, 414–415, 431, 490, 494, 497–499 markedness see focus, Theme, word order shift (in FG) 15, 462 matrix-coding construction (in RRG) 244, 251–255 see also raising as Privileged Syntactic Argument 252–253 as non-PSA 253–255 maximal bracketing see minimal vs. maximal bracketing (in SFG) medical texts 138 medium (in relation to mode in SFG) 374 memory 460–461 event 328 long-term 29, 82, 328 semantic 328–329 short-term 328 working 328–329, 493 mental perception predicate see perception predicate, propositional term meronymy (in SFG) see cohesion: in SFG: relations: componential: lexical message as unit in Gómez Soliño’s model of discourse 321 as unit in Hasan’s work 337 component (in SFG) 337 frame 19–20, 29 management, modes of (in FG) 88–90, 96–97, 158, 161, 174, 176, 180, 457 All-new Mode 88–89 Grounding Mode 89, 176 Presentative Mode 88–90 Setting Mode 89 Topic Mode 88–89 Neutral Mode 88–89 Reaction Mode 88–89 manager 19–20 module 19, 29, 58–59, 307 part (in SFG) 341–342, 344 metadirective see illocution

 Subject index

metafunction see experiential, ideational, interpersonal, logical, textual in relation to field, tenor and mode 374–376 metaredundancy (in SFG) 377 methodology of linguistic investigation behaviour vs. intuition 479–481, 493 experimental techniques 480–481, 488, 495 natural vs. artificial 480–481 minimal response (in FG) see extraclausal constituent vs. maximal bracketing (in SFG) 286–289 minor clause (in SFG) 33, 35, 37, 39–40 modal Adjunct (in SFG) 31, 33–34, 116–118, 349 modifier (in FG) 11 particle 5, 148 modality in an integrated functional model 493 in FG 6, 10–12, 56–57, 59, 314, 317, 400, 458 exclamative see illocution: in FG: exclamation as modality objective 203 subjective 22, 56 epistemological 21, 203 in RRG acquisition of see learning languages: in relation to RRG core (ability, deontic, root) 224, 226, 253, 300 clausal (epistemic) 220, 223, 225 in SFG 31–33, 38–39, 42–45, 47–48, 50, 57, 139–141, 151, 276, 284, 349, 353, 359, 370–371, 376, 417, 423, 427, 439 mode in an integrated functional model 486–487, 492 in SFG 373–383, 385, 388–389, 391, 417, 419, 423–424, 428, 435, 437, 444, 471–472 in relation to child language see learning languages: in relation to SFG of message management (in FG) see message management

modular approaches to grammar, pragmatics and discourse (in FG) 16–20, 28–29, 57–58, 307–308, 318–320, 397, 457–458 proposals which combine modular and upward layering approaches 321–325 modulation (in RRG) see voice monologue 42, 138, 310, 316, 319, 322, 377–378, 385, 391, 394, 422, 424, 438, 444 mood alternative label to illocutionary force in Cardiff SFG 45 in FG 66, 211, 314 indicative 11, 208, 213 optative 3 subjunctive 5, 11, 13, 191, 208, 213 in RRG indicative 30 subjunctive 30 in Sydney SFG 376, 417, 422 declarative 31–32, 35, 37–40, 43–44, 57, 115, 284, 429 exclamative 35, 37, 44 imperative 31, 37–39, 43–44, 57, 116, 135, 289 first person 34 jussive 34, 39, 53 optative 34 in languages other than English 43–45 in relation to ellipsis 35, 37, 42, 122, 281, 289, 418 in relation to exchange structure 347 in relation to intonation see intonation in relation to role allocation 337 in relation to speech function see illocution in relation to Theme see Theme: marked vs. unmarked indicative 31–32, 37, 39, 57, 125, 275, 435 interrogative 32, 35, 37, 39–41, 44–45, 57, 149, 429 wh- 31–32, 34, 38, 43, 115–116, 118, 135, 147, 176–177, 284–285, 417, 429 yes/no 31, 38, 43, 115–116, 118, 139, 417 modal Adjunct see modal Adjunct

Subject index 

modal responsibility 33, 41–42, 51, 181 mood Adjunct see modal Adjunct Mood as element of structure 31–35, 42, 44–45, 59, 352–353, 372 mood/modal particles 44–45, 147–148 system networks for mood in English 37, 39–40 literal mood meaning and ‘significance’ in Davies’ approach 52–55 applied to minimal exchanges in discourse 55 applied to questions and tags 53–55 in relation to Halliday’s metafunctions 53, 55 literal meaning vs. significance 52 role of intonation 53 mother-child interaction 337, 414, 417–418, 425 move in Birmingham model of discourse 319–320, 322, 345–346 in FG 19, 28, 90, 97–98, 309, 315–316, 318–323, 325–326, 328–329 manager 19 in SFG 35, 39–42, 44, 118, 181, 338, 349, 391–395 move complex (in SFG) 348 multivariate structure (in SFG) 259, 281, 286 N naming (in SFG) see cohesion: in SFG: relations: componential: lexical Natural Language User, model of (in FG) 16, 309, 433, 455, 459 computational model see computational linguistics: in relation to FG negation see also polarity in FG 11, 164, 187, 209 in RRG 30, 107, 112, 403 acquisition of see learning languages: in relation to RRG in SFG 43 acquisition of see learning languages: in relation to SFG negotiation as interpersonal part of Martin’s discourse semantics in SFG 345, 379

strategy, in cognitive approach to illocution in FG 29 Negotiator, as functional element in SFG 44 nesting of clause relationships (in SFG) 262 neurology/neurolinguistics 461, 466, 488–489, 494, 496 new information see given/new information nexus relation clause nexus (in SFG) 260 in RRG see coordination, cosubordination, subordination newsworthiness 81, 126, 137, 145, 161, 179–180, 271, 330–331 Nigel (in SFG) computational grammar see computational linguistics: in relation to SFG study of language acquisition see learning languages: in relation to SFG nominalisation 36, 46, 119, 208, 272, 276, 279, 281, 295, 307, 335, 356–357 nominalised restrictor (in FG) 188, 197 nominative/accusative (or accusative) language/construction 100, 110, 251, 334 non-discreteness 459 non-verbal predication (in FG) 432 noun phrase (in RRG) 30 clausal postmodification in noun phrases (in RRG) 236–241 see also relative clause, apposition layered structure 236 noun phrase initial position 236 nursery tale 383, 446 O objective modal predicate (in FG) see predicational term offer see illocution ontogenesis (in SFG) 377 ontology 491–494, 499 Mikrokosmos ontology 491–494, 499 used in Functional Lexematic Model/RRG synthesis 493, 498 operator in relation to linking (in RRG) 249–250 in relation to satellite (in FG) 12, 24 projection 178, 219–221, 223, 403

 Subject index

sharing in cosubordination (in RRG) 214, 218, 223, 240–241, 298 term operator 21 optative see mood: in FG, mood: in Sydney SFG: imperative optionality scale 25 order as speech act see illocution of constituents see word order Orientation see extraclausal constituent: types orientational field (in FG) 90, 95, 98, 173, 324 P P1 position (in FG) 69–72, 74–76, 86–92, 94, 98, 157, 168, 172–176, 178, 193–194, 196, 207, 212, 460 P2 position (in FG) 77, 94, 171–174, 176, 178, 212 P3 position (in FG) 79, 94, 179, 212 paragraph 120, 136, 157, 308, 316–317, 368 parataxis/paratactic in FG 192, 196, 316 in SFG 260–263, 277, 348, 368 see also elaboration, enhancement, expansion, extension, projection, rank: in SFG: in relation to parataxis participant identification in FG 188, 190, 192, 307 in RRG 237 in SFG 147–148, 355–357 see also cohesion: in SFG: relations: in Halliday & Hasan’s approach: reference passive see voice pathology, language 448, 473 aphasia 448, 483 Broca’s 495 Wernicke’s 495 pattern vs. process accounts (in FG) 328, 330, 461 pausing 495–496 Penman project see computational linguistics: in relation to SFG perception predicate in FG 293 see also predicational term, propositional term immediate perception of individual 202, 204–205

immediate perception of state of affairs by individual 202–203 mental perception of propositional content 202–203 reception of propositional content of speech act 202, 204 in RRG 231–232 performative analysis of speech acts see illocution speech act/verb 4, 12–13, 15, 26, 50 peripheral token (in SFG) see cohesion: in SFG: lexical chain phasal predicate (in FG) see predicational term phonetics/phonology 35–37, 40, 69, 120, 160, 273, 377, 379, 414, 416, 420–421, 431, 470, 496, 498–500 see also intonation, prosody phylogenesis (in SFG) 377 Pit (in thematic structure in SFG) 137 pivot (in RRG) 253, 331, 333–334 see also Privileged Syntactic Argument pragmatic 109, 242–243 semantic 109 syntactic 108–109, 243, 334 poetry see style/stylistics polarity 25, 32–34, 36, 38–39, 42, 46–48, 51, 66, 115, 155–156, 203, 292, 348, 353, 393–394, 416, 463–464 see also negation politeness 11, 23, 25–26, 43, 46–48, 97, 101, 151, 326, 437 post-core slot (in RRG) 109, 172, 179, 256 Postfield (in FG) 8, 69, 192–193, 206–208 postmodification in noun phrase, clausal (in RRG) see noun phrase structure (in RRG) poverty of the stimulus argument (in language acquisition) see learning languages power relations 23–24, 27, 29, 385–386, 427, 447 pragmatic adequacy in relation to FG 15, 22, 80, 95–97, 307, 442, 452–459, 462, 489 in relation to RRG 465 function (in FG) see extraclausal constituents, Focus, Setting, Stager, Topic difficulties with definition and identification 80–95

Subject index 

in relation to position see extraclausal constituents, P1, P2, P3 in relation to standards of adequacy 95–98 Pragmatic Highlighting, Principle of (in FG) 69, 453 pragmatic/discourse module 17–19, 22, 28–29, 59, 97, 307, 320, 322, 324, 330, 397, 457, 459 Prague School 61, 80, 113, 130, 136, 312 pre-core slot (in RRG) 105–106, 109, 111, 172–173, 175–176, 178–179, 256–257, 410 predicate (in FG) 316, 330–331 formation 74, 401, 464 frame 7, 19, 58, 100, 188, 325, 401, 432–433 manager 19 predicational term (in FG) 76, 183–184, 186, 199–201, 205, 293, 295 with achievement predicates 200–201 with commentative predicates 201 with direct perception predicates 203 see also perception predicate with directive predicates 200 with objective modal predicates 201 with phasal predicates 201 with practical manipulation predicates 200, 300 Prefield (in FG) 8, 69, 192–193, 197–198, 206–208 presentative/presentational construction see also existential construction in FG 68, 86, 88–90, 93, 163 in RRG 104, 332–333 in SFG 134, 142 presupposition, pragmatic in relation to adverbial clauses in FG 210–211 in RRG 102–105, 107, 111, 157, 160, 164–167, 176 Principles and Parameters theory 410 Privileged Syntactic Argument (PSA) (in RRG) 108–111, 180–181, 231, 242, 245, 251–253, 255, 257–258, 331, 333–334, 396, 407, 465, 467 PSA Hierarchy 110 processing of language 58, 98, 178, 308, 330, 397, 453, 459–461, 466, 484, 487–489, 492

comprehension/reception 28–29, 244, 320, 326, 459–460, 466, 476, 487, 491, 494–497, 499–500 production 17–18, 28–29, 308–310, 320, 326–330, 372–373, 397, 434, 459–460, 466, 468, 476, 478, 481, 487, 494–497, 499–500 roles of lexis and syntax 494–495, 498 production of language see processing of language ProfGlot see computational linguistics: in relation to FG prohibition see illocution projection (in SFG) 260, 263–264, 273–279, 281–284, 290–291, 294–297, 300, 348 embedded 275–277 hypotactic 264, 274, 294–295 of proposals 274–275, 296, 300 paratactic 264, 273 promise see illocution pronominalisation in FG 205 in RRG 107–108 proposal in FG see illocution in SFG 31, 40–41, 51, 294–295, 349 projection of see projection proposition (use of term in SFG) 31–33, 41, 51, 349 propositional attitude in Davies’ work on mood see mood: literal meaning and ‘significance’ in Davies’ approach in FG see propositional term below predicate (in RRG) 232–235 manipulation predicates (in FG) see propositional term below operator (in FG) 21, 191, 204–205 term (in FG) 183–184, 186, 199–200, 205, 293–294 with mental perception predicates 199, 203–204 with predicates of knowledge acquisition or loss 199–200 with propositional attitude predicates 199–200

 Subject index

with propositional manipulation predicates 199, 300 variable 11 prosody 2, 30, 43–44, 62, 66–69, 77, 80–81, 86–87, 93, 95, 106, 113, 120, 144, 160, 164, 167, 178, 190, 265, 324, 330, 349, 499 see also accentuation, focus, intonation, topic juncture prosody (in SFG) 44 prototype/prototypical 14, 18–19, 23, 26–28, 73–74, 109, 168, 173, 307, 461, 498 pseudocleft construction see cleft and pseudocleft constructions psych-action predicate (in RRG) 232, 234–235 psychological/cognitive adequacy in relation to an integrated functional model 486–488, 490–497, 500 in relation to FG 15–16, 23, 58, 80, 95, 97–98, 307–308, 326, 397, 431, 433, 452–453, 457, 459–462 in relation to RRG 465–466 in relation to SFG 391, 443 punctuation 78–79, 92, 94, 136, 171–173, 178–179, 190, 265, 273, 297, 324, 482 purpose clause see adverbial clause Q quantification (in RRG) 107, 241 question see illocution tag see tag word/constituent 176 in FG 6–8, 68–70, 74, 91, 174, 179 quoted speech/thought see direct speech R raising 469, 471 see also matrix-coding construction rank in Birmingham model of discourse analysis 320, 322, 345, 485 in SFG 36, 40, 120, 259, 280, 285, 287, 291, 337, 390, 395, 422, 453 in relation to parataxis 288–290 rankshift (in SFG) 263, 280–282, 286 see also embedding realisation in SFG

as metaredundancy 377 in relation to directionality 386 in the Cardiff computational grammar 439 in the Nigel computational grammar 435–436 procedures in cognitive approach to illocution in FG 27–29 reference in FG 307 in SFG as cohesive device see cohesion: in SFG: relations: in Halliday & Hasan’s account presuming vs. presenting 147, 160 tracking see participant identification, switch function, switch reference referent activation/cognitive/pragmatic state 82–84, 86, 91, 101–102, 111, 158–159, 331–333 see also given/new information, topic: in FG: Topic as pragmatic function: types of Topic: Given Topic accessibility/identifiability/recoverability 81–83, 101–102, 111, 122–123, 147, 159–161, 331–332, 351–352, 355–356 reflexivisation in FG 205 in RRG 107–108, 217, 254, 259 register (in SFG) 148, 274, 278, 345, 373–381, 383–390, 396, 418, 424, 426–427, 437–438, 442, 444, 447, 455, 470–473, 484, 487 as connotative semiotic 384 as probabilistic choice 375–376 definition 374, 377, 388 in relation to genre 383–390 relative clause in FG 91, 157, 183, 192–197, 432–433 free/headless 74–76, 168 restrictive vs. non-restrictive 74, 188–192, 194–195, 288, 296–297, 324 in RRG 158, 237–239, 255–258, 411 in Semiotic Grammar 296 in SFG 116, 263, 265–267, 270–272, 277, 291–292

Subject index

defining (restrictive) vs. non-defining (non-restrictive) 263, 265–267, 270–271, 283–284, 288, 296–297, 366 finite vs. non-finite 265–267, 271 treatment of ‘free/headless’ relative clauses 271 pronoun in FG 70, 72, 75, 91, 157, 172, 174, 176, 190–191, 193–197 in RRG 158, 172, 176, 238, 256 in SFG 116–117, 168, 170, 176, 266–267, 271 relativisation hierarchy 195 marker (in FG) 193–195 see also pronoun operator (in FG) 191 Relator principle (in FG) 207 Relevance Theory 22, 28 relevant token (in SFG) see cohesion: in SFG: lexical chain reported speech/thought see indirect speech representational level (in FG) in Connolly’s model of discourse representation 325 in Dik’s model of discourse 311, 317 in Functional Discourse Grammar 20, 322–323, 328–329, 461 in Gómez Soliño’s model of discourse 321 in Hengeveld’s early discourse model 315, 317 in Incremental Functional Grammar 327 in Steuten’s model of dialogue 322 in underlying clause structure 56–57, 96, 209, 470 request see illocution Residue (structural element in SFG) 31–33, 35, 42, 59, 353, 372 restrictive vs. non-restrictive modifiers (in FG) 190–192 relative clause see relative clause satellites (in FG) 210, 212–213 Rheme (in SFG) 61, 113–114, 117, 119–120, 123–124, 130–132, 134–138, 143–145, 148–149, 168–170, 173, 177, 312, 335–336 see also Theme marked 132

New (N-Rheme) 137 see also culmination rhetorical function/relation 321–322, 324–325 level in Hengeveld’s early model of discourse 315, 317, 320, 397 in Kroon’s model of discourse 320 mode see mode question see illocution Rhetorical Structure Theory (RST) in relation to FG 282, 308, 311, 321, 324, 398, 458, 486 in relation to SFG 282, 364–369, 372, 394–395, 398, 437, 486 nucleus 364, 367–368, 372, 394–395 relation 364–365 satellite 364, 367–368, 372, 394–395 schema 364 schema application 364 unit (in SFG) 337 right-detached position (in RRG) 111, 179 see also dislocation: right right dislocation see dislocation S sampling of world’s languages 464 Scale and Category Grammar 259, 345–346, 424, 443–444 scientific writing 426 schematic structure (in SFG) see genre scope 3, 9, 11, 29, 56–57, 60, 66–67, 78, 107, 178, 209, 213, 224, 226, 228, 282, 286, 288, 301, 317, 367–368, 403–404, 408, 463, 465, 470, 499 selection restriction 6, 19, 75, 189 self-correction 495–496 semantic module 29 Semantic Function Hierarchy (in FG) 99, 463 semblance (in SFG) see cohesion: in SFG: relations: componential: lexical semifactive (in FG) see factive Semiotic Grammar 134, 180, 263–264, 296, 336, 359 sentence, as orthographic unit (in SFG) 259



 Subject index

sequence as semantic structural category in SFG 259–260, 278–279, 290 of speech acts (in FG) 311 of turns (in FG) 311 Sequence as relation in Rhetorical Structure Theory 366–367 sequential states of affairs clauses see adverbial clause serial verb in FG 317 in RRG 218, 226–227, 243, 259, 297–298 service encounters 348, 381–385 Setting (in FG) see extraclausal constituent situation(al context) (in SFG) see context, field, tenor, mode Situation Theory 324 social context see context deixis 45 distance scale 23–24, 27, 29, 379, 382–383 hierarchy 379 role (as variable in register in SFG) 379 structure in relation to child language see learning languages: in relation to SFG sociocultural adequacy, in an integrated functional model 486–487, 500 speaker, model of 327–329 speech act see illocution as unit in discourse (in FG) 311, 316, 318, 320 event 9–10, 30, 32, 305, 310–311, 330 function (in SFG) see illocution Stager (as pragmatic function in FG) see extraclausal constituent statement see illocution status in RRG 30, 57, 223 in SFG 379 stepwise lexical decomposition (in FG) 459 stratification (in SFG) 40, 369, 376–377, 435–436 stratificational linguistics 442 structural level (in Functional Discourse Grammar) 20, 322–323, 329, 461, 471 style/stylistics 310, 317, 365, 481 in the Functional Lexematic Model 443

in SFG 350, 427, 438, 443–447, 449, 467, 473 subjacency, acquisition of see learning languages: in relation to RRG: extraction restrictions Subject assignment in FG 74, 90, 99–101, 177, 180–181, 205, 432, 454, 462–463 in Cardiff SFG 49, 51–52, 151 Subject Theme see Theme: in Cardiff SFG in Sydney SFG 31–35, 37, 41–44, 51, 115, 137, 140–141, 147, 180–181, 353, 445 subjunctive 52 see also mood subordinate clause see subordination subordination 183, 259 see also adverbial clause, conditional clause, concessive clause, relative clause in FG see adverbial clause: in FG, embedding: in FG, verbal restrictor (in FG) in RRG 214–215, 218, 237, 296–298, 467 clausal 219–223, 231–233, 250, 294, 298–300 clause + core 214, 225 core 220, 225, 232, 243–244, 295 in noun phrase 237–240 nuclear 227, 232 in SFG see hypotaxis, embedding substitution (as cohesive device in SFG) see cohesion suggestion see illocution summons (in FG) see extraclausal constituent switch function (in RRG) 243, 333–334 reference in FG 64–65, 72, 312 in RRG 218, 297, 333–334, 396, 471 synonymy (in SFG) see cohesion: in SFG: relations: componential: lexical synoptic approach to discourse description (in SFG) see discourse T tag in FG 4, 12–13, 17, 21, 24–25, 57, 80, 436 see also extraclausal constituent

Subject index 

in SFG 31, 34, 39, 42, 46–47, 50, 54 tagmemics 442 Tail (as pragmatic function in FG) see extraclausal constituent, P3 Tail-Head linking (in FG) 312, 317 task urgency, principle of 89, 98 taxis (in SFG) see hypotaxis, parataxis template constituent ordering (in FG) 454 constructional (in RRG) 242–243, 258, 331–332 syntactic template selection principle 247, 255 lexical (in Functional Lexematic Model) 493 temporal chaining in texts 316 clause see adverbial clause tenor (in SFG) 292, 373–383, 385, 388–389, 417, 419, 435, 437, 444, 471–472, 487, 492 functional tenor (‘rhetorical purpose’) 375–377 personal tenor 375–376, 379–380 in relation to child language see learning languages: in relation to SFG tense in FG 10–11, 13, 15, 27, 64, 66–67, 74, 187–188, 200–201, 205, 211, 213, 294, 310, 314, 327, 377 in RRG 30, 57, 218, 220, 252, 403, 412–413 in SFG 31–32, 34, 43, 45, 127, 353, 359, 370, 377, 417, 436, 439, 445 terminology, in SFG 470, 472 text 303–398 passim see also discourse definitions 303–306, 473 frame see frame in relation to sentence 304 in SFG 180 as semantic unit 335–336 definition 335 in relation to context of situation/register 373–381, 396, 468, 471–472 in relation to genre 381–390 in relation to metafunction 337–372 in relation to the experiential metafunction 337–345

in relation to the interpersonal metafunction 338, 345–350 in relation to the logical metafunction 338, 357–372 in relation to the textual metafunction 338, 350–357 meaning/significance of a text 472–473 text base see knowledge base: in SFG text radical 337 texture (= properties needed for being a text) 336, 345, 388–389, 417 text block (in FG) 321 text-context strategy, in relation to cognitive approach to illocution in FG 28–29 text linguistics/analysis 303–305, 467–468, 471–472 text worlds 494 vs. discourse see discourse textual function in FG 321 textual metafunction (in SFG) 55, 57, 147, 150, 161, 180, 336–338, 347–348, 350–357, 363, 369, 374, 376–377, 380, 417, 419, 422, 445–446, 470 see also culmination, focus: in SFG, given (‘old’)/new information: in SFG, Rheme, text: in SFG: in relation to metafunction, Theme: in Sydney SFG, voice: in Sydney SFG textualisation 321, 460 Theme 61, 98, 336 as pragmatic function in FG see extraclausal constituent, P2 in Cardiff SFG 150–156, 470 enhanced theme (= cleft construction) 152–155, 170 marked vs. unmarked 151–152 multiple 151 object-as-role-in-event construction (= pseudocleft construction) 152–155, 169 Subject theme 43, 52, 151–152 system networks for theme in English 151 thematic strand of meaning 49, 150 in Sydney SFG 33, 35, 43, 55, 173, 175–176, 377, 418, 436–437, 446, 482

 Subject index

as orienting device 137 definitions of 113–114 discourse level Theme 120, 131, 137, 142–143, 158 discourse Theme (in clause) 140–141 experiential Theme see ideational Theme below hyper-Theme 158–159 ideational Theme 115–118, 124–125, 129, 131, 134, 138, 141–142, 144–145, 148, 151, 170, 173, 175, 178 see also topical Theme below identification of extent/structure of Theme expression 129–132, 150, 173 identification of meaning of Theme 132–145, 150, 177 in languages other than English 147–150 in relation to aboutness see aboutness in relation to given/new information 113, 119–120, 123–124, 136–138, 142 in relation to logogenesis 138 in relation to metafunction see multiple Theme below in relation to Rheme 113–114 in relation to units other than the clause 120, 145, 149, 262, 281, 296 in relation to universals 147 interpersonal Theme 118, 124–125, 129–130, 134, 138, 142–145, 148–149, 176 see also multiple Theme below logical Theme 144–145 see also multiple Theme below macro-Theme 159 major vs. minor 149 marked vs. unmarked 114–117, 121, 125, 132, 142, 145, 148–149, 176 in declaratives 115–117, 178 in imperatives 116 in interrogatives wh- 115–116 yes/no 115–116 multiple Theme 115, 117–118, 124, 129, 133, 143–145, 151, 176

participant Theme 140–141, 176 predicated Theme (= cleft construction) 119–120, 123–125, 145, 151–152, 169–170, 278 sentence-level Theme 136–137 situational Theme 140–141 spatial Theme 140–141, 176 structural Theme 118, 140, 278 substitute Theme 125, 179 system networks for Theme in English 124–125 temporal Theme 140–141, 176 textual Theme 118, 124–125, 129–130, 138, 143–145, 148, 170, 176 see also multiple Theme above thematic equative (= pseudocleft construction) 119, 125, 145, 152, 168–169 thematic progression in development of texts 130, 133–145, 147–148, 158, 173, 175, 177, 180, 312, 335, 341, 448 topical Theme 118, 125, 129–130, 134–135, 139–142, 148–149, 158, 175 thetic statement 84, 146 threat see illocution tie, cohesive (in SFG) see cohesion tonality (in SFG) 120–121, 377 tone (in SFG) see intonation group (in SFG) see intonation tonic (in SFG) see tonicity tonicity (in SFG) 121, 156, 377 top-down 321, 323, 433, 498 topic(ality) 482 in FG 307, 327, 456 Topic as pragmatic function 61–65, 157, 173, 175, 433, 456 abandonment of, for English 86–87, 158, 174 acceptability scale 82, 102, 159 expression of Topic placement in special positions 67, 69–72, 174, 453 prosodic prominence 63, 67–68 in relation to Focus 73–74, 83, 85–87, 89, 159, 175

Subject index 

in relation to given and new information/activation status 81–85, 158 in relation to standards of adequacy see pragmatic function multiple 87, 92 problems with definition and identification 81–92 types of Topic 81 Discourse Topic (D-Topic) 62, 78, 92, 94–96, 111 Given Topic (GivTop) 62–65, 67–71, 73–76, 81, 83–87, 90–92, 159, 168, 178, 312 Emphatic Given Topic 93 New Topic (NewTop) 62–65, 67–69, 71, 81, 83, 85–87, 91, 157, 159, 175 Resumed Topic (ResTop) 65, 67–68, 81, 83, 85–86, 90, 92, 159 Sub-Topic (SubTop) 62–63, 67, 70, 81, 83, 85–86, 90–92, 159, 312 in RRG 102–104, 108, 112, 157–158, 164, 166, 174–175, 333–334 problems with definition and identification 111 topic-comment construction 103, 166 topic-marking particle 104 in SFG 133, 135, 137–142, 147–148, 158 topical Theme see Theme topic chain/continuity/maintenance 52, 64–65, 72, 85–86, 243, 310, 312–313, 316, 320 transaction (as structural unit in discourse) 320, 325, 345–346 transitivity in RRG 246, 255, 408–409 in SFG 45, 115, 118, 124–129, 131, 134, 147, 149, 152, 170, 180, 289, 292, 337, 341, 417, 419, 422, 436–437, 445–447, 470 translation 149, 399, 430, 443, 448, 473 see also computational linguistics, ontology: Mikrokosmos ontology

turn in FG see discourse: in FG: turn in SFG 347–348, 378 typification 18, 58 typological adequacy in relation to an integrated functional model 482, 490, 497, 500 in relation to FG 59–60, 80, 95, 98, 297, 335, 397, 452, 462–465, 482, 497–498 in relation to RRG 297, 335, 397, 428–429, 465, 467, 497–498 in relation to SFG 43–44, 60, 147, 181, 297, 368, 397, 497 U Undergoer (in RRG) see macrorole univariate structure (in SFG) 259, 261, 281, 284, 286–288 Universal Grammar (UG) 402, 412–413, 477 universals of language 2, 28, 30, 69, 72, 106, 147, 174, 181, 192, 207, 233, 247, 462, 465, 490, 492, 499 see also Universal Grammar V valency 100–101 variable E see illocution X (propositional) see proposition verb subcategorisation, in relation to language acquisition see learning languages: in relation to RRG verbal interaction, theory of (in FG) 4, 14, 16, 22, 26, 57, 95–96, 454–457, 483 restrictor (in FG) 183, 187–198, 463–464 circumnominal 198 finite vs. non-finite 193, 197 participial 188, 197, 204 postnominal 192–197 prenominal 192–193, 197–198 stacking 189–190 types see also relative clause, participial restrictor, nominalised restrictor vocative 22, 34, 59, 118, 125, 141, 149 voice 61 in Cardiff SFG 151, 155

 Subject index

in FG 99–101, 180–182 active 100 antipassive 64, 100–101 passive 99–100, 180–181, 249 in RRG 110–111, 180–182, 243, 396 active 110, 231, 334 antipassive 110–111 argument modulation 110–111, 180 in relation to discourse structure 333 passive 110–111, 180, 225–226, 231, 333–334 PSA modulation 110–111 in Sydney SFG 126–128, 180–182, 271, 283, 353, 418 in relation to Theme 127 in relation to verbal group complexes 127 system networks for voice in English 128 types effective 126, 128

active 31, 34, 126–128 passive 31, 34, 126–128, 180 get-passive vs. be-passive 128 middle 126 VP (verb phrase) category 106–107, 184, 289 ‘VP coordination’ (in FG) see coordination: in FG ‘VP ellipsis’ (in RRG) 243 W warning see illocution West Coast Functionalism 334, 398 wh-question, acquisition of see learning languages: in relation to RRG Word Grammar 482 word order see constituent order X X-bar theory

403

In the STUDIES IN LANGUAGE COMPANION SERIES (SLCS) the following volumes have been published thus far or are scheduled for publication: 1. ABRAHAM, Werner (ed.): Valence, Semantic Case, and Grammatical Relations. Workshop studies prepared for the 12th Conference of Linguistics, Vienna, August 29th to September 3rd, 1977. Amsterdam, 1978. 2. ANWAR, Mohamed Sami: BE and Equational Sentences in Egyptian Colloquial Arabic. Amsterdam, 1979. 3. MALKIEL, Yakov: From Particular to General Linguistics. Selected Essays 1965-1978. With an introd. by the author + indices. Amsterdam, 1983. 4. LLOYD, Albert L.: Anatomy of the Verb: The Gothic Verb as a Model for a Unified Theory of Aspect, Actional Types, and Verbal Velocity. Amsterdam, 1979. 5. HAIMAN, John: Hua: A Papuan Language of the Eastern Highlands of New Guinea. Amsterdam, 1980. 6. VAGO, Robert (ed.): Issues in Vowel Harmony. Proceedings of the CUNY Linguistics Conference on Vowel Harmony (May 14, 1977). Amsterdam, 1980. 7. PARRET, H., J. VERSCHUEREN, M. SBISÀ (eds): Possibilities and Limitations of Pragmatics. Proceedings of the Conference on Pragmatics, Urbino, July 8-14, 1979. Amsterdam, 1981. 8. BARTH, E.M. & J.L. MARTENS (eds): Argumentation: Approaches to Theory Formation. Containing the Contributions to the Groningen Conference on the Theory of Argumentation, Groningen, October 1978. Amsterdam, 1982. 9. LANG, Ewald: The Semantics of Coordination. Amsterdam, 1984.(English transl. by John Pheby from the German orig. edition “Semantik der koordinativen Verknüpfung”, Berlin, 1977.) 10. DRESSLER, Wolfgang U., Willi MAYERTHALER, Oswald PANAGL & Wolfgang U. WURZEL: Leitmotifs in Natural Morphology. Amsterdam, 1987. 11. PANHUIS, Dirk G.J.: The Communicative Perspective in the Sentence: A Study of Latin Word Order. Amsterdam, 1982. 12. PINKSTER, Harm (ed.): Latin Linguistics and Linguistic Theory. Proceedings of the 1st Intern. Coll. on Latin Linguistics, Amsterdam, April 1981. Amsterdam, 1983. 13. REESINK, G.: Structures and their Functions in Usan. Amsterdam, 1987. 14. BENSON, Morton, Evelyn BENSON & Robert ILSON: Lexicographic Description of English. Amsterdam, 1986. 15. JUSTICE, David: The Semantics of Form in Arabic, in the mirror of European languages. Amsterdam, 1987. 16. CONTE, M.E., J.S. PETÖFI, and E. SÖZER (eds): Text and Discourse Connectedness. Amsterdam/Philadelphia, 1989. 17. CALBOLI, Gualtiero (ed.): Subordination and other Topics in Latin. Proceedings of the Third Colloquium on Latin Linguistics, Bologna, 1-5 April 1985. Amsterdam/Philadelphia, 1989. 18. WIERZBICKA, Anna: The Semantics of Grammar. Amsterdam/Philadelphia, 1988. 19. BLUST, Robert A.: Austronesian Root Theory. An Essay on the Limits of Morphology. Amsterdam/Philadelphia, 1988. 20. VERHAAR, John W.M. (ed.): Melanesian Pidgin and Tok Pisin. Proceedings of the First International Conference on Pidgins and Creoles on Melanesia. Amsterdam/Philadelphia, 1990.

21. COLEMAN, Robert (ed.): New Studies in Latin Linguistics. Proceedings of the 4th International Colloquium on Latin Linguistics, Cambridge, April 1987. Amsterdam/ Philadelphia, 1991. 22. McGREGOR, William: A Functional Grammar of Gooniyandi. Amsterdam/Philadelphia, 1990. 23. COMRIE, Bernard and Maria POLINSKY (eds): Causatives and Transitivity. Amsterdam/Philadelphia, 1993. 24. BHAT, D.N.S. The Adjectival Category. Criteria for differentiation and identification. Amsterdam/Philadelphia, 1994. 25. GODDARD, Cliff and Anna WIERZBICKA (eds): Semantics and Lexical Universals. Theory and empirical findings. Amsterdam/Philadelphia, 1994. 26. LIMA, Susan D., Roberta L. CORRIGAN and Gregory K. IVERSON (eds): The Reality of Linguistic Rules. Amsterdam/Philadelphia, 1994. 27. ABRAHAM, Werner, T. GIVÓN and Sandra A. THOMPSON (eds): Discourse Grammar and Typology. Amsterdam/Philadelphia, 1995. 28. HERMAN, József: Linguistic Studies on Latin: Selected papers from the 6th international colloquium on Latin linguistics, Budapest, 2-27 March, 1991. Amsterdam/Philadelphia, 1994. 29. ENGBERG-PEDERSEN, Elisabeth et al. (eds): Content, Expression and Structure. Studies in Danish functional grammar. Amsterdam/Philadelphia, 1996. 30. HUFFMAN, Alan: The Categories of Grammar. French lui and le. Amsterdam/Philadelphia, 1997. 31. WANNER, Leo (ed.): Lexical Functions in Lexicography and Natural Language Processing. Amsterdam/Philadelphia, 1996. 32. FRAJZYNGIER, Zygmunt: Grammaticalization of the Complex Sentence. A case study in Chadic. Amsterdam/Philadelphia, 1996. 33. VELAZQUEZ-CASTILLO, Maura: The Grammar of Possession. Inalienability, incorporation and possessor ascension in Guaraní. Amsterdam/Philadelphia, 1996. 34. HATAV, Galia: The Semantics of Aspect and Modality. Evidence from English and Biblical Hebrew. Amsterdam/Philadelphia, 1997. 35. MATSUMOTO, Yoshiko: Noun-Modifying Constructions in Japanese. A frame semantic approach. Amsterdam/Philadelphia, 1997. 36. KAMIO, Akio (ed.): Directions in Functional Linguistics. Amsterdam/Philadelphia, 1997. 37. HARVEY, Mark and Nicholas REID (eds): Nominal Classification in Aboriginal Australia. Amsterdam/Philadelphia, 1997. 38. HACKING, Jane F.: Coding the Hypothetical. A Comparative Typology of Conditionals in Russian and Macedonian. Amsterdam/Philadelphia, 1998. 39. WANNER, Leo (ed.): Recent Trends in Meaning-Text Theory. Amsterdam/Philadelphia, 1997. 40. BIRNER, Betty and Gregory WARD: Information Status and Noncanonical Word Order in English. Amsterdam/Philadelphia, 1998. 41. DARNELL, Michael, Edith MORAVSCIK, Michael NOONAN, Frederick NEWMEYER and Kathleen WHEATLY (eds): Functionalism and Formalism in Linguistics. Volume I: General papers. Amsterdam/Philadelphia, 1999. 42. DARNELL, Michael, Edith MORAVSCIK, Michael NOONAN, Frederick NEWMEYER and Kathleen WHEATLY (eds): Functionalism and Formalism in Linguistics. Volume II: Case studies. Amsterdam/Philadelphia, 1999.

43. OLBERTZ, Hella, Kees HENGEVELD and Jesús Sánchez GARCÍA (eds): The Structure of the Lexicon in Functional Grammar. Amsterdam/Philadelphia, 1998. 44. HANNAY, Mike and A. Machtelt BOLKESTEIN (eds): Functional Grammar and Verbal Interaction. 1998. 45. COLLINS, Peter and David LEE (eds): The Clause in English. In honour of Rodney Huddleston. 1999. 46. YAMAMOTO, Mutsumi: Animacy and Reference. A cognitive approach to corpus linguistics. 1999. 47. BRINTON, Laurel J. and Minoji AKIMOTO (eds): ollocational and Idiomatic Aspects of Composite Predicates in the History of English. 1999. 48. MANNEY, Linda Joyce: Middle Voice in Modern Greek. Meaning and function of an inflectional category. 2000. 49. BHAT, D.N.S.: The Prominence of Tense, Aspect and Mood. 1999. 50. ABRAHAM, Werner and Leonid KULIKOV (eds): Transitivity, Causativity, and TAM. In honour of Vladimir Nedjalkov. 1999. 51. ZIEGELER, Debra: Hypothetical Modality. Grammaticalisation in an L2 dialect. 2000. 52. TORRES CACOULLOS, Rena: Grammaticization, Synchronic Variation, and Language Contact.A study of Spanish progressive -ndo constructions. 2000. 53. FISCHER, Olga, Anette ROSENBACH and Dieter STEIN (eds.): Pathways of Change. Grammaticalization in English. 2000. 54. DAHL, Östen and Maria KOPTJEVSKAJA-TAMM (eds.): Circum-Baltic Languages. Volume 1: Past and Present. 2001. 55. DAHL, Östen and Maria KOPTJEVSKAJA-TAMM (eds.): Circum-Baltic Languages. Volume 2: Grammar and Typology. 2001. 56. FAARLUND, Jan Terje (ed.): Grammatical Relations in Change. 2001. 57. MEL’C UK, Igor: Communicative Organization in Natural Language. The semanticcommunicative structure of sentences. 2001. 58. MAYLOR, Brian Roger: Lexical Template Morphology. Change of state and the verbal prefixes in German. 2002. 59. SHI, Yuzhi: The Establishment of Modern Chinese Grammar. The formation of the resultative construction and its effects. 2002. 60. GODDARD, Cliff and Anna WIERZBICKA (eds.): Meaning and Universal Grammar. Theory and empirical findings. Volume 1. 2002. 61. GODDARD, Cliff and Anna WIERZBICKA (eds.): Meaning and Universal Grammar. Theory and empirical findings. Volume 2. 2002. 62. FIELD, Fredric W.: Linguistic Borrowing in Bilingual Contexts. 2002. 63. BUTLER, Chris: Structure and Function – A Guide to Three Major Structural-Functional Theories. Part 1: Approaches to the simplex clause. 2003. 64. BUTLER, Chris: Structure and Function – A Guide to Three Major Structural-Functional Theories. Part 2: From clause to discourse and beyond. 2003. 65. MATSUMOTO, Kazuko: Intonation Units in Japanese Conversation. Syntactic, informational and functional structures. n.y.p. 66. NARIYAMA, Shigeko: Ellipsis and Reference Tracking in Japanese. n.y.p. 67. LURAGHI, Silvia: On the Meaning of Prepositions and Cases. The expression of semantic roles in Ancient Greek. n.y.p.

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