Framing and Perspectivising in Discourse [1 ed.] 9789027296641, 9789027253538

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Framing and Perspectivising in Discourse

Pragmatics & Beyond New Series Editor Andreas H. Jucker University of Zurich, English Department Plattenstrasse 47, CH-8032 Zurich, Switzerland e-mail: [email protected]

Associate Editors Jacob L. Mey University of Southern Denmark

Herman Parret Belgian National Science Foundation, Universities of Louvain and Antwerp

Jef Verschueren Belgian National Science Foundation, University of Antwerp

Editorial Board Shoshana Blum-Kulka Hebrew University of Jerusalem

Catherine Kerbrat-Orecchioni University of Lyon 2

Jean Caron Université de Poitiers

Claudia de Lemos University of Campinas, Brazil

Robyn Carston University College London

Marina Sbisà University of Trieste

Bruce Fraser Boston University

Emanuel Schegloff University of California at Los Angeles

Thorstein Fretheim University of Trondheim

Deborah Schiffrin Georgetown University

John Heritage University of California at Los Angeles

Paul O. Takahara Kansai Gaidai University

Susan Herring University of Texas at Arlington

Sandra Thompson University of California at Santa Barbara

Masako K. Hiraga St.Paul’s (Rikkyo) University

Teun A. Van Dijk Pompeu Fabra, Barcelona

David Holdcroft University of Leeds

Richard J. Watts University of Berne

Sachiko Ide Japan Women’s University

Volume 111 Framing and Perspectivising in Discourse Edited by Titus Ensink and Christoph Sauer

Framing and Perspectivising in Discourse Edited by

Titus Ensink Christoph Sauer University of Groningen

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 Framing and perspectivising in discourse / edited by Titus Ensink, Christoph Sauer. p. cm. (Pragmatics & Beyond, New Series, issn 0922-842X ; v. 111) Includes bibliographical references and index. 1. Discourse analysis. 2. Frames (Linguistics) 3. Perspective (Linguistics) I. Ensink, T. (Titus) II. Sauer, Christoph III. Series. P302.36.F73 2003 401’.41-dc21 2002033022 isbn 9027253536 (Eur.) / 1588113655 (US) (Hb; 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

List of contributors Social-functional and cognitive approaches to discourse interpretation: The role of frame and perspective Titus Ensink and Christoph Sauer A multimodal perspective on composition Theo van Leeuwen Transformational frames: Interpretative consequences of frame shifts and frame embeddings Titus Ensink Reporting annual results: A single-case analysis Geert Jacobs

vii 1 23

63 91

Footing, framing and the format sketch: Strategies in political satire Janet Cowper

109

Polyphonic constructions in everyday speech Ursula Bredel

147

Ajax is the agent: Subject versus passive agent as an indicator of the journalist’s perspective in soccer reports Louise Cornelis

171

Perspective in medical correspondence: English and German letters-to-the-editor Ines-A. Busch-Lauer

191

Name index

215

Subject index

219

List of contributors

Ursula Bredel Pädagogische Hochschule Karlsruhe Institut für deutsche Sprache und Literatur und ihre Didaktik Bismarckstrasse 10 D–76133 Karlsruhe Ines Busch-Lauer Schopenhauerstr. 28 D–04157 Leipzig [email protected] Louise Cornelis Barcelonaplein 56 NL–1019 LZ Amsterdam [email protected] Janet Cowper 10 Poppletongate House Millgates York, YO26 6AX UK Titus Ensink University of Groningen, Faculteit Letteren

Postbus 716 NL–9700 AS Groningen [email protected] Geert Jacobs University of Ghent Department of Language and Communication Hoveniersberg 24 B–9000 Ghent [email protected] Christoph Sauer University of Groningen, Faculteit Letteren Postbus 716 NL–9700 AS Groningen [email protected] Theo van Leeuwen Centre for Language and Communication Research Cardiff University P.O. Box 94 Cardiff CF1 3X8 Wales, UK [email protected]

Social-functional and cognitive approaches to discourse interpretation The role of frame and perspective Titus Ensink and Christoph Sauer

.

Introduction

The central concern of Discourse Analysis is to describe and explain how human discourse functions the way it does, i.e. how people are able to communicate complex meanings by means of coherent situated texts (see Brown & Yule 1983: ix; Fairclough 1995: 4–10; Wood & Kroger 2000: 3–16). The discourse itself (its ‘text’) may be at the core of the communication process, but it is by no means sufficient to account for what happens in that process. The text itself would be sufficient within the paradigm based on the conduit metaphor for communication (‘communication is a process in which information is sent by a sender toward a receiver’). We believe, however, that this paradigm nowadays has few adherents. Instead, communication is considered a process which calls for active participation and an active role of the listener/reader, a process which therefore is not determined (Sperber & Wilson 1986; Clark 1996). Communication is a form of social action between people, in which people assess, interpret, and influence each other on multiple levels. The interactive nature of communication determines the way we look at discourse. Basic to this nature is the fact that interaction must be built on ‘common ground’ (Clark 1996: 92–121): participants in the interaction need to share a certain body of knowledge and suppose each other to share that knowledge. People routinely ‘calculate’ which knowledge they themselves have and which knowledge their partners have, so as to establish which knowledge is shared. Interaction thus relies on cognitive factors, since it presupposes knowledge. Communication and interaction are basically social concepts, but these concepts need a cognitive foundation.

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In this volume, we single out two concepts as central to the concern of Discourse Analysis along these lines: frame and perspective. ‘Frame’ refers to the fact that discourse participants need a shared sense of the way in which the discourse is framed, i.e. an overall sense of the function of the discourse in the social situation. ‘Perspective’ refers to the fact that the content of a discourse necessarily is ‘displayed’ from some point of view. Discourse participants cannot contribute to the discourse without at the same time showing their view on the subject matter of the discourse. Both concepts thus refer to practices that are necessary for discourse participants to orient towards. Both concepts function at the intersection of a psychological-cognitive and a social-functional approach of discourse. They presuppose knowledge and the operation of knowledge structures. Furthermore, they presuppose some indeterminacy as to the content of these knowledge structures, and they presuppose that people orient themselves more or less consciously towards the operation of these knowledge structures. In this volume, we have brought together some contributions which both elucidate and elaborate these concepts and apply them to the analysis of several types of discourse. We will now discuss both concepts in more detail: ‘frame’ in Section 2, ‘perspective’ in Section 3. In Section 4, we present an illustrative analysis of a fragment of written discourse in which the relevance of both concepts is shown. In Section 5 we introduce the contributions to this volume.

. Frame The term ‘frame’ is, when applied to discourse, a metaphorical term. Basically the term ‘frame’ invokes a spatial concept. A frame gives to an object its place in space and separates it at the same time from its environment. Paradigmatic is the painting in a frame. Everything within the frame is the painting. The frame separates the painting from the environment and is used at the same time to give the painting its place, e.g., by fixing it to the wall. A frame thus gives structure to both an object itself and to the way the object is perceived. This double function of the term ‘frame’ is also characteristic of its metaphorical use. Instead of structuring space, a frame may be used for structuring time. The opening and closing of the curtain constitute the frame in which the theatrical performance is perceived in time and in which the performance is separated from previous and subsequent events. And frames may be used to structure cognitive space. As soon as something (either concrete or abstract) is seen as being related to something else, it is framed, because it is seen

Social-functional and cognitive approaches to discourse interpretation

as ‘somewhere’ in cognitive space. “Our general human cognitive capacities appear to include the ability (and the need) to set up frames, or structured understandings of the way aspects of the world function” (Fauconnier & Sweetser 1996: 5; bold in original). The metaphor of a ‘frame’ is apparently appealing. Several reviews of the use of the term ‘frame’ in theoretical literature show an at first sight confusing complexity. The complexity has two causes: (1) the term is used with different meanings within different fields of research; (2) within the same field different terms are used in order to refer to (roughly) the same concept or meaning. The first cause may be illustrated when we consider the fields of research enumerated in Tannen (1993b) and Lee (1997). They mention the following fields of research in which the term ‘frame’ is used (the names of the most relevant authors/proponents are added):

Tannen (1993b: 15–18) – – – – –

Linguistics (Fillmore; Chafe) Anthropology (Bateson; Frake) Sociology (Goffman; Hymes) Artificial Intelligence (Minsky; Schank) Earlier in her discussion Tannen mentioned the field of (Cognitive) Psychology (Bartlett; Rumelhart; Abelson) in which ideas similar to those implied in the term ‘frame’ are common, but in which different terms are used

Lee (1997: 339–340) – – – – –

Linguistics, in particular Cognitive Grammar (Fillmore; Lakoff; Langacker) Anthropology (Bateson; Frake) Sociology (Goffman) Ethnography of Speaking (Hymes; Saville-Troike) Interactional Sociolinguistics (Gumperz; Schiffrin)

The second cause may be illustrated in the following list of terms used in a similar sense as some of the uses of the term ‘frame’: – – – – –

perspective (Graumann; Anderson & Pichert) schema (Bartlett; Thorndyke & Yekovich) demon (Charniak) script (Schank & Abelson) type of activity; speech activity (Hymes; Gumperz)

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– – –

footing (Goffman; Levinson) keying (Goffman) layering (Clark)

Nevertheless, it appears possible to reduce these uses and these terms to two (or maybe three) basic meanings, which are different ways of filling in the same basic metaphor. . Knowledge frames The concept ‘frame’ is useful for the description of the way our knowledge is organised and how we use our knowledge in understanding. The concept in this sense has been clearly formulated by Marvin Minsky: What happens when a child reads a story that begins like this? Mary was invited to Jack’s party. She wondered if he would like a kite. If you asked what that kite was for, most people would answer that it must be a birthday present for Jack. How amazing it is that every normal person can make such complicated inferences so rapidly – considering that the idea of a gift was never mentioned at all! Could any machine do such remarkable things? Consider all the other assumptions and conclusions that almost everyone will make: The party is a birthday party. Jack and Mary are children. ‘She’ is Mary. ‘He’ is Jack. She is considering giving Jack a kite. She wonders if he would like the kite. We call these understandings ‘common sense’. They’re made so swiftly that they’re often ready in our minds before a sentence is complete! But how is this done? In order to realize that the kite is a present, one has to use such knowledge as that parties involve presents, that presents for children are usually toys, and that kites are appropriate toys to be given as presents. None of this is mentioned in the story itself. How do we bring together all that scattered knowledge so quickly? Here’s what I think must happen. Somehow the words ‘Mary was invited to Jack’s party’ arouses a ‘party-invitation’ frame in the reader’s mind – and attached to the terminals of that frame are certain memories of various concerns. Who is the host? Who will attend? What present should I bring? What clothing shall I wear? Each of these concerns, in turn, is

Social-functional and cognitive approaches to discourse interpretation

represented by a frame to whose terminals are already attached, as default assignments, the most usual solutions to that particular kind of problem. (Minsky 1986: 261)

A knowledge frame is a cognitively available pattern used in perception in order to make sense of the perceived material by ‘imposing’ that pattern and its known features on that material. Similarly, Fauconnier and Sweetser (1996: 5) talk about frames in this sense: These frames allow us to make maximal use of the data we are given in crucial respects; for example, if someone talking about a house mentions the front door, the bathroom door, or the driveway, we don’t ask what front door? We know that there is probably a front door, simply from a complex understanding of the kind of object in question.

Knowledge frames in this sense are also referred to as schema, demon or script. The concept frame in this sense is central to (cognitive) linguistics, artificial intelligence, and cognitive psychology. The concept is used in order to describe and explain the coherence in knowledge as used for the representation and understanding of the world. In linguistics, it is used for the description of complex semantic relations related to concepts. In artificial intelligence, it is used for developing systems which are capable of accessing databases in an intelligent and efficient way. The concept has been used in order to develop computational systems which are capable of intelligent processes similar to human processes. In cognitive psychology, the concept has been used in order to explain aspects of knowledge storage, knowledge retrieval, and the use of knowledge in processes of perception and comprehension. The most powerful aspect of frame theory is undoubtedly that it accounts for the ‘principle of continually available output’ (see Kuipers 1975; Bobrow & Norman 1975): processes of human perception and comprehension do not need complete data in order to yield coherent and interpreted output. Whenever we see a car behind a thick tree, we do not perceive a complete car, but fragments of the front and the backside. But we do not see two fragmentary parts, we ‘see’ one unified whole car. Thus, by using the coherence of the knowledge in our semantic memory, we find an explanation for the human capacity of understanding a lot from only a little bit of data (Baddeley 1990: 335–347; 1999: 145–160; see also Schank & Abelson 1977). In discourse analysis, the concept ‘frame’ is used in this sense as well. When the question is asked how people use their everyday knowledge in a routinised way in the understanding of text to fill in presupposed but implicit informa-

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tion, the concept appears to be useful (Levinson 1983: 281; Kintsch & van Dijk 1983: 46–49, 307–311; some criticism in Brown & Yule 1983; Suchman 1987; Edwards 1997). For example, in examples like “I entered the room. The window was broken”, it is easily understood that the window belongs to the room. Hence, the coherence of the two sentences is explainable on the basis of the knowledge frame for a room which is accessed when the first sentence is processed. Not all relevant information needs to be mentioned in order to understand ‘completely’ what the discourse means. Frames thus contribute to the explanation of the often noted characteristic of human discourse that the form of an utterance “hopelessly underdetermines its interpretation”. The concept ‘frame’ conceived as a knowledge frame has also been used in a more specific way in discourse analysis. Especially in media analysis, i.e. in discourse analysis applied to media texts, analysts use the concept for describing and explaining differences in the way people perceive news events, and subsequently, the way reporters report about those events. Seminal in this respect has been the work of Tuchman (1978) who introduced the concept to the field of media analysis. Along these lines, Bing and Lombardo (1997) analyse a number of media texts pertaining to sexual harassment. They show that sexual harassment is not an object or event with fixed properties and with a fixed way of evaluating, but that the way people talk and think about sexual harassment depends on the frame they choose to fit it into, viz. the judicial frame, the victim frame, the initiator frame, and the social science frame. We encounter a similar approach in Gitlin (1980), Entman (1991) and Pan and Kosicki (1993). . Interactive frames When people interact they expect each other to behave comprehensibly and to a certain extent predictably. Several authors have described interaction on this basis. As a rather typical example, consider John Gumperz (1982), who describes interactive processes as based on processes of conversational inference, i.e. “... the situated or context-bound process of interpretation, by means of which participants in an exchange assess others’ intentions, and on which they base their responses” (Gumperz 1982: 153). This process is further described as follows: The identification of specific conversational exchanges as representative of socio-culturally familiar activities is the process I have called ‘contextualization’ (...). It is the process by which we evaluate message meaning and sequencing patterns in relation to aspects of the surface structure of the message, called ‘contextualization cues’. The linguistic basis for this matching pro-

Social-functional and cognitive approaches to discourse interpretation

cedure resides in ‘co-occurrence expectations’, which are learned in the course of previous interactive experience and form part of our habitual and instinctive linguistic knowledge. Co-occurrence expectations enable us to associate styles of speaking with contextual presuppositions. We regularly rely upon these matching procedures in everyday conversation. Although they are rarely talked about and tend to be noticed only when things go wrong, without them we would be unable to relate what we hear to previous experience. (Gumperz 1982: 162)

Although the concept ‘frame’ is not used by Gumperz, it is clear that a similar concept is involved. Note that the key formulation is “the identification of specific conversational exchanges as representative of socio-culturally familiar activities”. To be familiar implies to be stored as a form of normal and readily accessible information. Similarly, “co-occurrence expectations” presuppose an organisation of knowledge that is clustered, coherent, and contains “default values”. This is precisely the core of the concept of ‘knowledge frame’. Interactive frames may thus be considered a specific case of knowledge frames. Interactive frames are those frames which pertain to our behaviour of what we do whenever we speak with one another in different social situations. Participants in interaction need to share a sense of which kind of activity they are engaged in. This is warranted by the mutual orientation toward interactive frames. Interactive frames are also referred to as ‘kind of activity’ or ‘speech activity’. Examples of this use may be found in Tannen and Wallat (1993: 59–60), or in the following quotation: “In the ethnography of speaking ... the concept [frame] applies primarily to the type of activity being engaged in: joking, imitating, chatting, lecturing, etc. (...)” (Lee 1997: 340). The term ‘frame’ is used in the interactive sense in anthropology (Bateson; Frake), sociology (Goffman), the ethnography of speaking (Hymes; SavilleTroike), and interactional sociolinguistics (Gumperz; Schiffrin). The concept has been applied in the analysis of the interaction in many different situations. The contributions in Tannen (1993a) analyse the following interactions or situations: medical examination (Tannen & Wallat), psychotic discourse (Ribeiro), sportscasting (Hoyle), sermons (Smith), group discussions (Watanabe), and interviews (Schiffrin). Similarly, Van den Berg (1996) analyses social research interviews as built up from frames toward which the researcher and the interviewee orient themselves.

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. Footing and changes in frame Erving Goffman (1981) introduced the concept ‘footing’, which is rather similar to the concept of interactive frame and which became rather influential in discourse analysis. Goffman himself did not provide a clear definition. The following quotation comes closest to a definition: A change in footing implies a change in the alignment we take up to ourselves and the others present as expressed in the way we manage the production or reception of an utterance. A change in our footing is another way of talking about a change in our frame for events. (...) (C)hange in footing is very commonly language-linked; if not that, then at least one can claim that the paralinguistic markers of language will figure. (Goffman 1981: 128)

The concept has been elaborated systematically by Levinson (1988). It has been applied in analysis many times (e.g. Heritage & Greatbach 1991; Clayman 1992; most of the contributions to Tannen 1993a; Wortham 1996; Ensink 1997 – to mention only a few examples of authors using the concept). Goffman’s remark that a “change in our footing is another way of talking about a change in our frame for events” suggests that the concepts frame and footing may be seen as identical. Moreover, Goffman himself (Goffman 1981: 128, footnote) considered ‘footing’ an elaboration of his Frame analysis (Goffman 1974). There is, however, a difference in focus. The term ‘footing’ roughly refers to the way in which the communicative participant (speaker or hearer) is involved in the situation and the ground for this way. The term ‘frame’ refers to the overall picture of what the situation is. Hence, there is no simple identity (which would allow us to do away with one of the terms), but rather a strong co-occurrence relation between both concepts. It is remarkable that in the quotation above Goffman speaks repeatedly about a change in footing (or in frame). A change may be taken in the sense of one frame taking the place of another one, just as might be the case with knowledge frames. We may consider an object or event as fitting some frame, but then recognise on some ground that we have been mistaken. For example, if we perceive a flying object, we may first think that we see a bird, but then recognise that it is not a bird but a kite. The perception, the outside stimulus to the retina, in itself did not change. But we chose a different knowledge frame to fit the perception into. However, a change in footing, or in frame, is not restricted to replacing; there is also the possibility of embedding. Consider this quotation:

Social-functional and cognitive approaches to discourse interpretation

The question of footing is systematically complicated by the possibility of embedding. For example, a speaker can quote himself or another directly or indirectly, thereby setting into an utterance with one production format another utterance with its own production format, albeit now merely an embedded one. (Goffman 1981: 227)

In his Frame analysis, Goffman (1974) has devoted many chapters to the phenomenon of frames embedding other frames. Using the musical analogy of tonal transposition, Goffman terms these embedding frames keys (Clark 1996, Chapter 12, describes similar phenomena using the term layering). Whenever a keying occurs, “a systematic transformation is involved across materials already meaningful in accordance with a schema of interpretation, and without which the keying would be meaningless” (Goffman 1974: 45). There are good reasons (see Ensink, this volume) to consider these frames as a separate category, next to knowledge frames and interactive frames. Most authors do not, but treat them as belonging to interactive frames. In this volume, there is considerable attention paid to phenomena pertaining to embedding frames, in particular in the papers by Cowper, Ensink and Jacobs, and to some lesser extent by Bredel.

. Perspective The concept ‘perspective’ is in many regards similar to the concept ‘frame’. Perspective is a concept pertaining to the way in which space is perceived and represented. It is an aspect of the basic properties of visual perception. From this spatial basic meaning, several metaphorical meanings have been derived. Sandig (1996) points out that perspective is a topic of analysis in such fields as social psychology, philosophy, psychology, poetics, the arts, and linguistics. In discourse analysis, the concept refers to the way people imply a certain way of looking at things when communicating about them. Perspective is equivalent to the concept ‘point of view’ (see Simpson 1993). For something to be represented (in communication, in text) implies a point of view from which it is represented. It is not possible to represent something, without representing it from some point. If discourse perspective is broadly defined as a particular vantage point, or point of view in discourse, then, strictly speaking, no sentence in any discourse is free from a certain degree of perspectivization. (Sanders & Redeker 1996: 290)

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The identification of that point, and its implication for the way of representing, is the main point of describing and analysing perspective in discourse. Sandig (1996) identifies the following principles which are important to account for when describing perspective in discourse: –

–

– –

–

Perspective is pervasive in discourse. Perspective is relevant in all those discourse phenomena in which the attitude or point of view of the speaker is made explicit, or in which the existence of different attitudes or points of view is acknowledged. The concept perspective presupposes a perspectivising person (normally the speaker) and a perspectivised object (what is talked or written about); perspective itself may be described as the relation between the perspectivising person and the perspectivised object, as established in the discourse. The normal case of perspective is one’s own perspective: the speaker speaks from him/herself. But it is possible to adopt a ‘foreign’ perspective. In discourse, the speaker normally speaks from a certain perspective. It is also possible to speak about a perspective, metacommunicatively, so to speak. Perspective is not constant or predetermined. It is the result of a choice. In subsequent parts of a discourse a speaker or writer may choose a different perspective. The discourse perspective thus may shift.

Even when we admit that “no sentence in any discourse is free from a certain degree of perspectivization”, it is possible to identify some discoursal or textual aspects that contribute more explicitly to the identification or recognisability of perspective than other ones: – – –

–

voice (the choice between active or passive): see Mikame (1996), and authors quoted by Cornelis (1997) and Cornelis (this volume) forms of quotation: see Simpson (1993: 21–30), Sanders (1994), Sanders and Redeker (1996), and Bredel (this volume) lexical choice: in many cases a speaker/writer has different options in order to refer to some object or state of affairs; making a choice from these options often implies a perspectival choice, such as the choice between ‘come’ and ‘go’, or the choice of verbs in a root-form as opposed to a derived form, as in German ‘pflanzen’ (to plant) – ‘bepflanzen’ (to plant-into): see Mikame (1996) deixis: the way in which a speaker or writer fits the discourse to the actual place and time of the situation in which the discourse is produced: see Simpson (1993: 12–21), Levelt (1989: 44–58)

Social-functional and cognitive approaches to discourse interpretation

–

in the analysis of narratives (both literary and non-fictional) the point of view of the narrator is an important focus of analysis: see Bal (1985) and Simpson (1993)

Regarding perspective indicating choices, Mikame (1996) argues that a speaker will normally choose an unmarked formulation. The normal unmarked perspective is the one which belongs to the Origo (to use Bühler’s term) of the speaker: Der Sprecher schildert einen Sachverhalt im Normalfall vom Sprecher-OrigoPunkt her, diese egozentrisch-fixierte Perspektive lässt sich als unmarkierte Perspektive auffassen [Perspektive = SOP]. Lässt er dagegen seine Perspektive vom SOP zu einem bestimmten Objekt ( = thematisches Objekt) übergehen und stellt von dort den Sachverhalt dar, so lässt sich diese dem Objekt angenäherte Perspektive als markierte Perspektive auffassen [Perspektive = Objekt]. (Mikame 1996: 370) The speaker represents a state of affairs in normal cases from the point of the speaker’s Origo; this egocentrically fixed perspective may be considered the unmarked perspective [perspective = point of the speaker’s Origo, PSO]. But if he shifts his perspective from the PSO to a certain object (the thematic object) and if he represents from there the state of affairs, then the perspective close to this object may be considered the marked perspective [perspective = object].

Thus, if a speaker uses ‘come’, the normal, unmarked, perspective is that the movement is toward the location of the speaker (‘come to me’). When the movement is from the location of the speaker toward some location elsewhere, then the perspective belongs to the other location. In this case, the perspective is marked (‘I’ll come to the Dome’), and therefore communicatively salient. Similarly, the choice of the active voice, the use of the root verb and the choice of the indirect mode are unmarked. Mikame argues that the marked perspective may be chosen whenever the speaker or writer wishes to signal that the perspective from the object is more relevant.

. Analysis of an illustrative example In order to show the relevance of the concepts frame and perspective, we will discuss the following example. On February 24, 1997, Time published an article “Bye to all that” by Anthony Spaeth. The first six sentences (the first paragraph) of this article are the following (we have added numbers to each sentence):

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(1) Hwang Jang Yop wanted to go shopping, or so he told his comrades at the tightly guarded North Korean embassy in central Beijing. (2) But after a short taxi ride, Hwang and an aide were at the door of their sworn enemy: the embassy of South Korea. (3) The pair passed through its gates a few minutes after 10 a.m. and asked to meet the ambassador. (4) Hwang then announced his intention to defect, adding, ‘Is this place safe?’ (5) The scholarly 73-year-old sat at the consul general’s desk and composed a public statement, with advice to loved ones back in Pyongyang: (6) ‘I would like to ask my family to think that I have left this world as of today.’

In order to make sense of these sentences a reader of the magazine has to identify at least the following features – describable on the basis of our central concepts – in order to grasp the ostensibly intended meaning: 1. Discourse functions on the basis of both explicitly provided information and presupposed information. The information that is provided in (1) is that “Hwang” and “his comrades” belong to “the tightly guarded Embassy of North Korea”. North Korea is a Stalinist bulwark, as a politically knowledgeable reader will know (the formulation “comrades” fits into that knowledge). This is part of the information that is presupposed. Moreover, the reader has to invoke general knowledge (again, presupposed in the communication) concerning diplomacy, the way of life within oppressive political systems, espionage and possible bugging, the position of embassies in large cities, the way public statements are made, and so on. The reader has to know things like: ‘Beijing is China’s Capital’; ‘Countries have an Embassy in a foreign capital for their representation’; ‘High officials have drivers as an aide’; ‘Pyongyang is North Korea’s Capital’; ‘Enemy countries try to bug places such as embassies in which they might get vital information’; ‘Oppressive regimes hit back hard at traitors’; and so on. Such knowledge is organised and accessible in knowledge clusters or knowledge frames, similar to the way in which children understand stories about kites and birthday presents (cf. Section 2.1). 2. Discourse is normally seen as somebody’s discourse: a person or an institution as the source of the text. And discourse is seen as performing a functional activity. The quoted paragraph is attributable to Time and to its journalist Anthony Spaeth. The discourse is seen as a specific activity, viz. journalistic reporting (cf. Section 2.2). A reader will interpret the paragraph accordingly. In the first clause of (1) a certain fact is put forward about Hwang Jang Yop, namely that he wanted to go shopping. This fact is reported to the reader by

Social-functional and cognitive approaches to discourse interpretation

Anthony Spaeth through the medium of Time’s magazine. Normally, a reader is not supposed to know who Hwang is, or what the relevance of the rather trivial fact is that someone wants to go shopping (don’t we all every day?). But a reader normally expects reported facts to be relevant to the report. The relevance of the reported fact may be made explicit in roughly the following way. In the second clause of (1), the reported fact is linked to other information: Hwang told his comrades at the North Korean Embassy in Beijing so. The fact reported in the first clause now is embedded within a reported statement. The second clause of (1) thus effects an important shift. Whereas the credibility of the proposition ‘Hwang wants to go shopping’ seems to depend on the communication of Time’s reporter to the reader in the first clause, it depends on Hwang’s communication to his comrades in the second clause. This invokes questions about the communication between Hwang and his comrades. Why did Hwang say so to his comrades? The first word of (2) is “but”. This signals a contrast. The contrast is apparently between the expectation resulting from (1) (namely that Hwang is going to do some shopping) and the reported fact in (2)–(4). The reported fact in (2)–(4) is that Hwang did not go shopping but went to the South Korean Embassy (the Enemy), in order to defect. The contrast results in the interpretation that Hwang’s discourse to his comrades, reported in the second clause of (1), was not sincerely meant but intended as a pretence. 3. Nevertheless, there are many cases where discourse is not directly and unequivocally attributable to one source. Discourse may contain allusions to other discourse, discourse may be produced by someone who acts on behalf of somebody else, discourse may contain the literal or paraphrased embedding of another discourse, i.e. quotation in a direct or indirect form. Verbal behaviour which functions within one frame may be transposed to another frame, and thus be put on a different footing (cf. Section 2.3). The quoted paragraph contains both direct and indirect quotations from Hwang. Whereas basically the whole paragraph may be considered a form of communication of a news medium (Time and its journalist) to the general audience, at least three other forms of communication are referred to, two of which are embedded directly (indicated by ‘ ’) in this text: – – –

Hwang communicating to his comrades (1) Hwang communicating to South Korea’s Ambassador (4) Hwang communicating in a public statement, in particular to his family (6).

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By comparing Hwang’s quoted communication in (1) and (4), it appears that he has made two announcements within a short span of time. He has announced that he wanted to do some shopping, and he has announced that he wanted to defect. The reader now knows that Hwang’s first announcement was not sincerely meant, but the second very much so. Furthermore, sentence (6) is embedded within (5). In (5) Hwang is described as having written a public statement, part of which is quoted in (6). Whereas the general addressee of (6) is the public in general (“a public statement”), the intended addressee is Hwang’s family in North Korea. 4. Discourse communication involves the representation of facts, but it does not do so objectively, nor detached from any point of view. Instead, a specific point of view is always involved. (Here we see how perspective operates in discourse, cf. Section 3.) This is the most perspicuous in cases in which evaluation becomes explicit. Evaluation is dependent on which side you are on. Not everybody sees things the same way. Consider the effect of the formulaic choice in (4): “Hwang then announced his intention to defect”. Here the formulation “defect” is used. This formulation has not merely a descriptive sense (moving from one political party to another) but also an evaluative sense. There is enmity between these two parties. The description is from the point of view of the party which is left. Otherwise, one should use the formulation ‘join’ (“Hwang then announced his intention to join them”). Similarly, consider this sentence from a subsequent paragraph in the Time article: “Aside from that remarkable fact, much else was hazy about his coming in from the cold”. To whom is the fact “remarkable”? To which perceptor are things “hazy”? What determines the choice of direction implied in “coming in”? – Another aspect of the Time article in which perspective operates is the fact that, although the events are described in the third person by a narrator (Spaeth) who himself does not take part in the narrated events, facts are presented in such a way that the reader keeps close to Hwang as the protagonist of the narrated events, thus adopting Hwang’s point of view: the aide is an aide to Hwang, South Korea is their (i.e. Hwang’s and his aide’s) enemy, the sitting at the table is described from Hwang’s position, and so on.

. The concepts frame and perspective in discourse analysis: This volume Although the concepts ‘frame’ and ‘perspective’ are not identical, they are closely related. A frame is a structure of perception, a perspective is a direc-

Social-functional and cognitive approaches to discourse interpretation

tion of perception. Both concepts are based on a spatial metaphor. As a result, the phenomena both concepts refer to are closely related and often co-occur. A shift in frame often implies a shift in perspective. And often it is difficult to identify which structure of perception must be used, without at the same time identifying from which point of view that structure is to be used.1 Indeed, some phenomena may be described using both terms. Quotation is a case in point. Quotation is a shift in the deictic centre of the discourse, hence in perspective. At the same time, it shifts the frame in which the quoted words are to be interpreted. Hence, quotation may be regarded a key example of the intersection of framing and perspectivising phenomena. Because of the structural similarity of both concepts, and because of their relevance to the description of discourse phenomena, we have brought together in this volume several contributions focusing on these phenomena, and using theoretical tools aiming at describing and explaining framing and perspectivising devices in the production and comprehension of discourse.2 We may characterise the contributions to this volume as follows. Theo van Leeuwen argues that any discourse is realised by multimodal means. Thus, spoken discourse does not only contain words, but these words inevitably have volume, melody, and speed; moreover, the speaker of the words has facial expressions, and makes different gestures. Printed discourse does not only consist of words, but inevitably these words are distributed in a specific way on a page, they have graphic characteristics, and so on. The key question van Leeuwen addresses is how different modes interact in the composition of a discourse (especially written discourse) so as to have an integrated interpretative result. Van Leeuwen distinguishes three major aspects in multimodal composition: –

–

–

information value. The way elements are put in space, notably left – right, up – down, foreground – background, gives a specific information value to these elements. Space may be taken in its literal sense, but space often refers to semiotic space. salience. The way elements are designed in order to attract the perceiver’s attention to a greater or lesser degree. The location in space may also add to an element’s salience, as do movement, tonal colour, relative size. framing. The way the elements of a composition are connected or disconnected by formal means, such as white space, boundary lines, vectors, and so on. Whether elements belong together, form part of each other, are independent and separate, or contrast may be decided on the basis of these framing devices.

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Titus Ensink elaborates the notion of ‘key’ itself, although he proposes a different term, viz. ‘transformational frame’. First, he argues that it is necessary to distinguish these frames from interactional patterns followed in interaction, on the basis of which people model their contributions to that interaction. Central to his argument is the asymmetrical relation between transformational frames and interactive frames (the first may and must contain the latter ones, whereas the latter ones cannot contain the first). Subsequently, a number of cases are analysed in which tranformational frames operate. In these analyses, the descriptive relevance of the concept is shown. Geert Jacobs presents an analysis of press releases from the point of view that they are meant to be subsequently part of a press publication. The person or organisation issuing a press release calculates in advance the role it will play in the subsequent report. Since the report is a form of framing, in particular, keying, the advance calculation may be considered a form of what Jacobs terms prekeying. Jacobs relates these phenomena to the increased influence and presence of media in social life. Prekeying and keying thus are forms of ‘mediazation’. Jacobs focuses on deictic phenomena. He shows that many press releases choose the deictic centre of the expected subsequent press report. Part of the press release is thus conceived and realised already within the subsequent frame, at the same time adopting the perspective belonging to that frame. Janet Cowper equally relies on Goffman’s analytic framework in her analysis of real and satirised political interviews. The normal political interview is an event that may be transformed or transposed into the ‘key’ (in Goffman’s terminology) of satire. The behaviour within the key is patterned after the behaviour in the primary frame. Cowper presents an elaborate comparative description, based on a Conversation Analytic approach, giving two instances of both: one serious political interview, and one satirical sketch in the format of an interview (a so called ‘format sketch’). Apart from ‘keying’, Cowper also makes extensive use of Goffman’s concept ‘footing’ in her analysis of interviewer’s and interviewee’s behaviour in both instances. Ursula Bredel analyses quotation on a rather broad basis. Quotation phenomena are not limited to one speaker explicitly referring to, and incorporating, another speaker’s discourse into one’s own discourse, but they are extended to the phenomenon of ‘polyphony’ (in Bakhtin’s terminology): in discourse there are traces of different voices, including one’s own voice, in different instances of oneself. Bredel distinguishes three forms of polyphony: interpolyphonic constructions (a speaker inserting foreign voices within his own discourse), intrapolyphonic constructions (a speaker invoking different forms or instances of himself) and hybrid constructions (a mixture of these possibil-

Social-functional and cognitive approaches to discourse interpretation

ities). The use of the different possibilities has perspectivising effects. Bredel analyses these in two paradigmatic examples, taken from a larger corpus of narratives. (The full corpus aims at a comparative analysis of perspective in stories told by West Germans, as opposed to stories told by East Germans.) In one story forms of intrapolyphony prevail, in the other one forms of interpolyphony. Polyphony turns out to be especially useful in making inconsistencies in one’s experience accountable. Louise Cornelis analyses one specific grammatical choice, namely, active or passive voice, as an indicator of text perspective. Choice of the active voice signals that the entity the activity of which is described, is closer to the speaker (or writer), whereas the passive signals a greater distance. Cornelis analyses a small corpus of newspaper reports on a soccer match in order to find out whether journalists who are closer to the winning team (hence may be expected to signal a stronger identification) use the active voice more often. Subsequently, she describes an experiment in which two versions of one text are used. One version uses predominantly active voice, the other the passive. The experiment shows that readers of the text do recognise the perspective which belongs to the chosen voice on theoretical grounds: choice of the passive is seen as signalling a more distanced point of view. Ines Busch-Lauer analyses the perspective in one specific type of text, namely letters-to-the-editor in scientific medical journals. These texts are distinctly expert and professional. They aim at expressing an attitude or an evaluation concerning previous publications. For that reason, they may be expected to be a rich source for finding perspectivising phenomena. Busch-Lauer focuses on stylistic choices as an indication of the chosen perspective. She distinguishes three main perspectives, all of which may be described (following Sandig, above) as the relation between a perspectivising person (normally the writer of the letter) and a perspectivised object (in this case, the previous publication on which the letter wishes to comment): (1) author – research results; (2) author – readership; (3) author – science in general. More specifically, Busch-Lauer tries to establish cross-cultural differences in the use of these perspectives by making a comparison of the perspective chosen in letters to German and English medical journals. The first four contributions (van Leeuwen, Ensink, Jacobs, Cowper) pertain to framing, whereas the next three contributions (Bredel, Cornelis, BuschLauer) pertain to perspectivising phenomena. If we look at the different contributions from the point of view of our introductory remarks in Sections 2 and 3, we may notice that we did not include any contribution pertaining to knowledge frames (cf. Section 2.1) considering the rather exclusively psychological

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basis of the concept in this sense. Van Leeuwen’s contribution pertains to framing in general. Framing is considered in a basic and rather literal sense, namely as pertaining to boundary lines in space (cf. Section 2). The next three contributions address the way frames may be transformed or transposed. These contributions use the notion of frame in a metaphorical sense (cf. Section 2). They rely on Goffman’s Frame analysis (1974), in particular on the notion of ‘key’: the transformation of some behaviour (or discourse, for that matter) which is already meaningful in itself toward a new frame which reconstitutes the basic meaning of what we perceive (cf. Sections 2.2 and 2.3). Ensink argues in favour of a terminological distinction (transformational frames as distinguished from interactional frames proper). Jacobs describes some of the ways in which a discourse may anticipate its being included in subsequent discourse, by framing its own formulations in terms of the frame expected in the subsequent discourse. Cowper makes a comparison of the same type of discourse (a news interview) in a serious and a satirical situation, hence in a single framed and an embedded situation. The three contributions pertaining to perspective (cf. Section 3) focus on different linguistic and discoursal aspects in which perspective may manifest itself: quotation (Bredel), the choice between active and passive voice (Cornelis), and stylistic and formulaic choice (Busch-Lauer). All three contributions show that a different perspective as manifested in discourse is also a reflection of some social difference, be it a historical turning point in society, or belonging to different regional or national communities. The first two contributions (van Leeuwen, Ensink) have a general theoretical outlook, whereas the next five contributions (Jacobs, Cowper, Bredel, Cornelis, Busch-Lauer) contain empirical research. Framing is considered by van Leeuwen as part of an overarching theoretical concept: multimodality. Since discourse (or ‘composition’, in the terminology used by van Leeuwen) is located within semiotic space, every aspect of semiotic space contributes to the way the discourse is understood. Framing is one of the main aspects of semiotic space, hence an important aspect of the way in which the structure and the function of a discourse are communicated. Van Leeuwen thus presents the most general outlook of this volume. Ensink’s contribution is aimed at a terminological and theoretical clarification regarding interactional frames as to the property of embedding (cf. Section 2.3): some interactional frames may contain others, some do not. The empirical research described in this volume is descriptive in nature. In all cases we find a corpus of materials in which framing or perspectivising phenomena are analysed. In most cases the corpus is also comparative on the basis of some criterion such as belonging to the same local community or

Social-functional and cognitive approaches to discourse interpretation

not (Cornelis), nationality (British vs. German, Busch-Lauer), before or after a historical turning point (before or after the Wende, the fall of the Berlin Wall, Bredel), intended seriously or satirising (Cowper). In the analyses of Bredel and Busch-Lauer the comparison has intercultural implications. In general, we encounter in this volume theory construction on the basis of illustrative evidence (van Leeuwen, Ensink), corpus analysis (Jacobs), comparative corpus analysis (Cowper, Cornelis, Bredel, Busch-Lauer), and experiment (part of Cornelis’ contribution). We feel that this is a fair reflection of how research in Discourse Analysis proceeds.

Notes . We can find some examples where both terms are used interchangeably. Thus, Graumann (1989: 95) writes: “On a more technical level, perspective is oftentimes equated with schema, frame of reference, attitude or role”. Graumann does not use ‘frame’ for short, but ‘frame of reference’, although the term ‘schema’ normally is used to refer to a knowledge frame in the sense we use in this paper. In Anderson and Pichert (1978) an experiment is described in which the same text (a description of a house) is read by two groups of readers. One group is asked to read the text as a prospective buyer. The other group is asked to read while imagining that they are planning to burglarize the house. Anderson and Pichert rely on cognitive frame theory to explain several experimental findings pertaining to memory effects. They describe their experiment, however, as one pertaining to subjects’ perspective. . We wish to thank the Centre for Language and Cognition Groningen for supporting the preparation of this volume. We thank Floor Buschenhenke for her assistance in the editorial work.

References Anderson, Richard C. & Pichert, James W. (1978). Recall of previously unrecallable information following a shift in perspective. Journal of verbal learning and verbal behaviour, 17, 1–12. Baddeley, Alan (1990). Human memory. Theory and practice. Hove/London/Hillsdale: Lawrence Erlbaum. Baddeley, Alan D. (1999). Essentials of human memory. Hove: Psychology Press. Bal, Mieke (1985). Narratology: introduction to the theory of narrative. Toronto: University of Toronto Press. Bing, Janet M. & Lombardo, Lucien X. (1997). Talking past each other about sexual harassment: An exploration of frames for understanding. Discourse & society, 8, 293– 311.

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Brown, Gillian & Yule, George (1983). Discourse analysis. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Clark, Herbert H. (1996). Using language. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Clayman, Steven (1992). Footing in the achievement of neutrality. In P. Drew & J. Heritage (Eds.), Talk at work (pp. 163–198). Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Cornelis, Louise H. (1997). Passive and perspective. Amsterdam/Atlanta: Rodopi. Edwards, Derek (1997). Discourse and cognition. London etc.: Sage. Ensink, Titus (1997). The footing of a royal address. An analysis of representativeness in political speech, exemplified in Queen Beatrix’s address to the Knesset on March 28th, 1995. In Chr. Schäffner (Ed.), Analysing political speeches (pp. 5–32). Clevedon: Multilingual Matters. Entman, R. (1991). Framing U.S. coverage of international news: Contrasts in narratives of the KAL and Iran Air incidents. Journal of communication, 41, 6–27. Fairclough, N. (1995). Critical discourse analysis. London/New York: Longman. Fauconnier, Gilles & Sweetser, Eve (1996). Spaces, worlds and grammar. Chicago/London: University of Chicago Press. Gitlin, T. (1980). The whole world is watching you. Mass media making and unmaking of the new left. Berkeley/Los Angeles/London: University of California Press. Goffman, Erving (1974). Frame analysis. An essay on the organization of experience. New York etc.: Harper & Row. Goffman, Erving (1981). Forms of talk. Oxford: Basil Blackwell. Graumann, Carl F. (1989). Perspective setting and taking in verbal interaction. In R. Dietrich & C. F. Graumann (Eds.), Language processing in social context (pp. 95–122). Amsterdam etc.: North-Holland. Heritage, John & Greatbatch, David (1991). On the institutional character of institutional talk: The case of news interviews. In D. Boden & D. H. Zimmerman (Eds.), Talk and social structure. Studies in ethnomethodology and conversation analysis (pp. 93–137). Cambridge: Polity Press. Kuipers, B. J. (1975). A frame for frames: Representing knowledge for recognition. In D. G. Bobrow & A. Collins (Eds.), Representation and understanding. Studies in cognitive science (pp. 151–184). New York etc.: Academic Press. Lee, David A. (1997). Frame conflicts and competing construals in family argument. Journal of pragmatics, 27, 339–360. Levelt, W. J. M. (1989). Speaking: From intention to articulation. Cambridge and London: MIT Press. Levinson, Stephen C. (1983). Pragmatics. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Levinson, S. C. (1988). Putting linguistics on a proper footing: Explorations in Goffman’s concepts of participation. In P. Drew & A. Wootton (Eds.), Erving Goffman. Exploring the interaction order (pp. 161–227). Cambridge: Polity Press. Mikame, Hirofumi (1996). Markierte Perspektive, perspektivische Annäherung des Sprechers an das Objekt und direkte Wahrnehmung. Zur Signalisierung der psychischkognitiven Nähe des Sprechers zum Objekt. Sprachwissenschaft, 21, 367–420. Minsky, M. (1975). Frame-system theory. In R. C. Schank & B. L. Nash-Webber (Eds.), Theoretical issues in natural language processing. Cambridge, MA: MIT Press. Minsky, M. (1985). The society of mind. New York: Simon & Schuster.

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Norman, D. A. & Bobrow, D. G. (1975). On data-limited and resource-limited processes. Cognitive psychology, 7, 44–64. Pan, Z. & Kosicki, G. (1993). Framing analysis. An approach to news discourse. Political communication, 10, 55–75. Sanders, J. (1995). Perspective in narrative discourse. Doctoral dissertation, Tilburg University (The Netherlands). Sanders, José & Redeker, Gisela (1996). Perspective and the representation of speech and thought in narrative discourse. In G. Fauconnier & E. Sweetser (Eds.), Spaces, worlds and grammar (pp. 290–317). Chicago/London: University of Chicago Press. Sandig, Barbara (1996). Sprachliche Perspektivierung und perspektivierende Stile. Zeitschrift für Literaturwissenschaft und Linguistik, 102, 36–63. Schank, Roger C. & Abelson, Robert P. (1977). Scripts, plans, goals and understanding. An inquiry into human knowledge structures. Hillsdale, NJ/New York etc.: Erlbaum/Wiley. Simpson, P. (1993). Language, ideology and point of view. London etc.: Routledge. Sperber, Dan & Wilson, Deirdre (1986). Relevance. Communication and cognition. Oxford: Blackwell. Suchman, L. A. (1987). Plans and situated actions. The problem of human–machine interaction. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Tannen, Deborah (ed. 1993a). Framing in discourse. New York/Oxford: Oxford University Press. Tannen, Deborah (1993b). What’s in a frame? Surface evidence for underlying expectations. In D. Tannen (Ed.), Framing in Discourse (pp. 14–56). New York/Oxford: Oxford University Press. Tannen, Deborah & Wallat, Cynthia (1993). Interactive frames and knowledge schemas in interaction: Examples form a medical examination interview. In D. Tannen (Ed.), Framing in Discourse (pp. 57–113). New York/Oxford: Oxford University Press. Thorndyke, Perry & Yekovich, Frank R. (1980). A critique of schema-based theories of human story memory. Poetics, 9, 23–49. Tuchman, G. (1978). Making news. A study in the construction of reality. New York/London: The Free Press. Van den Berg, Harrie (1996). Frame analysis of open interviews on interethnic relations. Bulletin de méthodologie sociologique, 53, 5–32. Van Dijk, Teun A. & Kintsch, Walter (1983). Strategies of discourse comprehension. Orlando etc.: Academic Press. Wood, Linda A. & Kroger, Rolf O. (2000). Doing Discourse analysis. Methods for studying action in talk and text. Thousand Oaks/London/New Delhi: Sage. Wortham, S. E. F. (1996). Mapping participant deictics: A technique for discovering speaker’s footing. Journal of pragmatics, 25, 331–348.

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A multimodal perspective on composition Theo van Leeuwen

.

Introduction

. Three principles of multimodality In disciplines such as semiotics, linguistics, cognitive science and interactive multimedia design, the term ‘multimodality’ has become increasingly common. It labels a phenomenon which always existed but has recently gained greater prominence in communication, the fact that communication takes place through a number of modes simultaneously, that speaking, for instance, encompasses, not just spoken language, but also gesture, facial expression, rhythm, and melody, or writing not just written language, but also graphology or typography, page layout, the material in which and on which the writing has been done, and so on. The first screen of a CD-ROM titled ‘3-D Body Adventure’ (see Figure 1) is a good example of a contemporary multimodal text. It contains words (‘3-D Body Adventure’, ‘Body Recall’, ‘Emergency’, ‘Exit’). It contains pictures, stills (a large ‘X-Ray’ picture of the body, for example, and a picture of the hermetically closed doors of a hospital emergency ward) as well as moving pictures (a slowly rotating picture of a skeleton, on the monitor), and it contains music, softly, but insistently tinkling on in the background. Until recently the study of such semiotic modes has been ‘monomodal’. Different disciplines, different terminologies, different methods and different criteria of relevance were used for the study of language, of image, of music, etc. The move towards multimodality changes this. It foregrounds, not the specifics of individual modes, but the principles they have in common and the synergies that operate between them. It studies, not ‘the semiotics of music’, or ‘the semiotics of painting’, but the convergences that bring these semiotic modes together in multimodal texts and communicative events. And that means that the

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Figure 1. Page from 3-D Body Adventure (Knowledge Adventures 1993)

boundaries between these different semiotic disciplines must be pulled down and a new ‘multimodal’ approach developed. This paper is an attempt to think about composition in this spirit, to describe composition as a semiotic system common to all the spatially articulated semiotic modes of a given socio-cultural domain, in this case, broadly, ‘Western’ or, to borrow Whorf ’s term, ‘Standard Average European’ culture. Three aspects of composition will be considered in turn (see also Kress & van Leeuwen 1996), (1) information value, that is the meanings conveyed by the way elements are arranged in 2-dimensional or 3-dimensional space (whether that space is a magazine page, a computer screen, a desk top, a room, or indeed anything else); (2) the salience given to the elements of the composition, the degree to which they are made eye-catching (or earcatching) in relation to other elements; and (3) the framing of the elements, that is, the degree to which they are separated from each other by framelines, discontinuities or other devices, or, by contrast, made to blend in with each other. Each of these elements will be discussed in turn below. It is important to stress from the outset that composition is not just a system for integrating different modes into a multimodal whole. It is itself a multimodal system. The principles of composition apply within individual modes (and to all modes which involve arranging elements in space) as well as across

A multimodal perspective on composition

and between such modes. They apply, for instance, to the way pictorial elements are arranged in a single picture, e.g. a painting or photograph, and to the way words, pictures and other graphic elements are arranged together in a layout. They apply to the way flowers are arranged in a vase as well as to where that vase is put on a shelf, to make it part of a small domestic shrine, together, perhaps, with framed family portraits and small ornaments. The principles of composition therefore also govern the interchangeability of modes, the possibility of replacing text with pictures, or flowers with framed family photos. . Information value Let me begin with a first indication of what is meant by ‘information value’. As first argued in Kress and van Leeuwen (1990, 1996), the placement of elements in a composition endows these elements with specific information values which are attached to the various zones of the semiotic space. In other words, a particular element does not have the same value when it is placed on the right or on the left, in the upper or in the lower section of the space, in the centre or in the margins, on the front or on the back. Each of these zones accords specific values to the elements placed in or on it. Precisely what these values and meanings are will be discussed in the next sections. Here we will restrict ourselves to a first exploration of the general idea in relation to Figure 1. The upper section of this figure shows a range of media arranged on a desktop: a slide is projected on a screen; a video monitor shows an animated sequence; and, half-hidden behind the monitor, a loudspeaker plays soft music. In other words, the top part of the semiotic space is reserved for what we might call ‘information media’, media that provide things to read, look at, and listen to. The lower section of the screen, on the other hand, shows things the computer user can do. It offers games to play, media to interactively engage with. ‘Emergency’, for instance, is a game which mixes laser surgery and the shooting gallery – the player zaps brain cells, in a race against time (‘Hurry doctor, save the patient’). In ‘Body Recall’ body parts must be matched with their names. Thus the composition of the screen uses the vertical dimension to separate information-as-knowledge and information-as-action, informationas-education and information-as-entertainment. Exactly the same use of space can be observed in many other contexts. In school textbooks the exercises, test questions and assignments (the things students must do) tend to be found on the bottom of the page, and so are, in advertisements, the coupons which readers can cut out, fill in and send off.

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But composition does not only separate these two kinds of element, it also gives them a specific value in relation to each other. It makes ‘knowledge’ and ‘education’ into something that is ‘up’ or ‘high’, and ‘activity’ and ‘entertainment’ into something that is ‘down’, or ‘low’. ‘Up’ and ‘down’ are basic dimensions of our spatial experience. But they have also acquired a vast range of metaphorical extensions, in our everyday language as well as in other semiotic forms. Lakoff and Johnson (1981) devote a whole chapter to ‘up’ and ‘down’ metaphors. ‘Up’ can stand for positive affects and power, but also for an excess of abstraction or unworldly idealism (‘head in the clouds’). ‘Down’ can stand for negative affects, and for a lack of power, but also for a realistic, ‘down-toearth’, ‘feet on the ground’ attitude. As a first approximation to the meaning of ‘up’ and ‘down’ in Figure 1, we might say that ‘entertaining activities’ are here represented as ‘consolidating’ (giving a firm ‘footing’ or ‘grounding’ to) authoritatively presented (‘high’) knowledge. Reversing the two, putting the games on top and the information media at the bottom, would create a very different meaning, perhaps something like: ‘knowledge provides a foundation (‘grounding’) for (‘highly’ regarded) active experiences’. The screen also uses the horizontal dimension, and this in two ways. Firstly, the left is the domain of the still image and the right the domain of the animated ‘3-D’ image. Secondly, the left is the domain of what has already been formulated for the users, while the right is the domain of what users can do themselves: they can rotate the skeleton with their mouse so as to view the image from whichever angle they choose, and they can exit the screen at will. Note that the monitor straddles the boundary between ‘up’ and ‘down’: like interactive games, user-activated 3-D viewing has (still) some entertainment value, because of its novelty, but, like information media, it also has instruction value – the animated skeleton can serve as a stand-in for a real or reproduction skeleton and make a good learning aid for students. In other words, as we move from left to right, we move from the traditional 2-D diagram or drawing to the new animated 3-D diagram or drawing, and from the traditional ‘passive reader’ to the new ‘interactive media’ mode of presentation. As we will see in the next section, this fits in with a more general formulation of the information value of the left as ‘Given’ and the right as ‘New’. A final dimension used in Figure 1 is that of foreground and background. The loudspeaker, for instance, is placed behind the monitor, which is congruent with the role played by sound and image in the screen as a whole: all information is provided visually and the soundtrack only offers soft background music. But foreground and background do not only exist in naturalistically represented spaces such as the desktop depicted here. They exist whenever one

A multimodal perspective on composition

element overlaps another, whether as a result of the laws of perspective in a unified naturalistic image or not. They also exist, for instance, when words are superimposed on a picture: the picture then becomes a background, an environment, a context for the words. And they exist in the case of frames-withinthe-frame, such as the frame that contains the ‘Emergency’ and ‘Body Recall’ games: interactive games are literally and figuratively foregrounded over traditional information media, represented as placed ‘in the environment of ’ more traditional media and modes of presentation. . Salience A second, and independently variable aspect of composition is salience: the elements of a composition (multimodal or otherwise) are made to attract the reader’s or viewer’s attention to different degrees, and this through a wide variety of means: placement in the foreground or background, relative size, contrasts in tonal value or colour, differences in sharpness and so on. Thus ‘up’ may be more salient than ‘down’, or ‘down’ more salient than ‘up’, ‘left’ more salient than ‘right’, or ‘right’ more salient than ‘left’, and so on. In the screen shown in Figure 1 the monitor image of the moving skeleton is without doubt most salient, and this for two reasons: (1) it moves, and (2) it displays the greatest tonal contrast. Moving objects, however small and insignificant they may be in other ways, always attract attention before static objects. And just as in the human face it is the eye, with the dark pupil set off against the surrounding white, which provides the greatest tonal contrast and so forms the centre of attraction, so on this screen it is the border between the mostly bright white skeleton and its deep black background which draws most attention to itself. Next most salient are perhaps the names of the games. Although they do not occupy much space, their colours, bright red and yellow, contrast strongly with the cool whites, blues, greys, and blacks that dominate the rest of the screen. And the images (the doors of the Emergency Ward and the ‘Body Recall’ keyboard) are both sharper and more saturated in colour than the rest of the screen. Relative size can also establish salience and as a result the ‘slide’ with the X-Ray picture of the body and the title of the CD-ROM is perhaps the next most salient element. That leaves the loudspeaker and the ‘Exit’ sign, both of which almost completely blend in with their surroundings. As for the loudspeaker, we already noted that this screen has no other role for sound than providing soft back-

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ground music. As for the ‘Exit’ sign, it may not itself be very salient, but what does stand out in that bottom right corner is the absence of any exciting offerings by the makers of the CD-ROM: an empty space has been left for the user’s refusal to engage. By no means all interfaces make the ‘exit’ function so salient. Many seem to want to hide it and keep the users captive for as long as possible. . Framing The third and final aspect of composition, again independently variable, is framing. Framing devices (for instance framelines, or white space between elements) can disconnect the elements of a composition from each other, signifying that they are to be taken as, in some sense, separate and independent, perhaps even contrasting, items of information. Connective devices, for instance vectors between elements or repetitions of shapes and colours, can achieve the opposite effect. They express that the elements thus connected are to be read as belonging together in some sense, as continuous and complementary, for instance.

Figure 2. Packard Bell ‘Ark kidspace’ interface

The most significant ‘disconnection’ in Figure 1 is perhaps that between the space of the interactive games and the rest of the screen. The games, against

A multimodal perspective on composition

a brighter, more garish blue than can be found elsewhere on the screen, insert themselves into the more traditional, naturalistic continuity (and natural palette) of the picture of the desktop. They could have been placed on the desktop, in the same way that the games in Figure 2 are placed on shelves. But they are not. They are represented as a quite separate, ‘alien’ element, disrupting the naturalistic homogeneity of the semiotic space. Within the picture of the desktop itself, however, there is a sense of continuity. Although there are quite a few frames-within-the-frame (to ‘disconnect’ the traditional still image from the new ‘3-D’ moving image, among other things), overall there is a sense of connection and continuity, both because of the harmony amongst the muted colours, and because of the way the elements (like those in Figure 2) form part of a continuous, homogeneous, non-fragmented space. Thus the ‘traditional’ media are represented as naturalistic and complementary with each other, but also as radically different from the new ‘interactive’ media. The example shows, then, that composition positions the component modes of a multimodal text in relation to each other, making some play a foreground role, others a background role, presenting some as complementary to each other, others as each other’s opposites, and so on, and this in a way which contributes a great deal to a visually expressed ‘definition’ of the characteristic relations and values of ‘edutainment’ and of the part played in it by different modes. I will now deal with these three principles of composition in greater detail. In Section 2, four dimensions of information value will be discussed. Three dimensions of a two-dimensional semiotic space will be dealt with: the horizontal dimension (2.1), the vertical dimension (2.2), and the relation between centre and margin (2.3). Some aspects of the use of a three-dimensional semiotic space will be discussed in 2.4. The principles of salience and of framing will be dealt with in Sections 3 and 4.

. Information value As indicated above, information value pertains to the placement of the elements in the whole, to whether a particular element is placed on the left or the right, on top or at bottom, centrally or in the margin, and so on. These different dimensions of the information space, and the information values, with which they are associated, are now discussed in turn.

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. The horizontal dimension: ‘Given’ and ‘New’ ‘Left’ and ‘right’ have often been imbued with moral values. In his article ‘Left and Right in Icon Painting’, Uspensky (1975: 37) quotes many examples in which the left is associated with negative, and the right with positive moral values: “On the right the righteous proceed in joyfulness into Paradise, on the left the sinners go into torment”; “On the right side or good side is Mount Sinai, on the left or bad side Mount Lebanon”; “It is curious to note that on the right or good side the names are written mostly in gold, while on the left side they are in black paint”. Left may also be associated with the past, and right with the present: time moves from left to right. And when there is polarisation between the ‘general’ and the ‘specific’, the ‘general’ is usually placed on the left, and the ‘specific’ on the right. Apparently left and right can take on many different meanings, even within the same cultural tradition. And to make matters more complicated still, the link between information value and spatial position can be reversed. It is not difficult to find pictures in which life (surely a ‘good’ thing) is on the left and death on the right, pictures in the ‘Memento Mori’ genre, for instance, whether Guercino’s ‘Et in Arcadia Ego’ (1621–1623) or Robert Frank’s memorable photograph of a drab London street, anno 1953, with a little girl running away from the camera on the left and a large black hearse with an open back door on the right. Nor is it difficult to find pictures in which time moves from the right to the left, as, for instance, in Figure 3.

Figure 3. ‘Revolution in the Workplace’, Time Magazine, Special Issue, Summer 1990

A multimodal perspective on composition

Perhaps the reason is that the distinction between left and right itself does not come naturally. As children we have to learn to tell our right from our left. Like most natural objects, our body is balanced, horizontally symmetrical. The actual slight asymmetry of human faces usually surprises people. It seems to be ignored in perception and must be specially pointed out before it is noticed. Overly obvious facial asymmetry is considered ugly. Human action, on the other hand, does bring left and right into play. Many activities are executed with one hand only, and not only is there no equality between left and right in this matter, the ‘proper’ division of labour between the two hands is considered important enough to warrant detailed prescription in the sacred books of the culture: “Then the priest shall take some of the log of oil, and pour it into the palm of his own left hand, and dip his right finger into the oil that is in his left hand, and sprinkle some oil with his finger seven times before the LORD” (Leviticus 14: 15–16) – as every Catholic child learns, the same rule applies to receiving the Holy Communion. There is another reason why the value of left and right is not immediately obvious. What is on the right and what on the left depends on one’s point of view. Think of a sculpture which polarises left and right, Rodin’s ‘The Kiss’, for example. Viewed from one side, the man will be on the left, the woman on the right (when the sculpture is reproduced in two dimensions, this is usually the angle chosen). Viewed from the other side, the woman will be on the left and the man on the right. In other words, viewers can choose what will be placed on the left and what on the right, provided of course that access to one of these angles is not blocked by barriers, by walls behind or fences around the sculpture, for instance. More generally, to fix what is on the left and what is on the right, a composition must either use a more or less flat and one-sided medium (the page, the screen, the painting, the relief sculpture) or be positioned in such a way that the viewer’s access to the reverse angle is barred. None of this is true for the vertical dimension, for ‘up’ and ‘down’. Reversing ‘up’ and ‘down’ comes close to a transgression of natural law. It creates a topsy-turvy world in which it becomes well nigh impossible to co-ordinate our actions on the basis of visual feedback. In a famous experiment, the psychologist G. M. Stratton wore lenses, which reversed the retinal image both horizontally and vertically. After four days his perception appeared to return to normal of its own accord (see Gregory 1966: 204–206). The issue is complex. On the one hand it is clear that left-right reversal drastically changes the meaning and effect of compositions which polarise left and right. Anyone with access to a slide projector can test this easily. On the other hand it is hard to pinpoint the principle behind the many uses that can

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be and have been made of the contrast between left and right, and behind the many different meanings which left and right may acquire in actual compositions or types of composition. In Kress and van Leeuwen (1996), Kress and I identified such a principle, as used in contemporary Western composition: what is placed on the left is thereby presented as Given, that is, as something the reader already knows, as a familiar and agreed departure point for the message; what is placed on the right is thereby presented as New, as something which is not yet known to the reader, hence as the crucial point of the message, the issue to which the reader or viewer must pay special attention. There is thus a movement, a communicative dynamic from Given to New, in which the New is in principle problematic, contestable, or at least the information which is at issue, opened up for debate, while the Given is presented as commonsensical and self-evident, not open for debate. We can now see why ‘death’ may be either on the left or on the right: if on the left, it is presented as Given (as might be the case in a painting where the Resurrection, the victory over death, is the crucial point, the New), if placed on the right, it is presented as the New (as is the case in the ‘Memento mori’ genre, which invites the viewer to concentrate on the transitoriness of life). We can also see why time moves from right to left in Figure 3: the present composition of the workforce is represented as Given, and the future composition of the workforce, with its greater presence of ‘minorities’, as New and potentially problematic. In other words, the Given is not objectively given, nor the New objectively new. Things are treated as Given or New, in the context of a specific communication situation, or a specific type of communication situation. In studying the layout of Australian women’s magazines Kress and van Leeuwen (1990) looked at double page spreads containing an advertisement on one of the pages and editorial matter on the other. In relatively downmarket magazines such as New Idea the advertisements were almost always on the left. In Australian Vogue, on the other hand, they were almost always on the right. In other words, New Idea treated the feature articles, the advice columns, the recipes etc. as New, positioning its readers as information-seeking denizens of the female sector of a public sphere. Vogue, on the other hand, treated the advertisements as New, almost as if the editorial material was there only as a springboard for the ads. The Vogue reader was thus addressed as a consumer, a shopper for exclusive luxury items. And as the editorial matter consisted mostly of words, in both magazines, New Idea was also the magazine where words formed the New, the magazine to read, whereas in Vogue flashy pictures formed the New, making it a magazine to browse in, a medium for virtual shopping. Clearly, the same thing can be Given in one context, and New in another, and the reason for this

A multimodal perspective on composition

must be sought precisely in the nature of that context. This does not mean that a given Vogue reader cannot be mainly interested in the features in the back of the magazine. But even though such a reader might not in fact be very interested in shopping for luxury items, s/he would be aware that s/he is addressed as though she is. By making something Given, a composition attempts to draw or keep the reader into a ‘we’ – a group with a shared set of assumptions, a common store of givens. It is important to stress the multimodality of the Given/New principle. Given/New applies to every semiotic which involves the left-right dimension – to laying the table, for example. The sociologist Norbert Elias has described some of the rules that developed as what he calls the ‘civilising process’ advanced. In 1530 Erasmus wrote the following in a treatise called On Civility for Boys: “Your goblet and knife, duly cleansed, should be on the right, your bread on the left” (Elias 1978: 89). Two centuries later, LaSalle wrote a similar treatise, The Rules of Decency and Christian Civilization. Spoon and fork had now been added: “The spoon, fork and knife should always be placed on the right” (ibid: 97). But one thing remained constant. The utensils whose use constituted an advance in manners, hence something that had to be pointed out explicitly and could not yet be taken for granted, had to be on the right, whereas the traditional bread, still broken by hand, remained on the left. It applies also to the question of where people of different rank or function may sit or stand in different kinds of social interaction. To take a modern example, in television interviews the interviewer is usually placed on the left and the interviewee on the right. The interviewer is after all a familiar face for habitual viewers of the programme, while the interviewee is the special guest who provides newsworthy information, revealing insights or entertaining chat. On the other hand, S. Duganis’ television documentary Television and Number Ten (BBC, 1986) showed snippets of early political television interviews, and in these interviews the interviewer sat on the right. At the time, political speeches, rather than interviews, were the accepted, ‘given’ medium of political communication and the critical, interrogative role of the interviewer was still a novelty (see Bell & van Leeuwen 1994: 157–166). Again, left and right may play a role in the design of objects. Telephones with a flat, horizontal design tend to have the receiver on the left and the buttons that operate the electronic gadgetry on the right. Although most right-handed people transfer the receiver to the right after dialling, it must be picked up and returned to the left because of a design which treats the traditional use of the telephone as Given and the new electronic functions such as memory, redialling etc. as New. Such examples can be multiplied. Whenever the choice between left and right comes into play, information must

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be structured along the dynamic from Given to New, and assumptions must be made (or habits called into play, rules followed) as to what is, in the given context, to be treated as Given and what as New. Because of its dynamic nature, the Given/New can be applied also to messages articulated in time rather than space. It then becomes a matter, not of left and right, but of before and after. In language, for instance, we can choose between: The idea of eternal return is a mysterious one GIVEN → NEW The most mysterious idea of all is the idea of eternal return GIVEN → NEW

Both sentences polarise two things, putting one first and the other last: ‘the idea of eternal return’ and the ‘mysterious nature’ of that idea. We would expect the first sentence to be used when ‘the idea of eternal return’ has already been introduced. The New here would then be the mysterious character of the idea. We would expect the second sentence to be used when ‘mysterious ideas’ have already been established as the subject matter of the text, but without ‘the idea of eternal return’ having been mentioned as yet. In music, similarly, the first few notes of a series of musical phrases will often repeat themselves, perhaps with minor variations. What determines ‘where the music goes’ (up or down in pitch, into which harmonic territory, etc.) is determined by the notes in which each phrase culminates:

GIVEN

→

NEW

GIVEN

→

NEW

Figure 4. Given and New in the musical phrase

Or imagine a typical piece of screen acting. An actor enters a room, walks across to a table, then picks up a letter and frowns: Actor walks to table in middle of room, then PICKS UP LETTER AND ROWNS GIVEN → NEW

The first part of this action ‘phrase’ is predictable and contains little information. It is what one would expect anyone to do upon coming home. The New

A multimodal perspective on composition

on the other hand provides the action which will move the plot forwards and make a difference to what follows. Camera movements in films and television programmes can connect a Given and a New. In a current affairs item from an ABC 7.30 Report (March 1987), the children from a Perth Muslim Community School were initially shown as ‘ethnic’, different from ‘us’, viewers – there was much emphasis on their non-Western dress, and there was Arabic music in the background. But it was the point of the programme to establish that they were, despite this, ‘just like ordinary Australian children’, playful, spontaneous, creative, etc. This was realised, among other things, by various horizontal camera movements: a shot which panned from children in non-Western clothes to the teacher, a young woman in Western dress, tying a bow in the hair of a little girl; a shot which panned along a classroom wall from an Arabic sign to a picture of a clown etc. In other words, ‘difference’, ethnic prejudice was treated as Given; the fact that at least these children should be accepted as ‘like us’ was treated as New, and formed the message the programme was trying to get across. But the Given/New distinction works not only within each of these semiotic modes, it also works between them, integrating information presented in different modes. Verbal text may be Given and pictures New, for instance, or pictures Given and verbal text New. And that, in turn, may convey something about the role each of these modes plays in the specific context, and about the values which are attached to the verbal and the visual in that context. In Spring 1993, the Daily Mirror (like The Sun in the same period) usually had two stories on its front-page, one on the left and another, much more salient one, complete with large colour picture and screamer headline, on the right. There was usually some kind of thematic link between the two stories, creating a dynamic movement from, for instance, the ‘bad news’ to the ‘good news’, or from the public or political to the private or human interest side of the same issue (or vice versa). In Figure 5, for instance, the Given story is the usual ‘human interest’ story of mayhem and misery in personal relationships, a man stabbing his lover during a skiing holiday. The New, however, presents the good news. ‘Catwoman Star’, mythical figure and celebrity, has transported an ordinary baby into the fairytale world of the superstars and brought riches to a ‘poor Mum’. This story itself is divided into a Given and a New as well. The Given is visual, the alluring, even seductive image of the star, a familiar kind of image in British tabloid newspapers. The New is her role as a good fairy. This shows that the Given/New structure is recursive. A Given/New structure can itself become the Given or the New of a larger Given/New structure, and so on:

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Michelle Pfeiffer GIVEN

‘buys’ baby →

NEW

Briton murders lover GIVEN

→

NEW

By using such an embedded structure the Daily Mirror manages to do two things at once: attracting readers with a picture of an attractive woman in a seductive pose, and conveying an outlook on life and love as a lottery in which bad luck is the rule and good luck the exception, but in which, precisely for that reason, it is nevertheless best to keep one’s mind focussed on the positive side of things.

Figure 5. Front-page Daily Mirror, 11 March 1993

A multimodal perspective on composition

. The vertical dimension: ‘Ideal’ and ‘Real’ In contrast to ‘left’ and ‘right’, the distinction between ‘up’ and ‘down’ is a fundamental site of difference in our everyday experience. Like most things in nature, the human body is vertically asymmetrical. In our environment there is always the chasm between the heavens above, eternal and unchanging, from our human perspective at least, and the earth below, constantly changing, constantly giving and taking life. It is no wonder that metaphors of verticality play such a role in construing and maintaining social difference. People with power become the ‘high’ and mighty, the ‘upper’ classes, people without power the ‘lower’ classes, and at the ‘bottom’ of the social hierarchy, we find people who are ‘down’ and out. The thrones, pulpits and benches of kings, priests and judges are elevated above the seats of others, and in many cultures the low have to lower themselves even further by bowing or prostrating themselves before their rulers. Towers and tall buildings are everywhere symbols of power – the Tower of Babel made even the Almighty worried that His power would be challenged. To complicate matters further, verticality is tinged with moral values, so that ‘high’ becomes good and ‘low’ bad – and also with pleasure, so that ‘high’ and ‘up’ come to stand for positive, pleasurable affects, and ‘down’ and ‘low’ for negative affects. Although, as we noted earlier, there is another side to this. ‘High’ may become too high – too abstract or too idealistic, too ‘ethereal’, no longer touching base. And ‘low’ can acquire positive values, when it is associated with ‘keeping your feet on the ground’, in a realistic, ‘down to earth’ attitude. Again, these are ‘metaphors we live by’ (Lakoff & Johnson 1981). Left and right are dynamic and action-oriented. On the horizontal plane we can move in every direction with equal facility. The ‘action painter’ Jackson Pollock apparently worked on the floor: ‘I feel nearer, more a part of the painting, since this way I can walk around it, work from the four sides, and literally be in the painting’ (quoted in Arnheim 1974: 32). Aboriginal sand painters also worked this way. The horizontal plane is the plane of activity, or of the floor plan, the map, on which the trajectories of activities can be marked. The vertical plane, on the other hand, is the plane of the spectacle, or of the facade of the building, the plane on which static categories are fixed, and spatial order and structure is created. Gravity comes into play here. Movement requires effort and cannot flow as freely. It is from this complex of actual bodily experiences of ‘high’ and ‘low’ and of their metaphorical extensions into social life, that the semiotic use of ‘high’ and ‘low’ in composition derives. Kress and I have adopted the term ‘Ideal’ for ‘high’, for the upper section of the semiotic space, and the term ‘Real’ for

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‘down’, for the lower section of the semiotic space. Again, it is difficult to gloss the principle that unites the many different (though always related and always motivated) values which ‘Ideal’ and Real’ can assume in actual communicative practices. This is the formulation we use at present: when a composition polarises top and bottom, placing different, perhaps contrasting, elements in the upper and lower sections of the semiotic space, the elements placed on top are presented as the Ideal and those placed at the bottom as the Real. For something to be Ideal means that it is presented as the idealised or generalised essence of the information (and that means that it is usually also its ideologically most salient part). The Real is then opposed to this in that it presents more specific information (e.g. details) and/or more ‘down to earth’ information (e.g. photographs as documentary evidence, or maps, or statistics) and/or more practical information (e.g. practical consequences, directions for action, etc.). No element is ever objectively ‘Ideal’ or ‘Real’. Elements are treated as Ideal or Real, in a concrete context, whether by prescription, out of habit, or because it is the apt choice for a specific, unique communication situation. If, for example, the opposition between Ideal and Real is used to structure a text-image relation, either text or image could be Ideal (or Real). If the text is Ideal and one or more pictures (or maps or charts or diagrams) Real, the text will play the lead role ideologically, and the pictures will play a subservient role, which, however, is important in its own right, as specification, exemplification, evidence, practical consequence and so on. If the roles are reversed, so that one or more pictures occupy the top section, then the Ideal, the ideologically foregrounded part of the message, is communicated visually, and the text will serve to comment or elaborate. A diagram in a Dutch geography textbook (Bols et al. 1986) shows the decrease of living space per head of the population, by means of a vertical arrangement of what looks like chessboards of different sizes. On these ‘chessboards’ stand cartoon figures. On top we see a gentleman from 1900, complete with top hat, on a large (‘6825 m2 ’) ‘chessboard’. At the bottom, on the smallest ‘chessboard’, we see a ‘punk’ character from 1980. In other words, as in many advertisements, the past, the ‘good old days’ is here presented as Ideal. Another Dutch geography textbook (Dragt et al. 1986) also features a vertical timeline, a ‘geological calendar’, but here the present (‘development of vertebrates’, complete with a small drawing of a naked woman) becomes the Ideal, the culmination of progress and evolution. In other words both present and past may be Ideal (or Real). Which is which depends on the conception of history that underlies the composition. If history is seen as progress towards bigger and better things, the present (or the future) will be Ideal. If history is

A multimodal perspective on composition

seen as a process of ageing and decay, of corruption of foundational virtues and purity, then the past is more likely to become Ideal. Like that between Given and New, the distinction between Ideal and Real is a multimodal principle. It serves to integrate different semiotic modes such as text and image into unified multimodal designs, and it also serves to integrate elements within a single semiotic mode, for instance to integrate boxes and arrows into a diagram. A 1937 photo by the American photographer Arthur Rothstein shows, in the upper section, a wall with a large Frisian clock and a calendar. In the lower zone we see a railway clerk slaving away at his desk, dwarfed and dominated by the clock. The clerk and his work is the Real, but the Ideal and ideological essence of the photograph as a whole is the oppressive regime of clocktime, as symbolised by the clock and the calendar. A related issue in another spatial semiotic could be the clock as furniture, the placement of clocks in interiors and public spaces. Clocks are still ubiquitous, especially in digital form, and they still have enormous practical importance, but in the age of flexi-time and 24-hour shopping their symbolic power is waning. They have been downgraded. They no longer serve as major metaphors of the natural and social order. As a result there are less and less clocks in ‘high’ places, whether on the mantelpieces or high on the walls of our interiors, or on our streets, in our parks, on our public buildings, etc. – and such clocks as remain have often fallen into disrepair or no longer show the accurate time. Newspaper layout can again provide an example of the use of Ideal and Real to integrate different modes. During Spring 1993 Guardian front-pages contained only items of national and international news, with the exception of a single advertisement, bottom right. The layout of these pages, in contrast to that of the tabloids of the same period (e.g. Figure 5), was predominantly vertically structured. The Ideal featured just one story, singled out as the key issue of the day, and built around a large photograph which left little doubt who or what to side with: the mourners behind the coffin of a London IRA bomb victim; Clinton as peace-maker, surrounded by sun-dappled spring foliage, UN soldiers rescuing women and children in former Yugoslavia (see Figure 6). The Real contained a mixture of national and international news stories arranged in such a way that none stood out particularly above any others. The position of the advertisement, bottom right (Real and New), however, is significant. As we have seen, this is the spot of the tear-out coupon in the advertisement, the assignments in the school textbook, the ‘exit’ function of the computer screen. And here it was used for an ad, a discrete reminder of the commercial reality of the newspaper and of the kind of consumer the paper addresses.

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Figure 6. Front-page of The Guardian (5/4/1993)

. Centre and margin So far we discussed aspects of composition in which the semiotic space is polarised, in which one kind of thing is put on the left and another on the right, or one kind of thing on top and another at bottom. The villages of the Winnebago Indians are polarised in this way (see Figure 7): a line, running from North West to South East divides the village into two parts, the part where the wageregi (‘those who are above’) live and the part where the manegi (‘those who are below’) live. Lévi-Strauss calls this a ‘diametric’ (as opposed to a ‘concentric’) structure and notes that it is a quite common structure in North and South America and in Melanesia, and usually associated with inequality: “we find words such as superior and inferior, elder and younger, noble and commoner, strong and weak, etc. used to describe them” (Lévi-Strauss 1963: 139).

A multimodal perspective on composition

Figure 7. Winnebago village

But composition does not always involve division and polarisation, it may also gather its elements around a centre which will then connect them, hold them together. In the villages of the Omarakana of North-western Melanesia (Figure 8), described by Malinowski (1929: 10), the centre of the village is the plaza, the space of the public and festive and sacred activities in which all participate. Around it are the yam storehouses, still strongly involved in sacred rituals and surrounded by taboos. On the outer edge are the huts of the married couples, the ‘profane’ part of the village, as Malinowski says. In other words, the more central a space, the more important, the more sacred, and the more public and socially integrative the activities which take place in it. The more peripheral a space, the more mundane, profane and private the activities which take place in it. But the centre is not only opposed to the margin, it also holds together what is arranged around it and creates a relation of equality between the elements within a given concentric circle – between the married couples in their huts, for example. Wherever people or things or buildings are arranged in space, there is a choice whether to ‘polarise’ or ‘centralise’. And sometimes both can exist at the same time. Lévi-Strauss (1963: 134–135) notes that different informants from the Winnebago tribe describe their villages differently: those from the upper phratry stress the dividing line, those from the lower phratry stress centrality. And both are right, says Lévi-Strauss: these villages have a ‘dual organisation’. But that should not surprise us. Many modern cities have both a central busi-

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Figure 8. Omarakana village

ness district to which people travel from the suburbs, and a dividing line, with, say, the suburbs north of the river, or close to the coast, being more prestigious, and the suburbs south of the river, or further inland, less prestigious. Central and margin clearly constitute another multimodal principle, a principle which can apply to the way buildings are arranged in a village and to the way items of furniture are arranged in a room, to the way people arrange themselves in rooms or halls in order to tell stories, teach lessons, dance dances, perform music and to the way objects are arranged in an exhibition or on a desk or table. It can also apply to the way things are arranged on a page or a canvas or a screen. The traditional Hebrew scriptures, for instance, the Talmud, had the oldest text, the Mishna in the centre, the Gemara written around it, and later, medieval commentaries again arranged around the Gemara. This creates relations between texts (and the activity of creating texts) which are the exact analogue of the relations between people who are seated in concentric circles in a hall. Or to the composition of paintings: in Byzantine art Christ may be placed in the centre, with Saints arranged around Him; in Buddhist art, similarly, a central figure may be surrounded by subordinates (Arnheim 1982: 207). The diagrams of the 13th century Spanish philosopher Ramon Lull were also based on the Centre/Margin principle. The one shown in Figure 9 describes the attributes of God: the letter ‘A’ represents God, the other letters his divine attributes (B for ‘bonitas’, ‘goodness’; C for ‘magnitudo’, ‘greatness’, and so on). Other similar diagrams had ‘virtue’ in the centre, or ‘wisdom’. Clearly in such diagrams there is no sense of opposition between the concepts in the

A multimodal perspective on composition

Figure 9. Diagrammatic representation of God’s attributes (Ramon Lull, ca 1235– 1315)

outer ring, between ‘goodness’ and ‘greatness’, for instance. They all belong to, all gain their identity from, and lend identity to, the central concept, just as the workers in the central business district both enact the sacred activity of ‘work’, and gain their social identity from it. Precisely because its use extends over so many different semiotic modes, it is difficult to formulate the core meaning of the Centre-Margin ‘model’ of composition. It is only in specific contexts that this meaning is fully coloured in, so to speak. But perhaps it is possible to say this: if a composition makes significant use of the centre, placing one element in the middle and the other elements around it (or placing elements around an ‘empty’ centre), the Centre is presented as the nucleus of what is communicated, and the elements that flank it, the Margins, are presented as, in some sense subservient to it, or ancillary to it, or dependent on it. In many cases the Margins are identical or at least very similar to each other, so that there is no sense of polarisation, no sense of division between Given and New, or Ideal and Real, and we will reserve the term Margin for this symmetrical kind of structure. In other cases Centre and Margin will combine with Given and New and/or Ideal and Real (for instance in the case of villages or cities with a ‘dual organisation’). In such cases we will keep the terms Given and New and Ideal and Real and refer to the Centre as the Mediator, for reasons to be discussed below. It follows that the dimensions of semiotic space discussed so far constitute the figure of the cross, as shown in Figure 10.

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Margin Ideal Given

Margin Ideal New

Centre

Margin Real Given

Margin Real New

Figure 10. The zones of two-dimensional semiotic space

There are degrees of Marginality: just how marginal the Margins are depends on their salience, relative to the salience of the Centre, and on their distance from the Centre. And as we have seen in the case of the concentric circles, different Margins may be placed at different distances from the Centre. Centrality, on the other hand, does not admit of degrees. Even when the Centre is empty, it will continue to exist in absentia, as the invisible pivot around which everything else turns. Think of sitting in a circle: physically there is nothing in the Centre, yet the topic discussed, or the story told, will somehow fill the empty space and hold the group together in its shared orientation towards that empty Centre. It will be interesting to see whether the already quite noticeable trend towards circularity in post-modern architecture and industrial design will continue, expand beyond the merely symbolic (the curved gable, or the shape of a car radiator grille), and move into other domains where the rectangle used to rule, such as scientific articles and company brochures. Perhaps because it plays a role in so many semiotic modes, Centre and Margin can also serve to integrate different modes. Figure 11 shows the cover of an issue of House Beautiful. In the Centre is the reader herself, sitting in a garden summerhouse, which is decorated according to the cover story of the issue. She has a copy of the magazine on her lap and a friendly smile for her fellow readers. Arranged around her are the headlines, which announce the other main articles in the issue. There is no verbal mention of the cover story itself. Its content is rendered visually and forms a background, a context, for the composition as a whole. The Margins (the headlines), however, are not treated with complete equality. Those on the left are in black (‘50 Ways to Change...’)

A multimodal perspective on composition

Figure 11. Cover of House Beautiful, September 1996

and green (‘How Jeff Banks...’), while the others are in white. In other words, the New is bright and white – a structure which is reinforced in other ways also: the window is on the right, so that the right side of the reader is most strongly lit: a movement from a darker Given to a brighter, freshly painted, renovated New. And the reader as a bridge (‘Mediator’) between these two. A common mode of combining Given and New with Centre and Margin is the triptych. In many medieval triptychs there is no sense of Given and New. The Centre shows a key religious theme, such as the crucifixion or the Virgin and Child, and the side panels show Saints or donors, kneeling down in admiration. The composition is symmetrical rather than polarised. This changes in the 16th century, when altar pieces become more narrative, and show, for instance, the birth of Christ or the road to Golgotha on the left panel, the Crucifixion in the Centre, and the Resurrection on the right panel. This could involve some polarisation, albeit subordinated to the temporal order, with the left, for instance, as the ‘bad side’ (e.g., the transgression of Adam), the right

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as the ‘good’ side (e.g. the ascent of the blessed) and with the middle panel representing Christ’s role as Mediator and Saviour (e.g. the Crucifixion). The triptychs in contemporary compositions, whether in art or elsewhere, tend to be polarised, with a Given on the left and a New on the right and the central element as Mediator, as bridging and linking the two extremes. Perhaps the tendency towards polarisation has been a by-product of the bourgeois era and its emphasis on binary oppositions in many spheres of life, in Government, in forms of reasoning and arguing, in forms of narrative structure and music, etc. Many of these are now being dismantled, at least in theory, and it will be interesting to see whether a move towards less antagonistic and more holistic models will see Centre-Margin structures return to favour, perhaps in a form that allows the interlocking of multiple Centres. Figure 2 is a contemporary triptych. On the left, as Given, a toy cupboard, full of games, and no language, as yet. On the right, as the New, a filing cabinet with verbal labels (‘Friends’, ‘Paintings’, ‘Homework’, etc.). And as Mediator the child’s working space, to which items from both the Given and the New can be ‘dragged’ and which can therefore bridge the worlds of playing and learning (and at the same time the worlds of the visual and the verbal!). In the Austrian newspaper Neue Kronenzeitung the television page has a triptych layout, with three columns, the left one listing the programme of ORF1 and the right one that of ORF2. The slightly wider central column has short write ups of movies from both channels. Iedema (1995: 188) reports on similar triptychs in the administrative documents of Government departments and companies. . The third dimension So far we have considered two-dimensional semiotic spaces. Adding the third dimension is adding another level, adding further choices – the choice between positioning a given element on the front or on the back, or on the left side or the right side, and so on. Again we will assume that these zones of threedimensional space come with a certain information value, that a given element does not have quite the same function in the whole and does not mean quite the same thing when it is placed on the front rather than the back, or on the left rather than the right, and so on. Each of these sides will of course be itself structured according to Given and New and/or Ideal and Real and/or Centre and Margin. But each will also form part of a larger, three-dimensional structure. Consider first the information value of front and back. In our everyday experience of the world front and back are not always polarised. Trees do not have a front and a back (although most leaves have!). They are essentially the same

A multimodal perspective on composition

from every side. If they acquire a front and a back, it is subjectively, in relation to something else which produces a favoured point of view for an observer or type of observer. In the Botanical Gardens the front will be the side with the sign displaying the Latin name of the tree. In the park it will be the side that faces the path. In the garden it will be the side that faces the house. The same can be said of many humanly produced objects. Bottles and cans have a front and a back only if a label is applied to one side of the bottle – this then becomes the most semioticised and the most decorated side, the side that must be displayed on the supermarket shelf. The Queen Victoria Building in Sydney, in its latest reincarnation as a shopping centre, does not have a front and a back. Every side is identical, with a central entrance and shop windows on each side. Many modern blocks of flat similarly do not have a clearly distinguishable front and back. Even sculptures may be composed in the round, offering essentially the same view from whichever side we approach them, for instance sculptures of the ‘Three Graces’. On the other hand, other things in nature do have a front and a back, most notably, for us, the human body. There is no doubt that many semiotic uses of front and back are based on the difference between the front and the back of the human body. The front of the body is the side which announces our identity, which shows the world who we are and how we want to be read, and which expresses our reaction to and interaction with that world. It is also the side towards which all our sensory organs are oriented, the side that takes in the world, as image, sound, smell, food. The back, by comparison, is semiotically poor. Even our clothes have few signs, few ‘insignia’ on the back. And the back is also the side of the excretion of waste products. The use of front and back in the design of many of our buildings is modelled on this, with the front as the facade, the public side, the side which gives the world a message about who lives in the building or what activities go on in it. The back, by contrast, is the private side, the side where there is no need for keeping up appearances, where the plumbing can be seen, and where the empty bottles pile up (which is why buildings that flaunt their ‘plumbing’, such as the Pompidou Centre, are such a strong example of architectural ‘anti-language’, almost as if they show us their bottoms). Hi-fi’s, refrigerators, washing machines, and so on, are similarly only semiotic, only designed for display, on the front. The back is the non-semiotic side, the functional side, where cables and hoses are connected. While this already begins to give a sense of the information value of front and back, there are other possibilities to be considered. On the back of packages, for instance, we often find instructions for use, and/or more or less detailed descriptions or specifications of the content of the packages, interspersed

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with evaluation, or lists of ingredients. The back cover of books may have a table of contents, or a summary of the content of the book, again interspersed, of course, with evaluation. But even here the back is still more functional than the front, still concerned with the use, rather than the identity of the object. To summarise this we need to take three steps. First of all, we need to remember that not all three-dimensional objects have a front and a back – this is a semiotic choice also. It is a choice, which speaks of a refusal to polarise, and which favours material, tactile semiotics over visual semiotics. Think of the difference between round huts made of straw and round huts which are made of mud, or of blocks of ice, or the difference between bottles made of clear glass and bottles made of green or blue glass. Secondly, if an object does have a front and a back, the two sides may not, or not very strongly be polarised. They may both present the ‘face’, the public identity of the object. This is the case with modern blocks of flats. There is no escape from the semiotic, no privacy, and the ‘plumbing’ is hidden, or becomes itself public, as in the case of the Pompidou Centre. The third possibility is polarisation, with the front as what we will call the Face, and the back as what we will call the Support. The Face presents the information that defines the identity of the object. It is designed for public display, more heavily decorated than the back, and more carefully maintained. The Support, on the other hand, is not meant for display. It is the side we turn to the wall when we display something. But it is rarely as entirely non-semiotic as in the case of the back of a painting or relief sculpture, or the back of a wardrobe or refrigerator. It may have ‘finish’, but be completely plain and unadorned – think of the back of souvenir T-shirts or coffee-mugs, which have a message on the front and are plain on the back. In this case there is still much that communicates: colour, material, overall shape. Or it may be that the Support presents information as being of practical value: a table of contents, a list of ingredients, instructions for use, a recipe, etc. Thus the front emphasises identity and symbolic value, the back factual information and use value – ways of operationalising the symbolic values. As a result modality is also involved: the public front might be a lie, and the truth is likely to lie ‘behind the scenes’. The back may reveal the marble fireplace to be made out of wood, or the mahogany chest of drawers out of chipboard. All of this can be used to give different roles to different modes in multimodal composition. A cardboard package containing a bottle of ‘Clairol’ hair colouring lotion expresses its Face through a photo of a certain kind of woman, with luxurious hair and a sultry smile, and its Support through words which explain what the lotion is made of, how it works, how it should be used: the visual as Face, the verbal as Support. A bottle of ‘Aire Loewe’ perfume, on the

A multimodal perspective on composition

other hand, uses words as its Face (the name of the product in elegant golden script) and the delicately shaped glass bottle itself as its Support. What about the right and the left side of three-dimensional objects? To begin with, it needs to be borne in mind that many three-dimensional objects (trees, perfectly round buildings, bottles, balls) do not have distinct left and right sides – they are the same all round. They can at best acquire sides in relation to a front, to the front entrance of the round building, for example, or the label of the bottle. Secondly, if there are sides, they may be hidden from view in ways that front and back rarely are – by being laced together, as in the case of terraced houses, Lego blocks, people linking arms in a barn dance. And even if the sides are visible, they are often symmetrical rather than a site for the creation of difference, and semiotically poor, featureless, empty spaces between front and back. Even free-standing buildings tend to have few features on their left and right sides, unless they lack differentiation between their sides, as in a fort or an Australian farm with a veranda all round – isolated buildings which must present an alert face in every direction. In the human body, the arms (together with the ears) form the most lateral feature, and for this reason laterality is often associated with action. Clothes may have lateral pockets, and certain objects – key-rings, pistol holsters, swords, are worn on (and present their ‘face’ to) the side, usually the right side: all of these are related to actions – putting things in and taking things out of the pockets, jiggling keys, drawing the gun or the sword. If the design of an object gives a different function and value to left and right, there is a tendency for the left to be associated with ‘being’, with what the object is, and with static acts such as ‘holding’, the right with what the object can do or what you can do with the object, and with more dynamic acts such as ‘using’, ‘opening’, ‘pouring’, etc. Cups and jugs with a front, hence with a ‘designed-in’ left and right, often (though by no means always) have the handle on the left and the spout on the right, The fold-out spouts of milk and fruit juice cartons also tend to be on the right, and when packages open on the side, it is often the right side. But the use of left and right is not as strongly coded as that of front and back, and there are so many variants and exceptions that it is difficult to capture the information value of the left and the right side with labels of the kind we have devised for the other zones of semiotic space. On flat packages the left may form a spine and repeat key elements of the Face, while the right may contain more detailed information. It is, in the end, as if the functions of front and back may spill over to the flanks, in different degrees, and with or without polarisation. We should see the sides as Subsidiaries to either Face or Support, meaning or function, identity or operationality. And even then, sometimes the use of

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the sides seems random, a spot for putting things that do not have a clear space of their own but have to be included – translations, patent numbers, addresses etc. Perhaps the relative instability of left and right derives from their interchangeability. Whether the handle of a cup is on the right depends on where I put that cup. This is never the case with front and back. If there is a front, it will remain the front, even if it is turned away from me. The bottom side, the underneath, is a side we normally cannot see. It is never semiotic. Even when elevated from the ground, as with the underneath of a table or a car, it is purely functional, not designed to be displayed or to communicate. At best it carries a serial number or a manufacturer’s address. One of the reasons why we do not have any sense of a semiotics of the underneath may be that the human body has hardly any underneath left: what was underneath, and hidden, became the front, and displayed, as we stood up and became biped – and was then hidden again, as we started to cover up our nakedness. What is high is always significant. As the ‘crowning’ element, the topside is of enormous symbolic significance. Few things are quite as elaborately and richly semiotic, for instance, as hats, wigs and hairdos. In addition the top has the value of being a cover, something which can be taken off to reveal an inside and a content. The lid of the jar can be taken off to give access to the jam. The lid of the box can be opened to reveal the jewellery. The hat can be taken off to reveal the person. But when the object is of equal size or larger than we are, the top will communicate only insofar as it can also be seen from the front. So rarely do we have access to the top down angle that it is difficult to recognise objects from this angle. When, on the other hand, the objects are smaller than us, the top view may replace the front view. The Face of the box, the biscuit tin, the bedspread, or the coffin are all found on the top. Any decorations on the sides will be Subsidiaries. This again shows that the information value of the various aspects of three-dimensional objects depend to some extent on the relation between the objects and those who ‘read’ and/or use them – of the relative size of object and reader/user, of the reader/user’s point of view with regard to the object, of the reader/user’s actions on or with object, etc. To sum up, there will always be a Face, and it will usually be the front, but it may also be the top, or both. There will often also be a Support and it will usually be the back, but both Face and Support will also spill over on the sides, to different degrees and with or without polarisation. If there is polarisation, the left side will tend to be a Subsidiary of the Face, the right side of the Support. The underneath, finally, will never be semiotic.

A multimodal perspective on composition

Figure 12. Cranberry Classic Juice Drink

The fruit juice pack in Figure 12 can serve as an example. Although the back also shows a picture, the front and the back are polarised here. The front announces the name of the product and the brand name (on a kind of graphic canopy, and decorated with cranberries) and shows the drink itself in all its sensory detail, labelled with a kind of prize ribbon (‘Rich in Vitamin C’). The back is mostly verbal and gives strongly evaluative information about the product. The sides are Subsidiaries of the Face in that they continue the colour bands of the front, but they are also Supportive, with a listing of the ingredients on the left and a recipe on the right. The top is a subsidiary of the Support, and has the spout, opening instructions, and the ‘best before. . .’ warning. The different aspects of the pack also employ different modes. The Face emphasises high modality photography and a range of colours. The Support emphasises the verbal mode, and has a more restricted range of colours and typographic devices. Giacometti’s Hour of the Traces (Figure 13) is an open three-dimensional structure. Such a structure sets up the relation between an interior and an exterior, a Core and an Enclosure. The meaning of Core and Enclosure is not quite the same as that of Centre and Margin. The Core is more than just the centre, it

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Figure 13. Hour of the Traces (Alberto Giacometti 1930)

is the living heart, the animating principle. Giacometti’s sculpture can be read as a representation of the body. The body is a rigid, rusty frame, with, as the Ideal, a sensory organ, a kind of antenna with an abstract eye, and with, as its Core, a plaster heart, suspended on a thin string and moving slightly to and fro. There are evidently different degrees of openness. The Core can be vulnerable and exposed within an open or at least transparent Enclosure. This is the fascination of the treasure in its glass display case, the ship inside the bottle, the fossil embedded in the amber. The Core may also be invisible, yet known to be there, as in the Old Testament Tabernacle, where God’s Testimony rests inside the Ark and the Ark behind the veil of the most holy place in the Tabernacle – and as in the enclosures of countless other treasures and relics. In between there are, for example, peepshows such as we made as children from shoeboxes,

A multimodal perspective on composition

with a small aperture to look through and coloured cellophane on top to bathe the Core in a mysterious light. All these examples do of course also reveal that Core/Enclosure is a multimodal principle. In the case of the Ark, for instance, words are the Core and an ark decorated with golden cherubs the Enclosure. But the opposite is equally possible. Inside our buildings we are ourselves the Core, and we may live our lives behind hermetically closed shutters or are exposed to the world as we watch television at home, eat in a restaurant, or sit behind a computer screen at work. There is no space here to explore the fascinating cultural differences in the way this semiotic system is deployed, or the equally fascinating historical changes. A present, for instance, the transparent wire figure becomes a familiar icon of the computer screen, and ‘Connect’, a new construction toy with open ‘blocks’ vies for popularity alongside the closed blocks of Lego. As often as not, these reveal an empty interior, the lack of a Core, which only a dressing up of the transparent Enclosure will be able to hide. A final aspect of three-dimensionality is Foreground and Background. As this can also be represented in two dimensions, the third dimension does not add new meanings here. The Background is not only less salient than the foreground and, literally as well as figuratively, more ‘distant’ from the viewer, it is also a context and an environment for the Foreground. This is evident in the case of naturalistic images. The Background serves as setting. It shows, in greater or lesser detail, where the things or happenings shown in the Foreground take place, and perhaps also when, through representations of the time of day (lighting) and the season. But this relation also exists when there is no naturalistic link between Foreground and Background, as for instance between the headlines and the picture of the summerhouse on the cover of House Beautiful (Figure 11): the headlines are in the summerhouse. This may seem strange in the case of superimposed words, inserted pictures, and so on. We still judge the picture from a naturalistic point of view. Would we see the headlines if we were in the summerhouse? But the contrast between the naturalistic image, recorded as-it-is, and the composite, composed image is disappearing as the world that ‘is’ becomes itself less natural and more semiotic. Nowadays the title of the television programme may be an elaborate sculpture that is actually present in the studio – or the studio itself may be virtual. In our cities and along our highways buildings and landscapes become Background for the words and pictures on billboards and other signs. Look again at Figure 2. The ‘filing cabinet’ on the right is clearly represented as a 3-dimensional object. We can see the light play on the metal. Yet are the drawers really drawers or just abstract rectangles, labels for the user to click on? And is the view behind the window

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a view of the world or wallpaper or a back projection or a chromakey image? Increasingly pictures become malleable, signs that can be fit into many different contexts, while words become concrete, three-dimensional objects with a size, a weight, a texture, a colour. This profoundly changes the boundary lines between the two-dimensional and the three-dimensional. There is one further difference between two-dimensional and threedimensional Foreground and Background relations. In the three-dimensional world Foreground and Background are again subjective, depending on the point of view and the actions of the person who reads and/or uses the composition. I was reminded of this when visiting the Escorial near Madrid. Brought up in Holland on representations of the 80-year war against Spain, this was the first time I saw pictures in which the Dutch towns were the Background and the Spanish soldiers, with their familiar peaked helmets and lances, the Foreground. In two dimensions Foreground and Background relations can be fixed. If, as I believe is the case, three-dimensional composition is becoming increasingly important, such fixing of favoured, dominant viewing positions will become more tenuous. This is already being countered by deliberately giving viewers a pre-designed range of possible viewpoints. Not the director, but the viewer will choose the angle of the shot – but the director will nevertheless choose from which angles the viewer can choose. And this will make resistance, reversal, anti-language, opposition, increasingly difficult. As Eco noted long ago: the closed text is more open to aberrant decoding than the open text (1979: 8–9).

. Salience Composition not only involves the arrangement of elements in semiotic space, it also involves assigning different degrees of salience to them. This is an independently variable aspect of composition. The New may be more eye-catching than the Given or the Given more eye-catching than the New, the Ideal more eye-catching than the Real or the Real more eye-catching than the Ideal. Regardless of how the elements are arranged in space, salience can create its own hierarchy of importance amongst them, select some as more important, more worthy of (immediate) attention than others. Composition itself is a composite of several systems, and these systems may interlock and work in tandem or play contrasting, or even contradictory roles, and create complex relationships among the elements of the composition. In Figure 5, for instance, two contradictory principles are played out against each other. The Given-New ar-

A multimodal perspective on composition

rangement of the page as a whole stresses the contrast between the ‘bad news’ and the ‘good news’. The system of salience stresses the beauty and glamour of Michelle Pfeiffer. Salience is judged on the basis of visual cues. People are intuitively able to judge the weight of a given element of the composition, and the greater that weight, the greater its salience. This salience is not objectively measurable, and in the case of pictorial compositions and layouts there is no actual weight but only an impression of weight, which results from a complex interaction, a complex trading-off relationship, between a number of factors: size; sharpness of focus, or, more generally, amount of detail and texture shown; tonal contrast (areas of high tonal contrast, for instance borders between black and white, have high salience); colour contrasts (for instance the contrast between highly saturated and ‘soft’ colours, or the contrast between red and blue); placement in the visual field (elements not only become ‘heavier’; as they are moved up, but also appear to be ‘heavier’ the further they are moved towards the left, due to an asymmetry in the visual field); perspective (foreground objects are more salient than background objects, and elements that overlap other elements are more salient than the elements they overlap); and also quite specific cultural factors, such as the appearance of a human figure or a potent cultural symbol, which may override purely perceptual salience. Being able to judge the visual weight of the elements of a composition is being able to judge how they balance. The weight they put into the scales, literally or figuratively, derives from one or more of the factors just mentioned. It is clear that in symmetrical compositions left and right are evenly balanced, but balance becomes more eventful when one side is heavier than the other, so that the balancing centre has to be shifted away from the geometrical centre of the space. Finding one’s balance in unbalanced situations is another basic bodily experience, a basic given of our position in space as biped creatures, and the sense of balance which we derive from this experience informs all our semiotic acts which involve space. It forms an indispensable matrix for the production and reception of spatially organised messages, and for this reason it plays a key role in producing pleasure in composition. The pleasure we derive in composition, in moving elements about until the result feels ‘just right’, or in arranging things to perfection in front of a camera lens, is directly related to the pleasure of almost losing and then regaining balance which we experience as children when we are lifted up and swung through the air, or when we spur on the swing until it moves so high that by right we should fall off, yet still hold on, and the pleasure which we enjoy later, more vicariously, when we watch acrobatics or ballet. It is even more directly related to the pleasure which, as

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children (and not only as children) we experience when we build with blocks and explore how far we can unbalance things before the structure topples over. Even in actual buildings elements which seem to hover on the edge of losing balance, which almost defy gravity, and yet maintain balance, are often sites of power – the balcony, jutting out from the wall, on which the monarch will appear, or the pulpit jutting out from the pillar of the cathedral, from which the priest will hold his sermon: challenging gravity is itself a source of salience.

. Framing The elements of a composition may either be disconnected, marked off from each other, or connected, joined together. Both are a matter of degree: elements may be strongly or weakly framed, and the stronger the framing, the more the elements are presented as separate units of information – the context will then colour the more precise nature of this separation. Iedema (1995: 153) describes how framing is used in the layout of office space: One Government department where some of our research was conducted has four floors. The top executive structure on the fourth floor has its own sealed offices. On the third floor offices surround an open plan layout with dividers which are about person-high and separate individual desks. On the second floor similar dividers separate groups of desks, while the first floor has no separate offices and the dividers are about four feet (1 m) high. Institutional rank is translated into degree of spatial independence.

Clearly framing is another key multimodal principle. What we have referred to as ‘elements of the composition’ can be people in an office, seats in a train or restaurant (e.g. private compartments versus sharing tables), dwellings in a suburb, etc. Or it can be news items, opinion columns and advertisement on a newspaper page, or verbal and visual elements on a magazine or book cover. The two stories in the Daily Mirror (Figure 5), for instance, have strong fences between them. Each has, so to speak, its own terrain, its own block of land, with distinct characteristics (different style of building, different things growing in the garden) and dividers in between. The picture and words on the cover of House Beautiful (Figure 11), on the other hand, blend into each other without any dividers, any framing devices being used at all. The use of pictures of rooms or landscapes as computer interfaces (e.g. Figure 2) also decreases framing, blending different elements together into a unified naturalistic whole.

A multimodal perspective on composition

Disconnection can be realised in many different ways, for instance by dividers or fences (or their equivalent in layout, framelines), and the strength of the framing will then depend on the thickness or the height of the fence, and on the material of which it is made (metal spikes or a hedge) or on the thickness and colour of the framelines. Another way of realising disconnection is by discontinuity of the colour, shape, materiality etc. of the elements. Or, simply, by real or pictorial empty space, by a ‘no man’s land’, between the elements. Figure 14 can provide some examples of the realisation of connection. It is taken from a German high school politics textbook, and shows the first two pages of a chapter entitled ‘Wie es früher war’ (How it was in the past). In the top part of the page the verbal text is Given and the pictures are New: the reader is asked to concentrate on the pictorially expressed message rather than on the verbal text. The layout of the picture series presents the past in lifeless black and white shots, and as Given, and the present in a more lively colour shot, as New. This colour shot has a tilted angle, which not only gives it additional salience, but also connects it to the next page. The oblique lines formed by the jagged bottom frameline of the text block on top of the left page are another connective vector: they point at the right-hand page. Connection can also be realised by repetition, by the visual ‘rhyme’ between elements, e.g. between the

Figure 14. Double page from V. Nitzschke: Politics – Learning and Acting for Today and Tomorrow

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oblique lines in the top left text block, and those in the photograph of contemporary Frankfurt and the aeroplane bottom right. Such visual rhymes are not just a play of forms. The text asks the question ‘Wirkt das, was früher war, noch heute?’ (Does what worked in the past still work today?) and its connection with the photo and the aeroplane and disconnection between these three elements and the elements signifying the past, suggests a negative answer. The past was different, separate. ‘Das wirkt nicht mehr’. Look to the future, rather than to the past. Such connective devices have their counterpart in other semiotic modes. To take just one example, consider streetscapes. Ornamental features of buildings can form vectors that ‘point at’ other buildings and so provide coherence and connection, or which repeat, ‘rhyme with’, similar features in the other buildings. There can be a sense of visual cohesion and continuity of shape, colour and type of material in the street, or a sense of discontinuity, of separateness and difference between the buildings which form the elements of the street’s composition. In the most recent past there was increasingly strong framing between words and pictures, especially in ‘high’ manifestations of culture – in novels (no pictures at all), in scholarly books (maybe some badly reproduced black and white pictures, all bundled together in the centre or in the back of the book), etc. This has changed a great deal, though to different degrees and at different speeds in different fields. The novel is still innocent of pictures, except in the case of children’s novels. In books such as this I still have to describe things in words that would be much easier to indicate by having words inside the picture, arrows pointing at the framelines, the salient elements and so on. At the same time there is another, newer development. In print the unity of the densely printed page became fragmented. Magazine pages, for instance, became colourful collages of disparate elements, and so did other kinds of publications, school textbooks, lavishly produced coffee-table books, company reports, and so on. Television images, in news programmes for instance, acquired frames within the frames and what they showed was no longer a naturalistically possible physical space, but a composite space (Figure 15). But computer screens such as the one shown in Figure 2 reverse this trend and unify a variety of different functions and choices in a quasi-naturalistic image. Virilio has reminded us that the ancient memory theorists used the method of ‘loci’: “you might imagine wandering through the house, choosing as loci various tables, a chair seen through a doorway, a windowsill, a mark on a wall. Next, the material to be remembered is coded into discreet images and each of the images is inserted in the appropriate order into the various loci”

A multimodal perspective on composition

Figure 15. News programme

(1994: 3). Perhaps it is because the computer requires that we remember what is stored in which files, that this kind of inventorying imagery is re-emerging.

. Conclusion The main points to reiterate are the following: 1. Composition comprises three kinds of principles: (a) principles for arranging things (things which thereby become elements of the composition) in space; (b) principles for assigning different degrees of salience to these elements; and (c) principles for creating boundaries to separate the elements from each other and/or cohesive ties to suggest connections between them. 2. These principles apply to anything that can be arranged in space, and to homogeneous elements (e.g. people in a group portrait) as well as to heterogeneous elements (e.g. words, pictures and other graphic elements in a layout). In the latter case composition becomes one of the means through which different modes can be integrated in a multimodal text.

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3. Throughout the paper I have given functional labels to the principles of composition. These labels indicate the functions which form the signifieds of the compositional signs, or, one could say, if that term had not been used so often in purely formal descriptions, their syntactic roles, because the functions are always functions in relation to other elements of the composition. These functions have been related to the signifiers which realise them. Thus the functional structure Given-New was said to be realised by the signifying structure left-right. In Kress and van Leeuwen (1990, 1996), Kress and I described signifieds as, in principle, common to different modes, and signifiers as specific to particular modes. We saw culture as the field of all the things that can be meant by members of the culture, together with a distribution of semiotic modes across this field, so that, although some meanings might only be realisable visually and others only verbally, it would in principle be possible to ‘say’ the same thing visually and verbally, but through the different signifiers of the visual and verbal modes. The present account of composition has moved away from this position somewhat, insofar as the signifiers I have described (left and right, top and bottom, salient and non-salient) can also be shared between modes, even if not every signifier can be used in every mode. 4. Multimodal signs such as those of composition, are ultimately motivated by and derived from (a) basic bodily givens such as the fact that our left and right side are more or less the same, but our front and back and top and bottom radically different, and basic bodily experiences such as walking upright (these two are therefore shared across cultures) and (b) from the way we interact socially – which is, itself, often based on basic bodily givens and experiences, but differently so in different cultures and social groups, as with the social meanings of left and right. In this connection the work of Lakoff (Lakoff & Johnson 1981; Lakoff 1988) has played a crucial role in developing this outline of a multimodal theory of composition. 5. Throughout the paper I described composition as a meaning potential. I stated, for instance, that a given element can either be placed on the left, which would make it Given, or on the right, which would make it New. In actual instances of multimodal communication, specific choices are made from this meaning potential, and through studying such choices much can be learnt about the interests and values which dominate a given social institution or culture, for instance about the way in which ‘edutainment’, the new relation between playing and learning, is construed in the context of the multimedia publishing industry, or about the way the Hebrew religion founded a culture

A multimodal perspective on composition

of the written word when it built the Ark of the Covenant. I have given many such examples, but more than suggestive they cannot be, and I hope others will work on some of them in more detail. But I also hope that one thing will not be forgotten in more specialised enterprises of that kind; the deeper connections between apparently different multimodal practices. It is by searching for the deeper connections between the structure of sculpture and the pattern of packaging, or the syntax of the streetscape and the layout of the computer screen, that the hidden cultural system of space can be unearthed and made more fertile for creative reflection and production.

References Arnheim, R. (1974). Art and Visual Perception. Berkeley/Los Angeles: University of California Press. Arnheim, R. (1982). The Power of the Center. Berkeley/Los Angeles: University of California Press. Bell, P. & van Leeuwen, T. (1994). The Media Interview: Confession, Contest, Conversation. Sydney: University of New South Wales Press. Bols, P., Houppermans, M., Krijger, C., Lentjes, W., Savelkouls, T., Terlingen, M., & Teune, P. (1986). Werk aan de Wereld. Den Bosch: Malmberg. Dragt, H., Hofland, W. A., & Tamsma, R. (1985). De Geo Geordend. Amsterdam: Meulenhoff. Eco, U. (1979). The Role of The Reader. Bloomingon: Indiana University Press. Elias, N. (1978). The Civilizing Process: The History of Manners. Oxford: Blackwell. Gregory, R. L. (1966). The Intelligent Eye. New York: McGraw-Hill. Halliday, M. A. K. (1985). Introduction to Functional Grammar. London: Arnold. Iedema, R. (1995). The Language of Administration. Unpubl. research report. Sydney: Disadvantaged Schools Programme. Kress, G. & van Leeuwen, T. (1990). Reading Images. Geelong: Deakin University Press. Kress, G. & van Leeuwen, T. (1996). Reading Images – The Grammar of Visual Design. London: Routledge. Lakoff, G. & Johnson, M. (1981). Metaphors We Live By. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Lakoff, G. (1988). Women, Fire and Dangerous Things: What Categories Reveal about the Mind. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Lévi-Strauss, C. (1963). Structural Anthropology. Harmondsworth: Penguin. Malinowski, B. (1929). The Sexual Life of Savages in Northwestern Melanesia. New York: W.W.Norton. Uspensky, B. (1975). Left and right in icon painting. Semiotica, 13(1), 33–41. Virilio, P. (1994). The Vision Machine. London: BFI.

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Transformational frames Interpretative consequences of frame shifts and frame embeddings Titus Ensink

.

Introduction

As Tannen (1993b: 15–21) and Lee (1997) have pointed out, the notion of ‘frame’ is used in a variety of disciplines in order to describe and explain interpretative phenomena, especially phenomena related to the influence of activated knowledge (i.e. expectations). Tannen and Wallat (1993: 59–62) use the notion of ‘frame’ on two levels: the interactive level, and the cognitive level. A ‘cognitive frame’ contains prototypical general knowledge concerning a multitude of objects and events. ‘Interactive frames’ enable language users to identify the context of language activity, and to produce and recognise coherent sequences of (language) activities. Tannen and Wallat elaborate the notion of interactive frame on the basis of the work of Erving Goffman, notably his Frame analysis and Forms of talk. The term ‘footing’ which Goffman used is crucial here. However, in Frame analysis Goffman used yet another term, namely ‘key’, to describe ‘transformations across materials already meaningful in accordance with a schema of interpretation’. Through the use of a key, an interpretative layer is added to already operative layers. Thus, a sudden contextual shift occurs. Normally, such a shift is cued. (The term ‘key’ may coincide with a change in footing, but not necessarily so.) In this paper I will argue that the notion of ‘key’ as used by Goffman, needs to be elaborated in order to distinguish a mechanism that indicates contextual shifts in discourse. In some circumstances, however, such shifts may occur rather veiled, either because one trusts the observer to have sufficient knowledge, or for exploiting effects. Whenever someone misses this shift in the interpretation, a fundamental misunderstanding occurs. It appears that especially

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media messages make use of keys; in that sense the frequency and range of the use of keys seem to be a modern development. In this paper, I will present some analytic tools in order to describe the operation of keys. I will demonstrate my argument on the basis of the comparison of several examples of language use, in part from natural settings, in part from media discourse.

. Three types of frames In different fields of research it has since long been recognised that perception is an active process. How we perceive does not merely depend on what is perceived: it depends as much on the perceiver (How do we see a face in a smiley :-) ? The face is not just ‘out there’ in the three graphic symbols.) Thus, in pragmatics we find the notion that the formal characteristics of an utterance ‘hopelessly underdetermine’ its interpretation. Similarly, in his review of reading models Rumelhart (1985) noted that bottom up models of reading (which try to explain the reading process as determined by the letters read, then by the words read, then by the sentences read) fail empirically. Many aspects of the reading process thus are not captured, such as: –

– –

–

The perception of letters often depend on the surrounding letters (Rumelhart 1985: 726), e.g. we often fail to notice a misspelling of an otherwise completely understandable word, or a clumsily handwritten word ‘xxent’ is read either as ‘went’ or as ‘event’ dependent on which word fits best our overall interpretation. The perception of words depends on their syntactic (730) or semantic (731) environment. Similarly, the perception of strings of words containing syntactic information depends on the semantic context in which the strings occur (732), e.g. the syntactic structures of the similar strings ‘I saw the Grand Canyon flying to New York’ and ‘I saw the cattle grazing in the field’ are analysed quite differently despite their superficial similarity, dependent on what we know to be a ‘normal meaning’. The interpretation of meaning depends on the general context of what we read (734).

Rumelhart proposes an ‘interactive model’ of reading in which there is interaction between the low and high levels in which a text presents itself to the reader. Activity of a high level means that on the higher level expectations are generated which influence the perception of the lower level.

Transformational frames

Perception processes thus are driven by expectations. Tannen (1993b) presents a nice review of literature dealing with this starting point. In her introduction, she notes: The notion of expectation is at the root of a wave of theories and studies in a broad range of fields, including linguistics. It is this notion, I believe, which underlies talk about frames, scripts, and schemata in the fields of linguistics, artificial intelligence, cognitive psychology, social psychology, sociology, and anthropology at least (and I would not be surprised if similar terms were used in other disciplines I do not happen to know about1 ). (Tannen 1993b: 15)

We find a direct link between expectations and the notion of frame (and similar notions as scripts and schemata) in this quotation. The notion of frame has been used in order to answer two questions: where do these expectations come from? And what determines the nature of the expectations? In the literature, we find an abundant use of the notion of frame. Ensink and Sauer (this volume) have presented an overview of these uses. Both Lee (1997: 340) and Tannen and Wallat (1993: 59–62) have tried to reduce the uses of the term to two basic meanings, cognitive and interactional. The various uses of ‘frame’ and related terms fall into two categories. One is interactive ‘frames of interpretation’ which characterize the work of anthropologists and sociologists. We refer to these as ‘frames’, following Bateson (1972), who introduced the term, as well as most of those who have built on this work, including scholars in the fields of anthropology (Frake 1977), sociology (Goffman 1974) and linguistic anthropology (Gumperz 1982; Hymes 1974). The other category is knowledge structures, which we refer to as ‘schemas’, but which have been variously labeled in work in artificial intelligence (Minsky 1975; Schank & Abelson 1977), cognitive psychology (Rumelhart 1975), and linguistic semantics (Chafe 1977; Fillmore 1975, 1976). (Tannen & Wallat 1993: 59) (...) it is clear already that one salient difference between cognitive frames and interactional frames is that, whereas the sociolinguistic tradition tends to be concerned with the interpretation of UTTERANCES and their location in surrounding discursive practices, the cognitivists are more concerned with the conceptual structures invoked by WORDS and the concepts they denote. On the other hand, there is certainly a strong sociocultural dimension to cognitive frames (...). (Lee 1997: 340; capitals in original)

As noted before, the various notions have one thing in common: the fact that frames generate expectations that function as aides in interpretation processes. Expectations thus have both cognitive and social effects. The cognitive effect is

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that perceptions do not need to be built up completely, but that perceptions partly may be filled by expected perceptions. And since people expect each other to interpret that way, they may mutually suppose – when engaged in interaction – that their interactional contributions will be fitted in some frame so as to make fully explicit behaviour unnecessary. I agree with both Tannen and Lee that it is sensible, fruitful and maybe even necessary to distinguish the two senses as described: cognitive and interactional. But I will argue that they miss one important distinction, which makes it necessary to distinguish yet a third type of frame. The necessity shows in a complication, which we come across when we elaborate the notion of frame in the interactive sense. The complication appears in the following quotations. The interactive notion of frame refers to a definition of what is going on in interaction, without which no utterance (or movement of gesture) could be interpreted. To use Bateson’s classic example, a monkey needs to know whether a bite from another monkey is intended within the frame of play or the frame of fighting. People are continually confronted with the same interpretative task. In order to comprehend any utterance, a listener (and a speaker) must know within which frame it is intended: for example, is this joking? Is it fighting? Something intended as a joke but interpreted as an insult (it could of course be both) can trigger a fight. (Tannen & Wallat 1993: 59–60)2

Similarly, Lee (1997) writes: In the ethnography of speaking ... the concept [frame] applies primarily to the type of activity being engaged in: joking, imitating, chatting, lecturing, etc. (...). (Lee 1997: 340)

Lee’s formulation suggests that “joking, imitating, chatting, lecturing” are activities on the same level. But they are not. Similarly, Tannen and Wallat’s formulation suggests that playing and fighting are alternatives on the same level, either this or that. But they are not. Consider the following asymmetries (* indicates that the utterance is odd or even impossible): (1) a. the monkeys play that they are fighting b. *the monkeys fight that they are playing (2) a. the professor was lecturing (about what? / not: what?) b. the professor was imitating (what? / not: about what?) (3) a. she was imitating the professor’s lecturing b. *she was lecturing the professor’s imitating

Transformational frames

If we compare (1a) and (1b), it appears that fighting is an activity in its own right which cannot ‘contain’ another activity, whereas playing behaves the other way around. It is an activity which calls for another activity which is playfully executed. Similarly, sentence (2a) is self-contained, whereas (2b) is not complete: (2b) calls for an answer to the question what the professor was imitating; (2a) may only invoke the question what he was lecturing about. Perhaps superfluously, (3a) and (3b) show once again the asymmetry in the type of activity. These considerations suggest that we have to divide the category ‘interactional frames’ into two subtypes: interactional frames proper (such as fighting and lecturing) which indicate the activity plainly, per se, and transformations of interactional frames (such as playing and imitating), in which interactional frames proper are modified. The latter type I will refer to as transformational frames. The nature and effect of these frames are the central concern of this paper: how do these frames appear in discourse, and which are their interpretative effects? Throughout this paper I will use square brackets in order to indicate a frame. The notation [ face ]

indicates that some perception occurs under the influence of the frame for a face. Similarly, the notation [ lecture ]

means that we perceive some activities (a person talking to some other persons, in a room with a certain configuration of chairs) as being a lecture. This way, it is easy to give short and clear notations of transformational frames.3 Thus, we may write down some of the examples above as follows: –

– –

In the quotation of Tannen and Wallat it is suggested that monkeys have to choose from: [ play ] ←→ [ fight ], whereas the choice is, however, between: [ fight ] ←→ [ play [ fight ] ] The following frame constellations are impossible: *[ fight [ play ] ], or *[ play ] There is an asymmetrical relationship between transformational frames and proper interactional frames or knowledge frames: [ lecturing ], or [ imitating [ lecturing ] ],

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are possible constellations, but not possible is: *[ lecturing [ imitating ] ] It is easy to see that whenever single brackets occur, we have a knowledge frame or a proper interactional frame. Whenever such a frame is embedded within another frame, this other frame is transformational. Transformational frames thus always embed some other frame.4

. A framework for the description of transformational frames: Erving Goffman’s system of frame analysis More than once, Erving Goffman (1974: 1981) has been mentioned as an example of a theorist elaborating the notion of interactive frame (Brown & Yule 1983; Tannen & Wallat 1993; Lee 1997). This may be true for Goffman’s concept of footing (1981). However, in his Frame analysis (1974), Goffman is almost exclusively concerned with what I have termed transformational frames. In this seminal work, he distinguished three types of frames, viz. primary frames, keys and fabrications.5 . Primary frames Primary frames have a content of their own. They answer the basic question what we are perceiving now. (...) a primary framework is one that is seen as rendering what would otherwise be a meaningless aspect of the scene into something that is meaningful. (...) each primary framework allows its user to locate, perceive, identify, and label a seemingly infinite number of concrete occurrences defined in its terms. (Goffman 1974: 21)

Roughly, these may be considered to be equivalent with knowledge frames as discerned in this paper. . Keys Goffman describes the second type of frames, keys, as frames which must contain other frames-with-content:

Transformational frames

(a). A systematic transformation is involved across materials already meaningful in accordance with a schema of interpretation, and without which the keying would be meaningless. (b). Participants in the activity are meant to know and to openly acknowledge that a systematic alteration is involved, one that will radically reconstitute what it is for them that is going on. (c). Cues will be available for establishing when the transformation is to begin and when it is to end, namely, brackets in time, within which and to which the transformation is to be restricted. (...) (Goffman 1974: 45)

Evidently, keys are identical with transformational frames as described in this paper.6 As in the notation above, Goffman uses the idea of brackets in order to indicate the scope of a frame. Thus, we may describe the perception of a certain event or object per se as occurring under the influence of their respective primary frames: [ event ] or [ object ]

However, whenever this event (or object) is perceived under the operation of a key as well, we have framing constellations such as: [ description [ event ] ] [ mimicry [ event ] ] [ rehearsal [ event ] ] [ photography [ event ] ] [ playing [ event ] ] [ fantasising [ event ] ] [ dreaming [ event ] ]

Of course, multiple embeddings are possible. When a person (an actor) rehearses the way in which he should play some event, this may be described as: [ rehearsing [ playing [ event ] ] ]

But an actor can also play to be someone who is rehearsing. We then have this constellation: [ playing [ rehearsing [ playing [ event ] ] ] ]

It is clear that the outermost frame determines what is actually going on. Goffman presents many similar examples.

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. Fabrications Fabrications are similar to keys, but differ in one respect. The knowledge of their application is confined to only one person or party, whereas the other person is unaware of its operation. Fabrications thus ask for a double description. One description from the point of view of the container (the person who knows that the fabrication-frame is in operation), the other from the point of view of the contained (the ‘dope’). Practical jokes, con tricks, secret experiments, etc., are cases in point. Goffman makes two further distinctions. He distinguishes benign (e.g. practical jokes) from exploiting (e.g. fraud) fabrications, and self-induced (e.g. dreams) from other-induced (e.g. practical jokes) fabrications. . Summary In sum, four principles are particularly important: 1. a basic frame (a primary frame) is contained within the transforming frame (key or fabrication) 2. frames (both primary, and keys) are supposed to be mutually known, but fabrications are not 3. brackets indicate border-lines between frames 4. the outside frame determines what will be seen as the status of the perceived event ‘in reality’. These principles will be demonstrated in the next section in which I will analyse a number of cases in which the functions and effects of frame shifts and frame embeddings are shown.

. How transformational frames influence interpretation: Analysis of illustrative cases . Frame shifts We have seen already that a normal precondition for social interaction is an agreement about the operation of primary frames, viz. which knowledge frames apply. Whenever there is equivocation here, people are in need of clarification. Clarification may follow after a debate, a protest, or after questioning one’s interpretative grounds. Here is an example.

Transformational frames

(4) Sudden death is a German specialty

The noun phrase ‘sudden death’ has different meanings, depending on which knowledge frame is activated by the context, such as some medical context, or the context of an undecided sports contest (whoever scores the next point wins the game), or the context of a discussion about capital punishment. According to a news message (on August 15th, 1996) in several Dutch newspapers, the utterance in example (4) was used as a slogan by the German chemical corporation BAYER in its Guatemalan advertising campaign for an insecticide. Apparently, the slogan is meant to invoke two knowledge frames. First, a frame related to sport events: one is supposed to remember the at that time recent fact that the German soccer team became world champion in the 1996 tournament after the German team won a drawn game according to the ‘sudden death’ rule. Second, a frame related to everyday life biology: irritating insects may be got rid of by using a poisonous spray. To many people, however, an unintended third frame was most dominant, viz. a frame related to historical knowledge about the Holocaust. The juxtaposition of the third frame yields a highly cynical meaning. According to the newspaper message, BAYER decided to stop its campaign for that reason. The concept of ‘frame’ (both in the sense of a ‘knowledge frame’ and an ‘interactive frame’) thus is useful in order to describe and explain cases of frameconflicts:7 people initially do not agree on which frame is the appropriate one. The solution ordinarily is a frame shift. One frame is in operation. One chooses to release that frame and to agree instead on a different one. Hence, the operation is shifted from one frame to another one. The structure of a frame shift is in formal notation: [ A ] → [ B ].

. Frame embeddings and de-embeddings The concept of frame in the sense of transformational frame is needed in order to describe and explain cases where problems arise which call for either frame embeddings or frame de-embeddings. In the case of a frame embedding, a transformational frame is added to the frame already in operation. The frame which was in operation already is not released (as is the case in a frame shift). Its interpretation is brought under the influence of the now added transformational frame. A paradigmatic case is when a person perceives an activity as a serious, ‘real’, activity, whereas it is meant

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to be a played activity. The embedding occurs at the moment in which that person realises that he has to perceive the situation as being played. First, the person has perceived the situation in a ‘downkeyed’ way; in order to restore the intended interpretation, one has to do a form of ‘upkeying’, to use Goffman’s terminology. – The structure of a frame embedding is in formal notation: [ A ] → [ B [ A ] ].

In the case of a frame de-embedding the opposite process takes place. The perception process takes place under the influence of a knowledge frame and a (at least one) transformational frame. The transformational frame is, however, not intended. In order to restore the intended interpretation, the transformational frame has to be put out of operation. (The formerly ‘upkeyed’ perception has to be ‘downkeyed’.) A paradigmatic case is when a person perceives an activity as a non-serious, played, activity, whereas it is meant to be a serious, ‘genuine’, activity. – The structure of a frame de-embedding is in formal notation: [ B [ A ] ] → [ A ].

For transformational frames to be effective it is of course necessary that people know which frames might operate at all. There are several reasons why this is not always the case. –

–

–

People need to learn different (types of) transformational frames and the way they are cued in the course of their childhood. For example, young children need to differentiate between the fictional, transformed world of stories and the real world. New technological inventions may add new framing possibilities. In general, the possibility of mediation entails a form of transformational framing. As a result, people need to learn in which way new forms of mediation add transformational frames. Consider as an example stories told about the consternation caused by the first movies at the end of the nineteenth century. In different cultures different framing practices may exist which may cause difficulties in the understanding of the way in which frames are used in other cultures. As an example, consider the story ‘Averroes’ search’ (Borges 1972: 84–91) about the Islam philosopher Averroes trying to translate the work of Aristotle, who could not find a proper translation of the words ‘tragedy’ and ‘comedy’ because of being unfamiliar with a theatrical culture and its framing practices.

Transformational frames

Nevertheless, even when such differences do not exist, there may still occur problems regarding the way transformational frames operate. In most cases, a cue indicating a transformational frame is missed, or ambiguous, and a ‘downkeyed’ perception takes place. In order to restore the intended interpretation, an embedding process is called for. (The opposite process takes place rather less frequently.) . Examples of misunderstandings and their analysis Consider the following examples of these processes. (5) A father and his daughter are watching an Olympic Games contest on TV. A young female athlete did not perform very well. After her performance, she is approached by her trainer. F This evening you are going to bed without any food! D [flabbergasted] Me!?

Although simple, the example is paradigmatic. The father, watching the badly performing athlete, is imitating or mimicking the way the athlete might be spoken to by her trainer. The daughter, however, is simply understanding her father as speaking as her father to herself. The situation can be described as a frame conflict (symbolised by the double arrow): [ austern father ] ←→ [ mimicry [ austern trainer ] ]

In this case, the situation is solved when the daughter reinterprets her initial understanding by adding the mimicry-frame. (6) On December 28, 1994, I am doing some shopping in a (Dutch) supermarket. The store has speakers in its ceiling. From these I hear a radio programme. A reporter is speaking with a slightly excited voice [reconstruction]: “Because of the tensions within the government most people who watch the political developments in The Hague are pessimistic. It is expected that the coalition parties will split and thus the government will fall. One party leader I spoke to just a minute ago expects the Prime Minister to deliver his letter of resignation to the Queen before the evening”. I am surprised to hear this report. I had not heard of any political problems during the last few days. After a few seconds, I realise that it is the end of the year. I remember that earlier that year there had been political problems which led the government to resign and to organise new elec-

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tions. I do not listen to a news report, but to the year’s survey which makes use of the archive of news reports.

In this case, there is a re-interpretation which adds again a transformational frame: [ report [ political activities ] ] → [ a year’s survey [ report [ political activities ] ] ]

The re-interpretation is not caused by an interactional problem (there is no direct interaction in this case). The re-interpretation is triggered by two facts. First, the realisation of inconsistency with recent information about Dutch politics (which makes the report-interpretation less likely). Second, the awareness of the date, which offers a plausible new transformed interpretation. – This example sheds light on the principle that “Cues will be available for establishing when the transformation is to begin and when it is to end, namely, brackets in time, within which and to which the transformation is to be restricted” (Goffman 1974: 45). In normal cases, a person will perceive and be aware of those cues. In this case, the cues must have been available previously, when the radio programme was initiated and undoubtedly announced as a survey (and not as an actual report). In case these cues are missed, interpretative problems may occur. But the effects of cues (or of missing cues in one’s perception) are not fully deterministic. Missed cues may be reconstructed on the basis of plausibility. . Transformational frames as descriptions The concept ‘transformational frame’ is not only relevant for the analysis of misunderstandings. The concept has pure descriptive value as well, as is shown in examples (7) and (8). (7) In a research project on story telling, the researcher uses different elicitation techniques in order to stimulate children to story telling. The following story is told by a 10-year old girl, in Dutch (Heesters 2000). (B: adult researcher/interviewer eliciting stories; A: girl) B heb je zelf ook wel eens zoiets gedroomd? A (1.0) nee [niet dat ik over moest geven B [ (...)

B did you ever dream something like that? A (1.0) no, [ not that I had to throw up B [()

Transformational frames

[ oh A [ weleens dat ik moest plassen in bed B ja? wat was er gebeurd dan? A nou ik droomde dat eh dat ik door een grot liep, en eh ik moest alsmaar heel nodig plassen, maar ik eh ik kon daar nergens plassen, toen ben ik gaan zitten, toen heb ik geplast, toen heb ik in mijn bed geplast B ja. ja dat hoor je wel vaker A werd ik niet wakker B hm

[ oh A [ but once that I had to pee in bed B yes? what happened? A well, I dreamed that uh that I walked through a cave, and uh I had to pee all the time, but uh there was no place where I could pee, I then sat down, then I peed, then I peed in my bed B yes, you hear that more often A didn’t wake up B uhuh

The girl tells a story (a transformational frame) about a dream. Now dreaming is an event for which we have a knowledge frame (dreaming occurs during our sleep, normally when in bed, dreaming does not occur at free will, et cetera). On the other hand, a dream may contain events, hence functions as another transformational frame. In this case, about walking while having an urge to pee (an event interpretable within a knowledge frame). The overall structure thus is: [ story [ dream [ walking while having an urge to pee ] ] ]

It is remarkable that the girl uses a repetition in her story as follows: “toen heb ik geplast, toen heb ik in mijn bed geplast” (then I peed, then I peed in my bed). The repetition is interpretable within the constellation of frames: “then I peed” fits into the overall frame of a story about a dream about some event. But “then I peed in my bed” shifts one frame back. The girl continues her story, but now about the dream as an event in itself, about the circumstances in which the dreaming occurred. Consider how one would interpret the story without the repetition. (8) During a courtroom interrogation in a Dutch Court of Law between a Judge (J) and a Witness (W) the following interaction took place (for easy reference, numbers have been added to phrases): J

(1) terwijl ze zo zat vroegen we (2) en dan eigenlijk nog een keer hè (3) wat er nou gebeurd was (4) en dan antwoordt ze nog steeds niet

J

(1) while she was sitting like that we asked (2) and then once again wasn’t it (3) what really had happened (4) and then she still does not answer

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W (5) nee J (6) zegt niks (7) maar zakt ze een beetje met haar hoofd naar voren (8) zo naar d’r knieën toe (9) ik dacht zegt u dan (10) goh die kan niet zitten W (11) ja J (12) ik heb haar nog tegen haar schouder iets teruggeduwd zodat ze meer rechtop kwam (13) en dan komt dat verhaal dat u denkt aan drankgebruik (14) geen dranklucht geroken vond u vreemd (15) ze was totaal niet aanspreekbaar (16) terwijl ik dus met mijn collega stond te overleggen (17) kwam ze overend en toen ging ze staan W (18) [onverstaanbaar] J (19) toen nog steeds niets zeggende (20) maar als ze dan staat dan zegt ze (21) mag ik een sigaret W (22) dat klopt (G) J (23) dan zegt u nog een keer (24) ja ze maakte de indruk van iemand die net net wakker werd (25) die net wakker was geworden (26) en dan zegt u tegen d’r (27) dat krijg je zo dat dat mag zo wel (28) maar vertel nu eerst eens even hè wat er gebeurd is (29) weer geen antwoord hè (30) komt er niet uit (31) en dan vraagt ze (32) laat me eens even een beetje water drinken (33) hè woorden van die strekking W (34) nou ze heeft woordelijk gevraagd J (35) ja

W (5) no J (6) doesn’t say anything (7) but she sank her head a little bit (8) in the direction of her knees (9) I thought that’s what you then say (10) gee she can’t even sit W (11) yes J (12) I even pushed her back against her shoulder so as to make her sit upright again (13) and then there is that story that you think of alcohol abuse (14) no smell of alcohol surprised you (15) she was absolutely not approachable (16) so while I was deliberating with my colleague (17) she rose and stood on her feet W (18) [incomprehensible] J (19) at that moment still saying nothing (20) but then as she stands then she says (21) can I have a cigarette W (22) that’s correct J (23) then you say once again (24) well she made the impression of someone just waking up (25) who’d just woken up (26) and then you say to her (27) you’ll get it you may have it in a moment (28) but first tell me what happened (29) again no answer isn’t it (30) she utters nothing (31) and then she asks (32) let me have a little bit of water (33) right words of that purport W (34) well she asked literally J

(35) yes

Transformational frames

W (36) mag ik wat water drinken in de keuken om te kalmeren (37) dat heeft ze woordelijk gevraagd J (38) mag ik wat water drinken in de keuken (39) om te kalmeren dat zei ze er ook bij W (40) dat heeft ze woordelijk gezegd

W (36) can I have some water in the kitchen for calming down (37) she asked that literally J

(38) can I have some water in the kitchen (39) for calming down she said that too W (40) she said that literally

The background of the interrogation is this. Two police officers had been called by neighbours to look after an apparently nervously wrecked woman who made turmoil. When both officers entered her house and talked to her, she took a small knife in her hands. One officer felt threatened and shot her, as a result of which the woman died. However, the Public Prosecutor investigated this incident in order to determine whether the officer used unnecessary violence. During this investigation the officer has been interrogated, which interrogations have been written down in a protocol. The officer who shot the woman now stands trial on the charge of using excessive violence. On the basis of this knowledge we may describe the courtroom interrogation as follows: [ courtroom interrogation [ protocol [ police interrogation [ visit of two police officers to confused woman ] ] ] ]

Knowledge of this frame-constellation is necessary to make sense of the courtroom interrogation, to give it coherence and comprehensibility. Local references may be found to each of these frames. The overall coherence is dependent on the constellation as such. The aim of the courtroom session is to find the truth about the real event: what happened during the visit of the two police officers to the confused woman. About this event there is a protocol containing the statements made by the officer during the earlier police interrogation. The judge makes reference to this protocol in order to find confirmation or disconfirmation about the correctness of the protocol. Consider the following examples (referred to by sentence numbers): –

the personal pronoun ‘you’ refers to the Police-officer-as-witness, within the outermost frame of the courtroom interrogation, and said by the Judge-as-Judge (‘I’ said by and referring to the Judge does not occur in this fragment), as in: (9) ‘I thought that’s what you then say’, or similarly ‘you’ in (23) and (26)

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–

–

–

–

the outermost frame of the courtroom interrogation consists itself of a Q-A-Q-A-pattern, in which the judge asks questions about the protocol (e.g. in (2): ‘wasn’t it’, or in (39) ‘for calming down – she said that too?’) and in which the officer provides confirming/disconfirming, or elaborating answers (e.g. in (5), (22) or (34)–(37)) several references are made to the organisation of the protocol, e.g. (9) ‘I thought that’s what you then say’, (13) ‘and then there is that story that you think of alcohol abuse’, and (23) several references are made to the content of the protocol, viz. a report about the event, e.g. (1) ‘while she was sitting like that we asked’ – ‘we’ refers to the two officers; ‘she’ refers to the woman; ‘I’ refers to the reporting police officer several formulations are from within the event itself, such as the direct quotations of the woman (21; 32) or of the acting police officer (27)–(28).

In examples (7) and (8) the organisation of frames is known to and restricted to direct participants. The researcher and the girl in (7), the judge, the witness, prosecutor and solicitor, and some other people present in (8). . Framed public discourse In public discourse participants are many, often millions of people. Public discourse relies on mediation. Without media a mass audience cannot be reached. Media constitute transformational frames by their very nature, and apart from that, they make use of them. Examples (9) and (10) show some peculiarities of framed public discourse. (9) Did not Hitler realise what Wilhelm II only promised, namely lead the Germans into glorious times? Wasn’t he really elected by Providence, a leader such as is given to a people only once in a thousand years? (...) And as for the Jews: didn’t they in the past (...) take on a role which didn’t belong to them? Wasn’t it due time for them to accept restrictions? Didn’t they even deserve it to be put in their places? And above all: did not the propaganda – apart from some wild, unserious exaggerations – essentially match the own conjectures and convictions?

On November 10, 1988, the then President of the Bundestag (the German Parliament), Philipp Jenninger, addressed the Bundestag in order to commemorate to 50th anniversary of the nazi-organised pogrom known as the Kristallnacht. Excerpt (9) contains two fragments of this speech. The fragments were largely

Transformational frames

understood – e.g. by the newspapers – as expressing admiration of Hitler and condoning his political actions. Jenninger’s address led to a scandal due to which he had to resign. The meaning of the fragments in excerpt (9), however, may be seen differently framed when we consider their function in the whole text. Jenninger began his address thus: Meine Damen und Herren, die Juden in Deutschland und in aller Welt gedenken heute der Ereignisse vor fünfzig Jahren. Auch wir Deutschen erinnern uns an das, was sich vor einem halben Jahrhundert in unserem Land zutrug, und es ist gut, dass wir dies in beiden Staaten auf deutschem Boden tun, denn unsere Geschichte lässt sich nicht aufspalten in Gutes und Böses, und die Verantwortung für das Vergangene kann nicht verteilt werden nach den geographischen Willkürlichkeiten der Nachkriegsordnung.

Ladies and gentlemen, the Jews in Germany and in the whole world commemorate today what happened fifty years ago. We Germans remember as well what happened half a century ago in our country. It is good to do this in both states on German soil, because our history cannot be split up in good and evil, and the responsibility for what has happened cannot be divided according to the accidental geographic order that came into being after the war.

Ich begrüße zu dieser Gedenkveranstaltung im deutschen Bundestag den Herrn Bundespräsidenten, den Herrn Botschafter des Staates Israel, mein besonderer Gruß gilt an diesen Tag allen jüdischen Mitbürgerinnen und Mitbürgern in Deutschland, vor allem denen, die als unsere Ehrengäste an dieser Gedenkstunde teilnehmen: dem Vorsitzenden und den Mitgliedern des Direktoriums des Zentralrates der Juden in Deutschland und den Vertretern der Christlichen Kirchen. Mein herzlicher Gruß und mein Dank gilt auch Ihnen, sehr verehrte Frau Professor Ehre.

I salute (welcome) on this extraordinary meeting of Parliament: Mr. President of the Federation, Mr. Ambassador of the State of Israel, my special salutation on this day is to all Jewish fellow [male and female] citizens in Germany, especially those who participate as our guests of honour in this Memorial Event: the Chairman and the members of the Directorate of the Central Council of Jews in Germany, and representatives of the Christian Churches. My salutation and gratitude are also directed to you, Mrs. Professor Ida Ehre.

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Viele von uns haben gestern auf Einladung des Zentralrates der Juden in Deutschland an der Gedenkveranstaltung in der Synagoge in Frankfurt am Main teilgenommen. Heute nun haben wir uns hier im deutschen Bundestag zusammengefunden, um hier im Parlament der Pogrome vom 9. und 10. November 1938 zu gedenken, weil nicht die Opfer, sondern wir, in deren Mitte die Verbrechen geschahen, erinnern und Rechenschaft ablegen müssen, weil wir Deutschen uns klar werden wollen über das Verständnis unserer Geschichte und über Lehren für die politische Gestaltung unserer Gegenwart und Zukunft.

Many among us have participated yesterday in the Memorial Event at the Synagogue in Frankfurt am Main, invited by the Central Council of Jews in Germany. Today, however, we have gathered in the German Bundestag in order to commemorate the pogroms of November 9th and 10th, 1938. Because not the victims, but we, in the midst of whom the crimes were committed, have to remember and account for them. We Germans should have a clear understanding about our past, and learn from it for the political formation of our present and future.

[start of interruption by Bundestag-member Jutta Oesterle-Schwerin]

[start of interruption by Bundestag-member Jutta Oesterle-Schwerin]

Die Opfer... [interruption] Bitte lassen Sie diese würdige Stunde in dieser Form ... ablaufen [interruption goes on] Ich bitte Sie um Verständnis dafür, dass ich Sie herzlich bitte, jetzt – aah sich ruhig zu verhalten.

The victims ... [interruption] Please let this solemn hour in this form ... proceed [interruption goes on] I ask you to understand that I request you kindly now – aah, to behave quietly.

Die Opfer, die Juden überall auf der Welt, wissen nur zu genau, was der November 1938 für ihren künftigen Leidensweg zu bedeuten hatte. Wissen wir es auch?

The victims, the Jews all over the world, know all too well the meaning of November 1938 for their approaching suffering. Do we know as well?

If one looks at these first two minutes of Jenninger’s speech, it is difficult to imagine that he was accused of admiring and condoning Hitler. Jenninger clearly states: “... not the victims, but we, in the midst of whom the crimes were committed, have to remember and account for them [the pogroms]” and “The victims, the Jews all over the world, know all too well the meaning of November 1938 for their approaching suffering. Do we know as well?” In this

Transformational frames

last question, Jenninger clearly means: ‘Do we Germans know as well?’ – From this beginning, Jenninger proceeds as follows. I will quote the most important parts of his speech up to the two fragments which were given as example (9), and which caused the strongest outrage. The two fragments are italicised. What happened today fifty years ago in the midst of Germany, did not occur in any civilised country since the middle ages. And worse: the excesses were not – as one might think – an expression of a however motivated spontaneous anger of the people, but they were devised, initiated and supported by the state’s leadership. The ruling party had – in the person of its highest representative – suspended justice and law. The state itself became the organiser of crime. Now, open terror came instead of the purposeful rules and laws by means of which the insidious illegalisation of the Jews was executed. A minority of hundreds of thousands was declared outlaw, their possessions rendered to the soaring rage of an organised mob. About 200 synagogues were set on fire or demolished, Jewish cemeteries destroyed, thousands of shops and homes ruined and looted. About 100 Jews were killed, about 30,000 deported into concentration camps. Many of them never returned. Not quantifiable were the human pain, abuse, humiliations. (...) In hindsight it becomes clear that between 1933 and 1938 in Germany a revolution took place – a revolution in which the lawful state changed into an illegal and criminal state (...). At the end of this revolution, a lot more of the people’s sense of justice was destroyed than might be recognised from the outside. (...) Even more fateful than Hitler’s crimes were his successes (...) To the Germans – who had experienced the Weimar Republic as a series of political humiliations – all this [viz. Hitler’s initial political successes] seemed a miracle. And even more. Mass unemployment became full employment. Mass poverty became prosperity for broad layers of the population. Instead of despair, now optimism and self-confidence prevailed. Did not Hitler realise what Wilhelm II only promised, namely lead the Germans into glorious times? Wasn’t he really elected by Providence, a leader such as is given to a people only once in a thousand years? (...) Many Germans did not even ask themselves anymore the question which system were to be preferred. In some realms of society one enjoyed less individual freedom. But personally, one had more prosperity than ever before. The Empire was undoubtedly great again, even greater and more powerful than ever. Didn’t only recently the leaders of Great Britain, France and Italy pay their respect to Hitler in Munich, and didn’t they offer him one more of these seemingly impossible successes? And as for the Jews: didn’t they in the past – so one said at that time – take on

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a role which didn’t belong to them? Wasn’t it due time for them to accept restrictions? Didn’t they even deserve it to be put in their places? And above all: did not the propaganda – apart from some wild, unserious exaggerations – essentially match the own conjectures and convictions?

The beginning of the address establishes an interactional frame which we may describe as a ceremony, and invoking expectations belonging to that frame. “Ladies and gentlemen, the Jews in Germany and in the whole world commemorate today what happened fifty years ago. We Germans remember as well what happened half a century ago in our country”. The basic expectation belonging to such a ceremony is: let us together think back to the horrible events which occurred a round number of years ago, and let us try to derive a new moral meaning from it for us today by assuring ourselves that we are distant and want to keep distance. A speaker on such an occasion does not so much interact with his audience, but rather is the person who precedes the audience in his words towards the expected shared moral meaning. – In our formal notation we might describe the expected structure thus: [ ceremony [ thinking back to [ nazi past ] ] ]

Maybe this formal description is not quite right. First, it might be better to say that ‘thinking back to’ is a way of realising the ceremony, rather than a frame which is embedded within the ceremony. The description then changes into: [ ceremony → thinking back to [ nazi past ] ]

Second, there should be added a specific way of how to think back, namely in a morally justified and hence distancing way. However, at the end of the introduction Jenninger deviates from these expectations in two ways. First, when he says: “... not the victims, but we, in the midst of whom the crimes were committed, have to remember and account for them [i.e., the pogroms]” he shifts from a perspective in which the focus of attention is on the victims to one in which the focus is on the perpetrators. Second, when he says “The victims, the Jews all over the world, know all too well the meaning of November 1938 for their approaching suffering. Do we know as well?” he implies: “We Germans are not sufficiently aware of what happened, hence in my address I will pay attention to what happened”. Jenninger thus conceives the ceremonial task as one in which one has to pay full attention to what happened in the past, from the perspective of (the heirs of) the perpetrators. In order to pay full attention to the past, he offers a painfully precise description of what happened in the Kristallnacht, and who

Transformational frames

was responsible for it. He then describes the general political situation and attitude of the ‘average’ German during the years 1933 through 1938. Only then, and in that context, Jenninger formulates the two passages which were quoted as example (9). The two passages function as a demonstration of how ‘the average German’ felt and reasoned at that time. There are two strong indications in favour of this interpretation. The first indication is this: Many Germans did not even ask themselves anymore the question which system were to be preferred. In some realms of society one enjoyed less individual freedom. But personally, one had more prosperity than ever before. The Empire was undoubtedly great again, even greater and more powerful than ever. Didn’t only recently the leaders of Great Britain, France and Italy pay their respect to Hitler in Munich, and didn’t they offer him one more of these seemingly impossible successes?

In this passage, Jenninger shifts from a pure description (“Many Germans did not even ask themselves ...”) toward speaking from within the events of November 1938: “only recently” refers to August 1938. Speaking from within has a dramatising and enlivening effect. But it does not imply for a speaker to express his own standpoint. – The second indication is the fact that Jenninger added “so hieß es damals” (“so one said at that time”) to the questions in which he expressed the general attitude toward the fate of the Jews. In formal notation we may say that Jenninger intended his speech as a shift from an expected frame toward an intended frame: [ ceremony focussing on victims ] → [ ceremony focussing on perpetrators]

whereas the intended ceremony has been realised as: [ ceremony [ analysis [ quotation [ nazi past ] ] ] ]

Jenninger only quoted as part of the analysis, and embedded within the analysis. Among his audience a different perception prevailed. In the worst cases, the perceived structure was: [ ceremony [ quotation [ nazi past ] ] ]

Thus, a headline in a Dutch newspaper about Jenninger’s speech ran: “President Bundestag in jeopardy after eulogy of Hitler”. But in most cases, there was an uncertainty among the audience about the way in which the speech had to be understood. This led to reproaches that a speaker is not allowed to leave his

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audience uncertain in such a delicate and sensitive matter. Hence, the perceived structure in most cases was: [ ceremony [ analysis? or apology? [ quotation? or standpoint? [ nazi past ] ]? ]? ]

The following example consists of the use of a documentary frame embedded within a fiction frame. (10) Columbia Broadcasting System, October 31, 1938 ANNOUNCER: The Columbia Broadcasting System and its affiliated stations present Orson Welles and the Mercury Theatre on the Air in War of the Worlds by H. G. Wells. [theme] Ladies and gentlemen: the director of the Mercury Theatre and star of these broadcasts, Orson Welles... WELLES: We know now that in the early days of the twentieth century this world was being watched closely by intelligences greater than man’s and yet as mortal as his own. We know now that as human beings busied themselves about their various concerns they were scrutinized and studied, perhaps almost as narrowly as a man with a microscope might scrutinize the transient creatures that swarm and multiply in a drop of water. With infinite complacence people went to and fro over the earth about their little affairs, serene in the assurance of their dominion over this small spinning fragment of solar driftwood which by chance or design man has inherited out of the dark mystery of Time and Space. Yet across an immense ethereal gulf, minds that are to our minds as ours are to the beasts of the jungle, intellects vast, cool and unsympathetic regarded this earth with envious eyes and slowly and surely drew their plans against us. In the thirty-ninth year of the twentieth century came the great disillusionment. It was near the end of October. Business was better. The war scare was over. More men were back at work. Sales were picking up. On this particular evening, October 30, the Crossley service estimated that thirty-two million people were listening in on radios. ANNOUNCER 1: ... for the next twenty-four hours not much change in temperature. A slight atmospheric disturbance of undetermined origin is reported over Nova Scotia, causing a low pressure area to move down rather rapidly over the northeastern states, bringing a forecast of rain, accompanied by winds of light gale force. Maximum temperature 66; minimum 48. This weather report comes to you from the Government Weather Bureau. ... We now take you to the Meridian Room in the Hotel Park Plaza in downtown New York, where you will be entertained by the music of Ramon Raquello and his orchestra. [spanish theme song ... fades]

Transformational frames

ANNOUNCER 3: Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. From the Meridian Room in the Park Plaza in New York City, we bring you the music of Ramon Raquello and his orchestra. With a touch of Spanish, Ramon Raquello leads of with ‘La Cumparsita’ [music] ANNOUNCER 2: Ladies and gentlemen, we interrupt our program of dance music to bring you a special bulletin from the Intercontinental Radio News. At twenty minutes before eight, central time, Professor Farrell of the Mount Jennings Observatory, Chicago, Illinois, reports observing several explosions of incandescent gas, occurring at regular intervals on the planet of Mars. The spectroscope indicates the gas to be hydrogen and moving towards the earth with enormous velocity. Professor Pierson of the observatory at Princeton confirms Farrell’s observation, and describes the phenomenon as – quote – like a jet of blue flame hot from a gun. – unquote – We now return you to the music of Ramon Raquello playing for you in the Meridian Room of the Park Plaza Hotel, situated in downtown New York. [music until piece ends; applause] Now a tune that never loses favor, the ever popular ‘Star Dust’. Ramon Raquello and his orchestra ... [music] Ladies and gentlemen, following on the news given in our bulletin a moment ago, the Government Meteorological Bureau has requested the large observatories of the country to keep an astronomical watch on any further disturbances on the planet Mars. Due to the unusual nature of this occurrence, we have arranged an interview with the noted astronomer, Professor Pierson, who will give you his views on this event. In a few moments we will take you to the Princeton Observatory at Princeton, New Jersey. We return you until then to the music of Ramon Raquello and his orchestra. [music] We are ready now to take you to the Princeton Observatory at Princeton where Carl Phillips, our commentator, will interview Professor Pierson, famous astronomer. (Radio broadcast ‘War of the Worlds’, October 31, 1938; script quoted from Cantril 1966)

Example (10) is well known. The broadcast itself and its effects are well documented in Cantril (1940 = 1966). The broadcast of the radio play in 1938 lasted one hour. In (10) a protocol of the first minutes is presented. From this protocol it appears that the nature of the play (following the immediately preceding programme which is not presented here) is announced explicitly and unequivocally by the CBS-announcer. Orson Welles then starts the play in a dramaturgic way: his words form a sort of prologue, similar to the way in which some theatre plays (e.g. Shakespeare’s King Henry V) are preceded by a prologue which is outside of the action of the play itself, functioning as a motto or an indication of the theme or moral of the play to come. What happens after the prologue, however, is highly equivocal. In fact, the play begins. But the play is disguised,

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so to speak, as a normal radio programme with weather forecasts and concertos. This quasi-normal ongoing radio-programme then is interrupted by report-like messages about extraordinary events on the planet Mars. Within minutes, these reports will become dramatical eye witness reports about outer space invaders. – In formal notation, the structure is as follows: [ radio programme] [ dramaturgic play [ normal radio programmes such as weather reports and concertos [ report [ extraordinary events ] ] ] ]

Note that the beginning of the play follows the immediately preceding programme. When the play begins, the quasi-normal radio programmes (weather report, concerto) are embedded within the play. This is done, however, in such a way as to invoke a perception the structure of which is: [ radio programme [ report [extraordinary events] ] ]

The play succeeded in invoking this structure of perception in many cases. According to Cantril (1966), a conservative estimation is that 6,000,000 people listened to the programme. Of these people, about 1,700,000 heard the programme as a news bulletin, hence as a genuine report. About 1,200,000 people became frightened and excited; some of them panicked (Cantril 1966: 55–58). Interestingly, there is a significant effect on the interpretation of tuning in late to the ongoing programme (compare example (6) in which this effect took place spontaneously.) From a CBS-survey a few days after the broadcast (based on a sample, N = 460), it appears that those who listened from the beginning (hence could have heard the explicit announcement of the play) 20% assessed the play as being genuine news, whereas 63% of those who tuned in later did so (quoted in Cantril 1966: 78). Although example (10) is by far the most well known, it is easy to find similar cases.8 In these cases it appears that the use of a documentary frame embedded within a fiction frame is both a powerful and an equivocal tool.

. Concluding remarks In this paper I have argued, first, that it is necessary to distinguish transformational frames from interactive frames proper, and second, that a notation using brackets is useful for describing the general structure of the relation between frames. One important aspect of the way discourse works thus may be captured. This paper has fulfilled its purpose if the reader is willing to accept this point.

Transformational frames

I conclude this paper by making three short and speculative remarks. Although the possibility of transposing must be very old, the last two centuries have added many technical possibilities for transforming, especially in the form of introducing many new media. Media do not only offer new ways of representing (and thus transforming) behaviours. Media also invite people to create new forms and patterns of behaviour. The possibility of transformational frames thus has an effect on the embedded behaviour. (As recent examples, consider talk shows and reality soaps.) The coherence of texts or discourse on the level of the sequence of the utterances of the discourse has been the subject of many discourse analysts (Halliday & Hasan 1976; Mann & Thompson 1986; Clark & Haviland 1977; Sanders, Spooren & Noordman 1992). Many of these approaches have tried to establish a taxonomy for describing possible coherence relations. It seems to be necessary to add one coherence relation to those distinguished, viz. the relation of embedding transformations as described in subsequent utterances of a text. Consider the coherence of these sentences: The actors approach one another slowly in an idyllic natural setting, then fall into an ecstatic embrace to the sounds of a lush romantic score. The camera circles the impassioned couple, focusing on their enraptured caresses and their glistening, intertwined bodies. Sound like another tired Hollywood production luring audiences with glimpses of graphic sex? Guess again. The film is French and the actors are snails. (opening sentences of a film review, Time, February 17, 1997)

Finally, the analysis of transformational frames is important in relation to the principled nature of communication. The working of transformational frames is another argument against the conduit metaphor of communication, according to which a message is ‘packed’, transmitted, and then ‘unpacked’. Rather, communication is a joint endeavour, in which all involved parties make calculations of one’s own and other people’s knowledge, and on the basis of those calculations make attempts at influencing other people’s perceptions. In order to make those attempts, people use knowledge of reproduction techniques, and knowledge of the functions of the use of reproduction techniques.

Notes . Tannen is right. We may add at least pastoral counselling: see Capps (1990).

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Titus Ensink . As for the reference to Bateson: It is interesting to see that Bateson’s moment of Eureka sometimes is described as when he witnessed monkeys playing, sometimes as otters playing. The source of this confusion is this. In Bateson (1972: 179) we find: I saw two monkeys playing, i.e., engaged in an interactive sequence of which the unit actions or signals were similar to but not the same as combat. (...) Now, this phenomenon, play, could only occur if the participant organisms were capable of some degree of metacommunication, i.e., of exchanging signals which would carry the message ‘this is play’. In Goffman (1974: 40) we find: During visits to the Fleishacker Zoo beginning in 1952, Gregory Bateson observed that otters not only fight with each other but also play at fighting. . Bronzwaer (1977) used this notation for the description of embedding relations within (literary) narratives. A similar way of describing embedding relations in stories is used by Bruce (1981). Clark (1996: 355) thinks the term ‘embedding’ rather inadequate, because ‘embedding’ suggests that what is embedded necessarily forms part of the embedding structure. Clark prefers the term ‘layering’ instead. Nevertheless, I stick to the term ‘embedding’ because it is a rather established expression, and because of the notational ease. . Transformational frames are not identical with, but closely related to phenomena described by Goffman (1981) under the heading of ‘footing’. Consider this quotation: “The question of footing is systematically complicated by the possibility of embedding. For example, a speaker can quote himself or another directly or indirectly, thereby setting into an utterance with one production format another utterance with its own production format, albeit now merely an embedded one”. (Goffman 1981: 227) . Denzin and Keller (1981: 54) provide a nice and complete schematic overview of all distinctions made by Goffman in his voluminous essay. . Goffman (1974: 44) indicates that a musical analogy is intended in his use of the term ‘key’. It is a pity that he did not immediately choose the more appropriate term ‘transposition’ for a change in key in stead of ‘transformation’. . Frame conflicts occur often in public discourse (see Entman 1991; Pan & Kosicki 1993; Bing & Lombardo 1997, quoted in Ensink & Sauer, this volume). . A Portuguese remake of Orson Welles’ play caused consternation in 1988. In 1997, a Dutch TV-programme about a nuclear catastrophe caused panic although all the time a banner ‘constructed situation’ was in sight.

References Bateson, Gregory (1972). Steps to an ecology of mind. New York: Ballantine. Borges, Jorge Luis (1972). A personal anthology. London: Picador.

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Bronzwaer, W. J. M. (1977). Over het lezen van narratieve teksten. [‘On reading narrative texts’]. In W. J. M. Bronzwaer, D. W. Fokkema & E. Kunne-Ibsch (Eds.), Tekstboek algemene literatuurwetenschap (pp. 229–254). Baarn: Ambo. Brown, Gillian & Yule, George (1983). Discourse analysis. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Bruce, Bertram (1981). A social interaction model of reading. Discourse processes, 4, 273– 311. Cantril, Hadley (1940). The invasion from Mars; A study in the psychology of panic. With the complete script of the famous Orson Welles broadcast. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. [Reprinted by Harper & Row, New York, 1966]. Capps, Donald (1990). Reframing. A new method in pastoral care. Minneapolis: Fortress Press. Chafe, Wallace (1977). Creativity in verbalization and its implications for the nature of stored knowledge. In R. O. Freedle (Ed.), Discourse production and comprehension (pp. 41–55). Norwood, NJ: Ablex. Clark, Herbert H. (1996). Using language. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Clark, H. H. & Haviland, S. E. (1977). Comprehension and the given-new contract. In Roy O. Freedle (Ed.), Discourse production and comprehension (pp. 1–40). Norwood, NJ: Ablex. Denzin, Norman K. & Keller, Charles M. (1981). ‘Frame Analysis’ reconsidered. Contemporary Sociology, 10, 52–60. Fillmore, Charles J. (1975). An alternative to checklist theories of meaning. Proceedings of the first annual meeting of the Berkeley Linguistics Society (pp. 123–132). Berkeley, CA: University of California. Fillmore, Charles J. (1976). The need for a frame semantics within linguistics. Statistical methods in linguistics, 5–29. Frake, Charles O. (1977). Plying frames can be dangerous: Some reflections on methodology in cognitive anthropology. The quarterly newsletter of the institute for comparative human cognition, 1, 1–7. Goffman, Erving (1974). Frame analysis. An essay on the organization of experience. New York etc.: Harper & Row. Goffman, Erving (1981). Forms of talk. Oxford: Basil Blackwell. Gumperz, John J. (1982). Discourse strategies. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Halliday, M. A. K. & Hasan, R. (1976). Cohesion in English. London: Longman. Heesters, Karin (2000). Een wereld vol verhalen. Ontwikkeling van verhaalstructuur bij 9tot 13-jarige eerste- en tweedetaalsprekers van het Nederlands. Doctoral dissertation, Groningen University (The Netherlands). Hymes, Dell (1974). Ways of speaking. In R. Bauman & J. Sherzer (Eds.), Explorations in the ethnography of speaking (pp. 433–451). Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Lee, David A. (1997). Frame conflicts and competing construals in family argument. Journal of pragmatics, 27, 339–360. Mann, William C. & Thompson, Sandra A. (1986). Relational propositions in discourse. Discourse processes, 9, 57–90. Minsky, Marvin (1975). A framework for representing knowledge. In P. H. Winston (Ed.), The psychology of computer vision (pp. 211–277). New York: McGraw Hill.

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Pan, Z. & Kosicki, G. (1993). Framing analysis. An approach to news discourse. Political communication, 10, 55–75. Rumelhart, David E. (1975). Notes on a schema for stories. In D. G. Bobrow & A. Collins (Eds.), Representation and understanding. Studies in cognitive science (pp. 211–236). New York etc.: Academic Press. Rumelhart, David E. (1985). Toward an interactive model of reading. In H. Singer & R. B. Ruddell (Eds.), Theoretical models and processes of reading (pp. 722–746). Newark, DE: International Reading Association. Sanders, Ted, Spooren, Wilbert & Noordman, Leo (1992). Towards a taxonomy of coherence relations. Discourse processes, 15, 1–35. Schank, Roger C. & Abelson, Robert P. (1977). Scripts, plans, goals and understanding. An inquiry into human knowledge structures. Hillsdale, NJ/New York etc.: Erlbaum & Wiley. Tannen, Deborah (Ed.). (1993a). Framing in discourse. New York/Oxford: Oxford University Press. Tannen, Deborah (1993b). What’s in a frame? Surface evidence for underlying expectations. In D. Tannen (Ed.), Framing in Discourse (pp. 14–56). New York/Oxford: Oxford University Press. Tannen, Deborah & Wallat, Cynthia (1993). Interactive frames and knowledge schemas in interaction: Examples form a medical examination interview. In D. Tannen (Ed.), Framing in Discourse (pp. 57–113). New York/Oxford: Oxford University Press.

Reporting annual results A single-case analysis Geert Jacobs

.

Introduction

One of the many exciting questions in exploring Erving Goffman’s concept of ‘framing’ is what happens when stories that are told in one context get retold in another. Clayman (1990), for example, focuses on the way journalists reproduce interviews and press conference materials into their news reports, in other words how the original interaction is incorporated into a new frame. Dealing with the subsequent consumption of news reports by the general public, John B. Thompson proposes the term ‘discursive elaboration’ to refer to this “ongoing process of telling and retelling, interpretation and reinterpretation, commentary, laughter and criticism” whereby colleagues at work talk about what they read in the morning papers or about what they saw on TV the night before (1995: 42).1 For the purpose of this paper, I would like to single out two important points here. First, in examining stories and how they get reframed, it should be borne in mind that storytellers may well anticipate reframings. Jönsson and Linell (1991), for example, look at the way interrogations about shoplifting and fraud are rendered in police reports and observe that, frequently, the suspect’s words are “already a bit oriented” to what the policeman will make of them (434).2 Similarly, Harvey Sacks, dealing with the so-called ‘tellability’ of everyday conversation, argues that “people in interactions engage in attending what they do by reference to what it is that those others they’re with might tell some others who might tell some others” (1992: 779). Crucially, and this brings up my second point, Sacks adds that such tellability “is not merely a negative constraint. It can be the sort of thing one counts on” (779): it is the unacknowl-

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edged ambition of people who spread gossip, for example, to actively encourage others to retell their stories. This paper presents corpus-based research on framing in another type of stories that seem to be explicitly oriented to being retold, viz. press releases. By their very nature, press releases do not just compete for journalists’ attention per se, but are supposed to be ‘continued’ as accurately as possible, preferably even verbatim, in subsequent news reporting in the papers, on the radio, on TV, etc. As Vanslyke Turk puts it, those who issue press releases count on journalists “to in turn disseminate the information through published stories to that portion of the public that relies upon newspapers for information” (1986: 16). More generally, Rubin (1987) argues that it is the bottom line of the field of public relations to see one’s own opinion prevail in the news: “[i]ndustry and public organisations spend vast amounts of money every year on PR, because it helps them to get the media to portray their views to the public” (19). Here are a couple of extracts from cover letters accompanying press releases:3 (1) (Tritec, Perwez: 28 March 1994) Hierbij vindt u hierover meer informatie. U dankend bij voorbaat om dit aan uw lezers kenbaar te willen maken. [Enclosed you will find more information about this. Thanking you in advance for informing your readers about it.] (2) (Jadrimex, Elewijt: 30 March 1994) Ingesloten vindt u een persbericht. Zoudt u zo vriendelijk willen zijn deze in Uw publikaties in te lassen. Deze informatie kan van nut zijn voor Uw lezers. [Enclosed you will find a press release. Would you be kind enough to insert it in your publications. This information may be of interest to your.] (3) (Solvay, Antwerp: 7 September 1994) Wij zouden het ten zeerste op prijs stellen, mocht u deze persmededeling laten verschijnen. [We would appreciate it very much if you could publish this press release.]

All these various extracts seem to provide conclusive evidence that press releases are meant to be retold by journalists in their own news reporting. Elsewhere this has led me to characterise press releases as a type of ‘projected’ discourse, serving a double audience of journalists and newspaper readers (Jacobs 1998). In this paper, I shall first set out to explore the relevance of some of Goffman’s frame analytical theory to this question of telling and retelling. In particular, I shall do so by drawing from Erving Goffman’s concept of keying (1974) as well as from John B. Thompson’s work on mediazation (1990, 1995).

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Next comes a single-case analysis: focusing on the way Belgium’s major steel manufacturer Bekaert reported its financial results for 1998 to the media, I hope to provide preliminary empirical evidence of how the special framing of press releases can be traced in specific linguistic choices.

. Press releases and frame . The news as keying It has by now been generally accepted that any analysis of media discourse should start from the idea that the news is not out there waiting to be talked about by journalists, but that, on the contrary, it is the journalists who have to make the news by talking about it. In other words, the news is no set of events, it is the journalists’ reactions to them. Particularly in the 1970s a series of inside studies started to unravel the sociology of the news industry, leaving no doubt that the media play an active role transforming so-called ‘reality’ into what we read in the press and see on TV. Some of these studies have unmistakable titles, including Tuchman’s Making news: a study in the construction of reality (1978) and Fishman’s Manufacturing the news (1980).4 This notion of newsmaking occupies a central position in John B. Thompson’s theory of ‘mediazation’. Thompson (1990, 1995) takes the break between sender and receiver, or what he calls ‘space-time distanciation’, to be one of the central defining features of the news. It is argued that the evolution of the technical and institutional apparatuses of the media has extended the availability of news events beyond contexts of co-presence to a new range of absent recipients. The result is that many more events are now available to many more people. Clearly, the fact that most events are only available through the media – and not in any other way – lies at the basis of the journalists’ newsmaking ability, their ‘symbolic power’ to actively create events. As Thompson puts it: For most people today, the knowledge we have of political leaders and their policies, for instance, is a knowledge derived largely from newspapers, radio and television, and the ways in which we participate in the institutionalised system of political power are deeply affected by the knowledge so derived. Similarly, our experience of events which take place in contexts that are spatially and temporally remote, from strikes and demonstrations to massacres and wars, is an experience largely mediated by the institutions of mass communication; indeed, our experience of these events as ‘political’, as constitutive of the domain of experience which is regarded as politics, is partly the outcome

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of a series of institutionalised practices which endow them with the status of news. (Thompson 1990: 216)

As I suggested above, it is this mediazation, these institutionalised ‘newsmaking’ practices that have come to be the focus of recent media research. The notion of newsmaking can also be related to Erving Goffman’s frame analysis and, in particular, to the concept of ‘keying’. Dealing with the impact of on-the-spot TV news coverage, Goffman says that it “offers up the world”, turning people into audiences ‘in connection with any and all events’ (1974: 126). In the terminology of frame analysis, news reports serve as ‘keys’ of the events they describe. Goffman uses the term to refer to a set of conventions by which “a given activity, one already meaningful in terms of some primary framework, is transformed into something patterned on this activity but seen by the participants to be something quite else” (1974: 43–44). In particular, news reports are a specific type of key called documentation, i.e. a replay “of a recording of a strip of actual activity for the purpose of establishing as fact, as having occurred, something that happened in the past” (68). Goffman recognises that such documentations in general “are an important part of modern life yet have not been much discussed as something in their own right by students of society” (59). . Prekeying the news I have so far suggested that news reports are keys of the events they describe. But where do press releases come in? In his investigation of the ‘interactional impact’ of today’s news reporting, Thompson argues that the deployment of the media described above “should not be seen as a mere supplement to pre-existing social relations; rather, we should see this deployment as serving to create new social relations, new ways of acting and interacting, new ways of presenting oneself and of responding to the self-presentation of others” (1990: 16). The media do not simply present a unique, close-up and possibly distorted picture of the world, they actually serve to change the world. In particular, focusing on the impact of TV, Thompson draws attention to the fact that [t]he very existence of the medium of television gives rise to a category or categories of action which is carried out with the aim of being televisable, that is, capable of being regarded as worthy of transmission via television to a spatially distant and potentially vast audience. Today part of the purpose of actions such as mass demonstrations and hijackings, summit meetings and state visits, is to generate televisable events which will enable individuals or

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groups to communicate with remote and extended audiences. The possibility of being televised is one of the conditions for carrying out the action itself, or for the staging and performance of a sequence of actions which may be viewed and heard by an indeterminate number of absent individuals. (Thompson 1990: 231)

Surely, press releases belong to this special category of actions that are carried out with the exclusive aim of being reportable. Goffman, too, looks at the effect of news reporting on the nature of events and he argues that “[t]he reporting of an event and its documentation are not only seen as reductions or abstractions from the original, but are also understood to possibly influence later occurrences of the real thing” (1974: 79). This is the so-called issue of ‘reversibility’: “the copy can come to affect the original” (48). Goffman gives the example of crime films that establish the language and style for actual criminals. Applied to media discourse, this means that news reporting may change the nature of subsequent events. To provide just one illustration, the course of events may be adapted to meet the media’s requirements: the American bombing of Libya on 14 April 1986, for example, was timed to pre-empt attention on US prime-time TV news (Herman & Chomsky 1988: 341) and so was the start of the Gulf war (Taels & Vanheeswijck 1995). Even more so, some events are not just adapted to meet the media’s requirements; rather, they happen only because they will be reported. As Goffman says, “we sometimes act now with the sole intent to provide the hard evidence that can be called on later as documentary proof of our having (or not having) acted in the manner that comes to be questioned” (79). Social happenings like charity balls owe their very existence to the media: they are organised to advertise a charity not through the balls themselves, but through the local newspapers and radio stations that cover them. Similarly, when a politician makes a speech, the transcription handed out to the press is often the reason, and not the result, of the original performance. Note that this handout plays a special role: it can be considered a key of the political speech that it provides a transcription of, this time not a documentation, but a demonstration, i.e. a performance of “a tasklike activity out of its usual functional context in order to allow someone who is not the performer to obtain a close picture of the doing of the activity” (66). Interestingly, what is actually a key is frequently treated as the event itself: the press handout becomes more important than the speech, and starts to get coverage in its own right. This is the so-called ‘segregation’ problem. When Churchill first talked about the ‘Iron Curtain’ in a speech in Fulton, Missouri, in March 1946, for

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example, most reporters that were on hand omitted the now famous phrase from their newspaper articles simply because it had not been included in the advance text that was given to them (Sigal 1973). Clearly, the confusion about what is a demonstration and what is the real thing may lead to what Goffman called ‘embarrassing ambiguities’ (68). . Prekeying in press releases It should be clear by now where press releases come in. Just like charity balls and political speeches, they invert the traditional causality of newsmaking. The world is being played backwards (Goffman 1974: 510): journalists are no longer looking for newsworthy events but would-be ‘news managers’ are trying to actively encourage journalists to cover their self-created stories. In addition, like transcripts of political speeches, press releases do not just provide journalists with a topic to talk about, but also with the very words to do so. However, while transcripts of speeches simply serve as sources of information for journalists to use freely in their own reporting, I have argued that most press releases are not aimed at journalists per se, but are actually meant to be continued as accurately as possible, preferably even verbatim, in their own news reporting. In the second part of this paper I shall investigate how such radical prekeying is possible, i.e. how press releases constitute an extreme form of prekeying, moving from one frame to another. Of course, prekeying in press releases may take a variety of forms. Lebar (1985), for example, looks at headlines in press releases and says that they are prefabricated to meet the requirements of newspaper reporting. In one of the few full-length studies of the genre, she indicates that, very much like for newspaper articles, the headlines of press releases are designed to attract attention (cf. also Bernaers, Jacobs & Van Waes 1996). In addition, Lebar notes that the most important information is presented in the first few sentences and paragraphs of the text while the least important text is left for last so that the journalists can easily edit if not enough space is available for the complete story (1985: 115). Another interesting area for prekeying has to do with how writers of press releases refer to themselves or to the organisations they represent. It is this broad range of metapragmatic ‘self-naming practices’ that I shall concentrate on in the single-case analysis in the next section, documenting how they help writers of press releases gracefully manage the complex ambition described above. Goffman’s popular, but largely undefined concept of footing should be mentioned here: footing can be defined as the alignment that speakers or writ-

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ers take up not just to the hearers or readers but also to themselves as a way of constraining the subsequent reception of utterances (1981: 128). In Goffman’s view, it is linguistics that “provides us with the cues and markers through which (...) footings become manifest” (157). Some of Goffman’s numerous and wideranging examples of footing include President Nixon’s switch from the political rhetoric of a press conference to personal remarks about a journalist’s dress, the use of prescripted text combined with spontaneous self-commentary in a university lecture and a radio announcer’s change in voice consequent on a change of subject matter.5 Note that the effect of self-reference on the reception of the utterance is explicitly stated by Goffman: In (...) introducing the name or capacity in which he speaks, the speaker goes some distance in establishing a corresponding reciprocal basis of identification for those to whom this stand taking is addressed. To a degree, then, to select the capacity in which we are to be active is to select (or to attempt to select) the capacity in which the recipients of our action are present. (Goffman 1981: 145; see also Goffman 1959 on identity management processes)

Goffman’s claim about the relation between self-reference and reader-orientation goes back to Weinstein and Deutschberger’s (1963) famous essay on ‘altercasting’. They say that speakers can of course make explicit the identity they wish the receiver to assume, as in (4) Now Joe, as a good friend of mine, I know you would...

However, they argue that another, much more subtle and implicit way of ‘altercasting’ is that of self-presentation: ‘coming on strong’, for example, may point out to the other restrictions on the identities he or she can assume while maintaining a working consensus (cf. Malone 1995). In the single-case analysis presented in the next section, I shall deal with how self-presentation allows writers of press releases to anticipate the journalists’ retelling. In particular, I shall focus on tense choice, on third-person self-reference and on the use of quotes.

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. Single-case analysis . Tense choice Take the following extract from the original English-language version of a press release issued by one of Belgium’s largest steel manufacturing companies and a member of the BEL 20 stock exchange index, Bekaert, reporting on the financial results for 1998: (5) (Bekaert, Kortrijk: 18 March 1999; embargo until 16.45 h.) ANNUAL RESULTS OF THE BEKAERT GROUP FOR 1998 The Bekaert group announced its audited results for 1998 at a press conference in Brussels today.

The extract is from a four-page press release in which Bekaert announces a falling consolidated profit for the previous year as well as rising figures for cash flow. At the end, it is announced that the shareholders will receive the same dividend as in 1997 and the Chairman of the Board of Directors, Mr. Thierry Verhaeghe de Naeyer, is quoted highlighting the latest developments in the sector and Bekaert’s role in them. For our purposes the financial facts and figures are not important, however. What matters, I hope to demonstrate, is – to start with – the prekeying use of the past tense in the press release; the short extract (5) should be long enough to illustrate my point. Crucially, the embargo indicates that the press release was almost certainly issued to journalists before the start of the press conference at which the financial results for 1998 were to be officially announced. In the last few days before the press conference, the press release had probably gone through a lengthy writing and revision process at various departments of the Bekaert company before finally being included in the media information folder. In the embargo it is spelled out that no journalists are allowed to disseminate the news before the time indicated. As Mr. Verhaeghe de Naeyer put it in his speech at the press conference: (6) Before I comment further on the results of the past financial year, ladies and gentlemen, I would like to draw your particular attention to the embargo on this information until after close of business on the Brussels Stock Exchange at 4.45 this afternoon. As you will understand, listed companies are not allowed to release price-sensitive information during trading hours. While wishing to comply strictly with this rule, we need to be practical and allow you the time you need for your editorial work after-

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wards. That is why we have called this press conference for 11 o’clock, relying on you to respect the embargo, for which we thank you.

Hence, if the press release was written and distributed before the press conference, we could have expected (7) The Bekaert group will announce ...

Instead, in (5) Bekaert’s announcement is situated in the past. In line with the complex audience-directedness of press releases described above, I would now suggest that this use of the past tense for future reference plays a prekeying role in that it serves to anticipate the point of view of the journalist who, as Chairman Verhaeghe de Naeyer spells out, is supposed to use the press release in writing up an article some time after the press conference. In Brown and Levinson’s (1987) terminology, this could be called a ‘point of view operation’. This case provides counterevidence to the traditional assumption that the assignment of tense, as Robin Lakoff puts it, simply depends on “the time at which the act described occurred or is expected to occur, relative to the time of utterance” (1970: 838). Clearly, if that was always true, there should have been a future here, since the press release was written before the “act described in it actually occurred”. Admittedly, Lakoff is aware that there may be one or two exceptions to the rule. She draws attention to the use of the historical present and of the epistolary past tense in Latin, as in Cicero’s (8) Neque tamen, haec cum scribebam, eram nescius quantis oneribus premere

But she suggests that a literal translation in English (9) Nor while I wrote this was I ignorant under what burdens you are weighed down

would be ‘ludicrous’ and that only in Latin may the point of view of the writer be ignored in favour of that of the reader (847). Fillmore (1975), however, is less stringent on this point and seems to imply that the reader’s point of view may be taken into account in the choice of tense in English too. This is his common-sense argument: suppose I write you a letter before you go on holiday and I know that you will receive the letter after you return. Fillmore suggests that I have two options basically. I could write (10) I hope you’ll have a good holiday

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in which the writing time is central. As far as the choice of tense is concerned, this utterance is appropriate from the writer’s point of view, but not from that of the reader who will only read the letter after he or she has returned from holiday. The alternative, according to Fillmore, is: (11) I hope you had a good holiday (84)

in which the reading time is central. This utterance is appropriate from the reader’s point of view, but it requires a point of view operation on the part of the writer. Levinson (1983) makes a similar point when he notes that in face-to-face interaction ‘receiving time’ can be assumed to be identical to ‘coding time’; this is the assumption of deictic simultaneity and Levinson claims that it is the canonical speech situation. On the other hand, in letter-writing or in prerecorded TV or radio programmes, Levinson argues, a decision has to be made whether the deictic centre will remain with (the writer’s or speaker’s) coding time, as in (12) This programme is being recorded today, Wednesday April 1st, to be relayed next Thursday.

or whether it will be projected onto (the viewer’s or hearer’s) receiving time, as in (13) This programme was recorded last Wednesday, April 1st, to be relayed today (74).

Clearly, in extract (5) from the Bekaert press release, the second option was chosen. The centre is not the time when the message is being encoded by the writer nor, strictly speaking, the time when the message is being decoded by the reader. Instead, as I suggested above, the deictic centre is the time when the message will – hopefully – be re-encoded by the reader/journalist in his or her own news reporting. Hence, I would like to conclude what happens here in Goffman’s terms is that, through a shift of footing, the frame of press releases almost imperceptibly disappears and melts with that of news reporting.6 It should be noted that this analysis sheds new light on the traditional conceptualisation of deixis. Typically, deixis is supposed to be organised in an egocentric way, with the unmarked anchorage point zero invariably located in the writer or speaker; Russell, for example, talks about deictic terms as ‘egocentric particulars’ (see Levinson 1983: 57). Lyons (1977: 579), like Fillmore, mentions the possibility of what he calls ‘deictic projection’ but fails to give more information about it, and Levinson (1983) admits that there may be

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‘derivative usages’ that do not fit into the egocentric paradigm, but hastens to add that it is beyond the scope of his textbook. Moreover, the terminology used by both Lyons and Levinson serves to maintain the primacy of writer- or speaker-centred deixis. Recently, Peter Jones radically criticised this standard account of deixis for its ‘a-social, one-sided focus’, the first casualty of which is the reader or hearer, who is simply missing from the co-ordinate system (1995: 31). Instead of the egocentric system, Jones stresses the social-interactional nature of the deictic field. His is a co-operative – and, for that matter, highly romanticised – view of interaction as a “joint, goal-directed activity (...) mediated by language” (41– 42). Jones believes that the default situation is a harmonious order of orientation and that reader- or hearer-centred as well as egocentric, i.e. writer- or speaker-centred, deixis are departures from it. It is interesting to note that, in Jones’ view, such departures are conventionally required under certain circumstances, “determined by the concrete nature of the social activity (...) and by conventionally established, and activity-related, discourse norms” (43). It can now be argued, on the basis of the case presented above, that it looks as if the following account of oral interaction could equally well be applied to press releases: what the speaker says is ‘addressee-centred’, the viewpoint and expected response of the addressee is already, as it were, built into the utterance itself. The utterance consequently realises a complex social dialectic in which the traditional categories of speaker and hearer, though indispensable as coarse empirical notions, do not capture the essence of the intersubjective communicative dynamic at work in any event of verbal communication. (Jones 1995: 47)

Crucially, through the point of view operations described above, in press releases this ‘intersubjective communicative dynamic’ seems to be in the opposite direction of what is commonly assumed:7 it is not (just) the readers who adapt to the writers, but writers (too) go out of their way to take readers into account. . Third-person self-reference and quotes So far we have only been looking at tense choice in the Bekaert press release and we have shown that Goffman’s frame analysis turns out to be helpful in explaining why the past is used to refer to what is, strictly speaking, a future event. In this section, I would like to address some other special features of the metapragmatics in this specific press release and illustrate how they too can be related to the genre’s special audience-directedness.



 Geert Jacobs

Take extract (5) again: (5) (Bekaert, Kortrijk: 18 March 1999; embargo until 16.45 h.) ANNUAL RESULTS OF THE BEKAERT GROUP FOR 1998 The Bekaert group announced its audited results for 1998 at a press conference in Brussels today.

Just as the use of the past tense is unusual here, it is interesting to pay attention to the reference to the “annual results of the Bekaert Group”. Strictly speaking, we would have expected “our annual results”. Further on in the same press release, Bekaert is referred to through so-called ‘indefinite description’ or ‘nominal anaphor’ as ‘the company’. Elsewhere I have shown in great detail that this type of third-person self-reference in press releases – just like the use of the past tense described above – is part of a point of view operation with the writer of the press release switching out of his or her perspective and adopting that of the journalists, who will have to copy the press release in their own news reporting (Jacobs 1999b). Indeed, Chairman Verhaeghe de Naeyer’s comments about ‘being practical’ and helping journalists with their ‘editorial work’ acquires a whole new meaning here.8 Towards the end of Bekaert’s press release, we find Chairman Verhaeghe de Naeyer’s comments as well as those of CEO Mr. Raf Decaluwé: (14) At the Press Conference Chairman Mr. Thierry Verhaeghe de Naeyer made the following comments: The positive effect of the Structural Profit Improvement Programme is starting to show through. Despite the financial turmoil in Brazil the performance of our operations remains strong. The development of Bekaert Advanced Materials are expected to play an increasing part in the future Group results. Outlook Mr. Raf Decaluwé, Chief Executive Officer, stated that he was looking forward to the coming years with confidence as the structural profit improvement programme comes to an end. The actions the company has initiated are all running to plan and the positive effects are already clearly visible.

In contrast with what we have just seen about third-person self-reference, the second point of Chairman Verhaeghe de Naeyer’s comments refers to ‘our operations’ and not the Group’s. This is probably because all three points together

Reporting annual results 

are part of a quotation that can be attributed to the chairman, even if there are no quotation marks. Indeed, the transcript of Verhaeghe de Naeyer’s press conference speech – which can be found on the Group’s web site www.bekaert.be, along with a full archive of press releases – has those very same words in them, including reference to ‘our operations’. This brings us to another special feature of the Bekaert press release, which no doubt plays a prekeying role once again: quoting words, either directly or – in the CEO’s case – indirectly, that still have to be spoken. In Jacobs (1999a) I have demonstrated how such prefabricated quotes help journalists in their editorial search for testimonials from elite sources.9

. Conclusion and perspectives I have tried to show how Goffman’s frame analysis as well as some of John B. Thompson’s subsequent and related work on the media can help explain specific linguistic choices in press releases. In addition, I have suggested that, more generally, frame analysis may well shed new light on the social-interactional nature of the deictic field. Indeed, its explanatory potential lies in the fact that it does not just bring out very sharply what – in this case – is special about press releases, but also that it contributes towards a better understanding of how complex interactions between various participants can be organised. Obviously, more research should be done in the field. One possible interesting perspective is to examine how the new media environment (including the rise of the Internet and the use of subscription-based e-mail press release distribution services) has led to the virtual elimination of the journalists’ gatekeeping role, which in turn is bound to have an effect on press releases (cf. Jacobs 2000; Williams & Delli Carpini 2000). Another is to collect empirical data about the process of writing press releases (both from cognitive psychology and through ethnographic fieldwork) and to investigate how what product-based analysis has shown us about the impact of frames on news management practices, is also borne out by the dynamics of PR routines (Sleurs, Jacobs & Van Waes 2002). The odds are that here too frame analysis is going to be a great help.

 Geert Jacobs

Notes . Note that in case a media message does not just lead to any kind of retelling – a chat on the phone, a joke among friends – but, specifically, to another media message, Thompson talks about ‘extended mediazation’: when the New York Times includes a particular news item on Monday, for example, it may well serve as the basis for an article in Le Monde on Tuesday. . See Coulthard (1996) for a more recent study of the same topic. . All the data are taken from the corpus I assembled in writing up Jacobs (1999a). It includes over 500 press releases, both in English and Dutch. See the Appendix for information about the corpus. . See also, more recently, R. N. Jacobs (1996) for an ethnographic study of a local television news station, ‘Producing the news’. . Case studies of the effect of self-reference on the reader(s) and/or hearer(s) cover various topics, including the reception of the German politician Jenninger’s controversial parliamentary speech commemorating the Reichskristallnacht (Ensink 1992, this volume) and Austrian president and presidential candidate Waldheim’s TV performance after he had been accused of national-socialist sympathies (Gruber 1993a, 1993b) as well as the rap singer Sister Souljah’s alleged racist interview with the Washington Post (debate on the Linguist List described in Sanders 1994) and the CIA’s internet pages (Connell & Galasinski 1996). . This is in contrast with another, very much related type of indirectly targeted discourse, viz. ‘letters to the editor’, where the horizons of the writer and the intermediary are not supposed to melt (see Clark & Carlson 1982: 339; Morrison & Love 1996). . Thompson (1995: 92–93) introduces the term ‘space-time interpolation’ to describe how film audiences temporarily forget about their own lives and go on a mental journey to meet the people they see on the screen. . Note that in this type of financial reporting prekeying can take on many different forms, including nominalized self-reference and the use of passives: (Recticel, Brussels: 11 March 1994) TERUGKEER NAAR WINST IN EEN MOEILIJKE ECONOMISCHE CONTEXT [RETURN TO PROFIT IN A DIFFICULT ECONOMIC CONTEXT] (CMB, Brussels: 6 February 1995) De geconsolideerde winst over het boekjaar 1994 wordt geraamd op 1050 miljoen BEF, tegenover 571 miljoen BEF in 1993. [The consolidated profit for the financial year 1994 is estimated at 1,050 million BEF, compared with 571 million BEF in 1993.] . The quotes in the Bekaert press release are special in the sense that the transcripts of the relevant speeches show that the quoted words were actually spoken. Most other press releases parade a typical brand of ‘pseudo-quotes’ that were never verbalized by the named sources but simply written up by a press officer.

Reporting annual results 

Appendix: About the corpus In order to obtain a wide variety of the genre, I contacted representatives of the media that receive press releases (i.c. the Belgian Dutch-language quality newspaper De Standaard and the Belgian press agency Belga) as well as a number of organisations that issue them (including all Bel 20 companies, i.e. Belgium’s top 20 companies that are quoted on the Brussels stock exchange). A quick look at the press releases in this corpus shows that there is no agreement on what press releases really are. While most of the documents carry the heading ‘press release’ or any of its synonyms, some look more like formal invitations, direct mail letters or sales brochures. Apparently, labelling and announcing a piece of writing as a press release does not ipso facto make it one. Or does it? I did not want to make a selection from the corpus based on these intuitions, in any case. I started from the idea that press releases are a functionally specialised category of writing that is restricted by certain institutionalised conventions. The temptation to specify just what those conventions are must be resisted, because it would undoubtedly lead us to make pre-theoretical claims about the linguistic structure of press releases. The press releases in the corpus serve many different purposes: to communicate the sponsor’s activities, to announce coming events, to report on past events, to provide consumer information, to profile people, etc. At the same time, they deal with financial information, personnel affairs, economics, social issues and politics. As for sources, finally, the majority of the press releases in the corpus comes from business and industry (over 70%); other sources include government (10%) and special interest groups (10%). This division is, of course, to some extent predictable from the way I collected the press releases (cf. above). At the same time business seems to be the biggest source of press releases, anyway; Morton and Ramsey (1994), for example, report similar figures for a U.S. news wire’s one day’s transmission.

References Bateson, G. (1978 [1955]). Steps to an Ecology of the Mind. London: Granada. Bell, A. (1991). The Language of News Media. Oxford: Blackwell. Brown, P. & Levinson, S. C. (1987). Politeness: some universals. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Clark, H. H. & Carlson, T. B. (1982). Hearers and speech acts. Language, 58, 332–373. Clayman, S. E. (1990). From talk to text: newspaper accounts of reporter-source interactions. Media, Culture and Society, 12, 79–103.

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Connell, I. & Galasinski, D. (1996). Cleaning up its act: the CIA on the Internet. Discourse & Society, 7(2), 165–186. Coulthard, M. (1996). The official version: audience manipulation in police records of interviews with suspects. In C. R. Caldas-Coulthard & M. Coulthard (Eds.), Texts and practices (pp. 176–178). London: Routledge. Ensink, T. (1992). Jenninger: de ontvangst van een Duitse rede in Nederland. Amsterdam: Thesis. Fillmore, C. (1975). Santa Cruz Lectures on Deixis, 1971. Mimeo, Indiana University Linguistics Club. Fishman, M. (1980). Manufacturing the News. Austin: Texas University Press. Goffman, E. (1959). The Presentation of Self in Everyday Life. New York: Anchor Books. Goffman, E. (1974). Frame Analysis: An essay on the organization of experience. New York: Harper & Row. Goffman, E. (1981). Forms of Talk. Oxford: Blackwell. Gruber, H. (1993a). Political language and textual vagueness. Pragmatics, 3, 1–28. Gruber, H. (1993b). Evaluation devices in newspaper reports. Journal of Pragmatics, 19, 469– 486. Herman, E. S. & Chomsky, N. (1988). Manufacturing Consent: The political economy of the mass media. New York: Pantheon Books. Jacobs, G. (1998). Projected discourse: an analysis of receiver roles in press releases. Text, 18, 505–523. Jacobs, G. (1999a). Preformulating the news: an analysis of the metapragmatics of press releases. Amsterdam/Philadelphia: John Benjamins. Jacobs, G. (1999b). Self-reference in press releases. Journal of Pragmatics, 31, 219–242. Jacobs, G. (2000). Electronic preformulations. Paper presented at the International Conference on Text and Talk at Work, Gent. Jacobs, R. N. (1996). Producing the news, producing the crisis: narrativity, television and news work. Media, Culture & Society, 18, 373–397. Jones, P. (1995). Philosophical and theoretical issues in the study of deixis: a critique of the standard account. In K. Green (Ed.), New Essays on Deixis: discourse, narrative, literature (pp. 27–48). Amsterdam/Atlanta, GA: Rodopi. Jönsson, L. & Linell, P. (1991). Story generations: from dialogical interviews to written reports in police interrogations. Text, 11, 419–440. Lakoff, R. T. (1970). Tense and its relation to participants. Language, 46(4), 838–849. Lebar, M. T. (1985). A General Semantics Analysis of Corporate Disclosure Documents: form 10-K, the annual report to shareholders, and the corporate financial press release. Michigan: Ann Arbor. Levinson, S. C. (1983). Pragmatics. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Lyons, J. (1977). Semantics. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Malone, M. J. (1995). How to do things with friends: altercasting and recipient design. Research on Language and Social Interaction, 28(2), 147–170. Morrison, A. & Love, A. (1996). A discourse of disillusionment: letters to the editor in two Zimbabwean magazines 10 years after independence. Discourse & Society, 7(1), 39–75. Morton, L. P. & Ramsey, S. (1994). A benchmark study of the PR news wire. Public Relations Review, 20, 171–182.

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Rubin, D. (1987). How the news media reported on Three Mile Island and Chernobyl. Journal of Communication, 37(3), 42–57. Sacks, H. (1992). Lectures on Conversation. Volume 1. Oxford: Blackwell. Sanders, J. (1994). Perspective in Narrative Discourse. Doctoral dissertation, University of Tilburg (The Netherlands). Sigal, L. V. (1973). Reporters and Officials: the organization and politics of newsmaking. Lexington, MA: D.C. Heath. Sleurs, K., Jacobs, G. & Van Waes, L. (2002). Writing press releases: A process view of preformulation. Paper presented at Sociolinguistics Symposium 14, Gent. Taels, J. & Vanheeswijck, G. (1995). De Golfoorlog en het televisiejournaal. Unpubl. Ms., University of Antwerp. Thompson, J. B. (1990). Ideology and Modern Culture: critical social theory in the era of mass communication. Cambridge: Polity Press. Thompson, J. B. (1995). The Media and Modernity: A social theory of the media. Cambridge: Polity Press. Tuchman, G. (1978). Making News: A study in the construction of reality. New York: The Free Press. VanSlyke Turk, J. (1986). Information subsidies and media content: a case study of public relations influence on the news. Journalism Monographs, 100, 1–29. Weinstein, E. A. & Deutschberger, P. (1963). Some dimensions of altercasting. Sociometry, 26(4), 454–466. Williams, B. A. & Delli Carpini, M. X. (2000). Unchained reaction: The collapse of media gatekeeping and the Clinton-Lewinsky scandal. Journalism, 1, 61–85.

Footing, framing and the format sketch Strategies in political satire Janet Cowper

.

Introduction

Political news interviews have been the subject of conversation and discourse analytic study for some considerable time, and astute insights concerning the structural, sequential and formal properties of these broadcast speech events have been made (Jucker 1986; Clayman 1992, 1992; Heritage & Greatbatch 1991; Greatbatch 1992, Garton et al. 1991; Harris 1991). Furthermore, concepts expounded and developed by Erving Goffman, in particular the ‘participation framework’ and ‘footing’ have been applied successfully in several of the studies to exemplify such issues as: the interviewer’s attempts to maintain a ‘neutralistic’ stance (Clayman 1992), and the status of the news event as talk designed specifically for the primary reception of ratified overhearers (Heritage & Greatbatch 1991). This paper continues the pattern of using Conversation Analytic techniques and Goffmanian concepts to make explicit what is ‘going on’ in news interview interactions, with the exception that one of the data is not a ‘serious’ news interview but a parody or ‘keying’ of an interview, performed primarily for the purpose of satirical entertainment. The selection of a satirical sketch for analysis is, arguably, a distraction away from the Conversation Analytic principle of using naturally occurring interactions as objects for study (see Heritage 1984). Nevertheless, through comparing real or actually occurring material with ‘keyed’ material which uses very similar basic framing devices we may ask what influence the key has on the interaction in comparison with the same interactional patterns under real circumstances. Furthermore, the satirical sketch, with its intention to expose the stereotypical behaviour of politicians especially within the context of a broadcast news interview, provides material that is central to issues addressed in this paper, such as: how stereo-

 Janet Cowper

types are evoked and maintained, how the boundaries between the serious and the playful are oblique, and how one may inform through entertainment.

. The data The primacy of the data, as objects for study and because of its influence in the choice of a multi-methodological framework of analysis, merits a description of the data-set before the analytic mechanisms are defined. The description will help to contextualise the events, and given the cultural specificity of several references in the events, some social and historical background information will be included. Furthermore, if one is looking for data which will exemplify shifts in footing and the strategies necessary for the manipulation of schematic frames of reference and ‘expectations’ (see Tannen 1993), then it is in the public interactions of politicians and satirists that we should find it. In a sense, the exposure of such strategies is one of the aims of any vaguely ‘critical’ analysis (see Wodak 1989), but it is also the aim of the satirist who seeks first and foremost to expose, although s/he may do so through mockery and irony. Therefore, the motivation of the critical analyst and that of the satirist correspond, although the way the exposure is conducted may differ. The potential for the data to display manipulative strategies, whether to win voters, provide good television, or to target a particular group or individual for satirical attack is the primary reason for the selection of materials which will be used in this analysis. . Data sources Two data sources are used: 1. extracts from a serious interview between a well known broadcast journalist, Jonathan Dimbleby (JD) and the leader of the Liberal Democrat Party, Paddy Ashdown (PA) (broadcast as Dimbleby, ITV 1.10–2.00 p.m. on January 5, 1997) (referred to throughout as DIMBLEBY) 2. extracts from a satirical sketch performed by the ‘interviewee’ John Bird (JB) and the ‘interviewer’ John Fortune (JF) (broadcast as The Long Johns Election Special, Channel Four 9.45–10.00 p.m. on April 17, 1997) (referred to throughout as LONG JOHNS ELECTION). Although almost three months separate the scheduling of the events, both were broadcast within the intermediate and immediate context of the run up the

Footing, framing and the format sketch

1997 British General Election. The serious interview is a two-stage event, each stage divided by a commercial break. The first stage of the event, which is the one that shall be used as an example of a serious interview, comprises an extended dyadic exchange between JD and PA on the macro-topic of the Liberal Democratic manifesto on constitutional reform and co-operative politics. The second half of the event consisted of a cross-examination of the politician by the co-present studio audience, in which the interviewer acted as mediator/chairman. The satirical sketch is presented as an interview between an anonymous broadcast interviewer and ‘George Parr’, a candidate for the New Labour Party in the forthcoming General Election. In sketches performed by Bird and Fortune, either performer may take the role of interviewer (IR) or interviewee (IE). However, the IR is always unnamed, and the IE is almost always ‘George Parr’ (or some derivation of this), and the name and institutional role of the interviewee are always given in the opening turn of the ‘interview’. . Characteristics of the data: Serious event and format sketch This naming, as shall be seen, is a crucial aspect of the ‘keying’ (see 3.1 below) of the event in the sense that it helps to create the interpretative frame for members of the audience who are familiar with previous sketches. There are several terms which could define the sketches performed by Bird and Fortune, for example: parodies, satires, spoofs, or comic interviews. However, I believe Wilmut’s (1980) description of the ‘format sketch’ captures the essential mechanics of the events. When discussing the comic techniques employed by the Monty Python team, Wilmut (1980: 198) writes of a method in which the actors would “take the format of something like a television quiz programme or discussion – or indeed anything with a strong and recognisable style of presentation – and then to empty the content out of it, replacing it with something ludicrous”. This is what he calls a ‘format sketch’. In the analysis below, it is apparent that Bird and Fortune do indeed present the sketch with the format of a serious interview: in terms of the turn-taking conventions, the activities performed by the IR and the IE, and the structure of the event itself. Similarly, the two participants sit opposite each other, their faces visible to the camera, and their dress is reasonably formal as is appropriate for a serious interview. However, I would not regard the content of the sketch as ‘ludicrous’, but rather as being rich in such frame analytic elements as ‘keying’ and (carefully planned) shifts in ‘footing’ (explained in more detail below). Most significantly, though, the essential element that prevents the content from being ludicrous or ridicu-

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Janet Cowper

lous is the recognisability of patterns of behaviour, and the thinly veiled hint of truth within the messages conveyed.

. Terminology and tools for analysis . Goffman’s concepts framing and footing, applied to news interviews The format sketch as described above is an instance of what Goffman (1974) describes as a keying. (See also the Introduction by Ensink & Sauer, this volume.) Let me present a short recapitulation. Central to Goffman’s ideas of framing are the ‘primary frameworks’ possessed by individuals and communities. The primary frameworks may be divided into ‘natural’ frameworks and ‘social’ frameworks, depending on whether they pertain to schemata relevant to physical phenomena, or those concerned with human and cultural relations. Such frameworks consist of the individual’s knowledge of lores, rules and systems, whether these are physical laws or social laws and conventions. The defining property of a primary framework is that it comprises “activities and phenomena that involve no transformation from the ‘real’ or ‘physical’ ” (Goffman 1974: 27), and typically, “one or more” such frameworks may be involved in the individual’s recognition and interpretation of an event (Goffman 1974: 21). One of the means of ‘transformation’ to which Goffman refers above, is that of ‘keying’ or the ‘key’, which Goffman (1974: 44) defines as “the set of conventions by which a given activity, one already meaningful in terms of some primary framework, is transformed into something patterned on this activity, but seen by the participants to be something quite else”. From this simple definition it is quite justifiable to describe the satirical sketch as a ‘keying’ of a political interview. The brief description of the data in Section 2 defines the events in terms of generic categories, such as a broadcast interview or a format sketch. However, it is necessary to see how they correspond with Goffmanian frame analytic definitions, given that multiple frames may be operating and keying may be involved. Basically, I would suggest that the primary frame for both events (the frame which involves no keying or transformation from an original schema) is a ‘social’ framework which we may call ‘politics’ comprising both the actions of politicians and, more specifically, ‘talking about politics’. Politics may be keyed in a seriously intended way through conducting a political interview. Therefore, the serious political interview is a way of keying politics. However, once the political interview is keyed, it is possible to playfully satirise the political interview in which politics is talked

Footing, framing and the format sketch

about, and this would embed another keying. Finally, the fact that both the events are televised adds another keying to the frame structure of each event. The second Goffmanian concept to consider before the analysis may commence is that of ‘footing’. (See also Ensink & Sauer, in this volume.) Basically, a person’s footing is concerned with a participant’s alignment, set, stance, posture or projected self; and especially with a person’s level of affiliation to or identification with the words that they utter. Footing shifts or changes may include, changes in the speaker’s orientation toward different members of the ‘participation framework’ of the event (e.g. from ratified hearer to overhearer or audience), changes in the production format (e.g. from animator of words of which one is the author and principal, to the animator of words which have other authors and principals), and often a change in the production base (a ‘production shift’, see Goffman 1981b: 229), for example, a change from producing ‘fresh talk’ to reading aloud, produces a shift in footing. Although Goffman does not provide a definitive list of features which may be evidence of shifts in footing, scattered throughout his paper of the same name are indications of the linguistic and paralinguistic devices which may suggest that a change in footing has taken place. These include: alterations at the prosodic level (issues of pitch, volume, rhythm, stress, tonal quality) (Goffman 1981a: 128), “repeating words in a strident pitch, enacting a satirical version of [an] utterance” and mocking an accent (Goffman 1981a: 150), lexical and grammatical cues, for example, those concerning pronominal reference, the use of time and place deixis, direct and indirectly reported speech, the employment of hedges and qualifiers, and the use of formulae such as adages and sayings (ibid.). Similarly, at the level of discourse structure and interaction, when we give up a speaking turn, we change footing from that of an animator (at least) to that of a recipient (of some kind) (Goffman 1981a: 155). These items indicate the phenomena which will be relevant to the analysis of footing procedures discussed below. News interviews are examined by Clayman (1991, 1992) with respect to U.S. programmes, and Heritage and Greatbatch (1991), and Greatbatch (1992) who use British news interviews as data. These studies show that there are particular institutional and contextually influenced properties of news interviews which are intrinsically linked both to the status of the event as a broadcast speech event, and to institutional and public demands for ‘good television’ (see Greatbatch 1992). For example, a sort of discursive politics is inherent in the interview itself in the form of asymmetrical role relations which mean the IR and IE have particular rights. That is to say, the IR will open the interview and bring it to a close, and the IR asks questions or produces question-like utter-

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Janet Cowper

ances to which the IE has a preallocated extended turn in which to respond. Furthermore, the responses are produced for the overhearing audience and this is apparent from the lack of receipt tokens and other markers of recipiency from the IR, and the fact that the IR will frequently provide summaries or reformulations of the IE’s response for the benefit of the overhearers. Although Goffman’s influence is evident in all the studies listed above, with respect paid to the participation framework of the event and the influence of the overhearing audience, Clayman’s (1992) paper on the role of footing in the news interview, is the most obvious example of a direct application of Goffman’s concepts to the analysis of extracts of news interview material. In his analysis, Clayman extends Goffman’s principles of footing shifts to investigate the interactional properties of marking and maintaining one’s stance or alignment, and argues quite successfully that making explicit one’s affiliation to or from the utterances one produces is a crucial aspect of the achievement of the neutralistic or objective position that is a professional requirement for a broadcast journalist such as a news interviewer. However, neutrality or the neutral stance is achieved interactionally by the way the other participant responds to the perceived shift in footing: either through affiliation, through no explicit marking of alliance, or, possibly, through disaffiliation. Explicit markers of footing shifts occur in the attribution of cited material to other sources, but such referencing has other functions within the context of a news interview. For example, IRs tend to cite other sources when particularly controversial material is being quoted, an IR may attempt to increase the credibility of an assertion by attributing its source to a prominent referent, or to many people. . Features of the news interview format Elements of the format of the news interview include such items as theme tune, titles, continuation, and the focusing of the camera (particular camera shots). However there are very particular features of turn-taking and interview behaviour which maintain the interview frame (Jucker 1986). An adherence to these structural and sequential features maintains and reinforces the status of the event as an interview (see Heritage & Greatbatch 1991) and therefore, are essential in the maintenance of the frame of the interview. Such features include the following: –

The pre-formulated nature of the event: both IR and IE have prior knowledge of the topics to be discussed (Heritage & Greatbatch 1991; Greatbatch 1992; Clayman 1992).

Footing, framing and the format sketch

–

–

–

– –

The preallocation of discourse roles: IR introduces IE, IR closes the event, IR asks questions or elicits responses from IE, IE answers questions or provides responses and has a preallocated extended turn to do so (ibid.). The responses are produced for the overhearing audience: evident through the lack of receipt tokens produced by the interviewer at potential ‘transition relevance places’ (TRPs) (Sacks et al. 1974) (ibid.). The IR’s turn may be a compound structure, consisting of two components: a preface and a question or question-like component (Heritage & Greatbatch 1991). Interviews operate under the constraints of the broadcast institution (time, subject matter etc.) (Scannell 1991). The IR will try to maintain an objective or ‘neutralistic’ stance or ‘footing’ (Clayman 1992).

. The satirical frame In Section 2.2 I have characterised, following Wilmut, the satirical sketch as a format sketch: a keying patterned after an original event of pattern of actions (in this case; the serious news interview). But the format sketch is executed with satirical intentions. For that reason, I will establish a working definition of satire. If the sketch has been defined as a satire (by the programming and previewing), and if the performers are established as satirists, then there will be a satirical frame: a frame of reference through which the audience will know not only that the activity being performed is not (despite its appearances) a serious interview, but also that the content of the performance must be interpreted in accordance to the predictable goals of the satirist. Dictionary definitions of satire are useful in the sense that they can be assumed to be commonly held descriptions of a term. The following entry defines ‘satire’ as: The employment in speaking or writing of sarcasm, irony, ridicule etc. in exposing, denouncing, deriding, or ridiculing vice, folly, indecorum, abuses or evils of any kind. (OED 1989: 502)

Obviously, within the satirical frame, not every message will be ironic or sarcastic, but if an event is cued as satirical then the viewers will be alert to the possibility of a non-literal interpretation. In terms of the satirical frame, one has to consider the real life targets and the context of the event Furthermore, the use of irony, sarcasm, and mockery is evidence of a rather marked footing, displaying a misalignment between what the speaker says and what s/he means. However, because satire works largely with non-literal meaning, covert

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messages, and devices such as allegory, mockery, irony etc., the satire is most effectively appreciated by those who recognise it for what it is. This is especially the case in broadcast events, where the broadcast institutions are responsible for the product transmitted to the public, and therefore are accountable for any offence caused by the material they output. Bearing in mind the public nature of the broadcast event, the satire will have to be presented in a fashion that will have enough bite to be regarded as satire, yet be designed not to cause libellous offence. Thus ‘footing’ may be as important in the satirical sketch as it is in the serious interview. However, as stated above, within the satirical sketch is a keying of a serious interview, therefore it is important to identify how closely this keying resembles the real thing, because the extent of correspondence may tell us something about an audience’s capacity to appreciate the performance at multiple levels of interpretation.

. Analysis In the analysis of the data, the serious interview (Dimbleby) and the satirical format sketch (Long Johns Election), I will focus on the relation between the ‘normal’ event and the ‘keyed’ event patterned after the normal event (hence taking its characteristics), but at the same time satirising (hence criticising and mocking) the normal event. In the analysis, I will use the terminology introduced in Section 3. The analysis will focus on three aspects: – – –

a comparison of the structure of both the serious interview and the format sketch (4.1) footing phenomena (4.2) the use of discourse strategies (4.3).

. A comparison between the two formats Both the interview and the sketch are scheduled and previewed so that the audience come to the viewing process with firm expectations of what form the activities will take, and how the events should be interpreted. The interpretation of the events, or rather, the messages and behaviour contained within the events, also depends largely upon the viewers’ familiarity with like events, and, in the case of the sketch, what individuals in the audience understand by ‘satire’. To provide insight into how programming and scheduling interacts with predictable audience assumptions with respect to a satirical sketch or a political

Footing, framing and the format sketch

‘news’ interview, I shall draw upon cited definitions and previous work with respect to each. A comparison between the two data show that both the serious and the satirical interview adhere strongly to the formats of the broadcast interview, but that there are specific differences between the two events in terms of influences of duration and recipient design.

Similarities Both events are preceded by cues which mark them as television programmes of a particular genre: theme music, titles, a wide-angle camera focus which narrows down from the studio setting to focus upon the IR and IE. Differences in format occur upon the opening of the programmes. The serious interview is prefaced by a continuity delivered by the IR to the broadcast audience through which the IE is introduced and the first topic of discussion is made relevant: this being reports in the morning papers that the Labour Party may be making a decision concerning constitutional reform. The format sketch, however, is bracketed by audience applause and no continuity is provided. This difference in formatting signifies a distinction between the intended perlocutionary force of each event: the serious interview is meant to be primarily informative, the satirical sketch is primarily entertainment. Nevertheless, apart from these differences, the structure of the interviews, the discourse roles of the participants, the structure of the turns, and the recipient design, are remarkably similar.

1. The structure of the interview itself In terms of the structure of the interview itself, both events comprise: – – –

An opening sequence in which the IR addresses the IE, the first topic is initiated and responded to by the IE. An extended intermediate stage which is basically a question and answer sequence. A closing sequence, in which the interview is terminated by the IR.

2. The discourse roles of the primary participants With respect to the discourse roles of the participants, it is apparent that in both events the IR and the IE (or fictional IR and IE) operate under the institutionally determined and prespecified constraints upon the types of activities which each may perform (cf. Heritage & Greatbatch 1991: 95). For example,

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the IR initiates topics, manages the interaction, opens and closes the interview, and the IE mainly responds to the IR’s questions and assertions.

3. The structure of the turns The main structure of the events consists in alternating turns between IR (a) and IE (b), as follows: a. In both events the IR’s turns often comprise (at least) two components: a preface [1], and a question (or question-like component) [2], as shown in Fragment 1: Fragment 1 (DIMBLEBY)1 JD: [1] = Wh- wh- ↑Mister McEllen↑ is quoted in one of the newspapers (.) who’s leading your team in the talks (.) as saying that you do have an agreement on some of the matters (.) on a Bill of Rights on a Freedom of Information (.) Act for instance (.) of abolishing the right of hereditary peers to vote [2] .h .h do you have actual agreement on that

b. The IE has a pre-allocated extended turn in which to respond to the IR’s contribution, as shown in Fragment 2: Fragment 2 (DIMBLEBY) PA Those are areas where the two parties were very close to agreement even before they started Jonathan this is about the implementation of a programme through a reform minded House of Commons (.) it’s not about the substance of individual agreements on individual areas (.) h.h.h and that has been taken as a [ ] JD: You can’t help talking about the JD: agreements in: individual areas can you [ ] 1→PA: Well (there it is) exactly PA: it’s self evident (.) but it isn’t the individual areas (.) this is not a pick and mix arrangement it is ↑pro↑gramme for constitutional change (.) .h.h ↑and that’s↑ consistant with the view Liberal Democrats have always taken .h.h.h that er (.)when you come to reform our constitution it has to be seen as a whole and not as individual bits won’t work (.).h.h unless they’re part of a larger programme an example of what I mean (.) .h.h er Liberal Democrats have been committed for a very long time .h.h. to [ei] f- ↑com↑prehensive

Footing, framing and the format sketch

programme of constitutional reform which included for instance freedom of information (.).h.h now the Labour Party in nineteen seventy four in their manifesto committed themselves to a Freedom of Information Act but when it was intro↑duced↑ by my Liberal colleague Clement ↑Freud↑ in nineteen seventy↑eight↑ in the Labour parliament they voted against it (.) .h.h now er we [ ] 2→JD: er er PA: understand: why the public will be reluctant to put a full trust in Labour because of their (.) ↑his↑tory on this matter (.) and that’s why it’s so: important that this is presented (.) and (.) is part of [ei] ↑com↑prehensive package it’s not a pick and mix area (it’s a) comprehensive package [ ] JD: Right

In Fragment 2, there is evidence of the IE claiming his right to an extended turn through overlapping and eventually reclaiming his speaking turn when the IR begins speaking outside a possible transition relevance place (‘TRP’) (1). Furthermore, in this example, there is evidence that the IR also respects the IE’s claim to an extended turn, when he begins what is possibly an attempt to claim a turn at a potential TRP, but then abandons the action as the IE extends his turn (2). The turns produced by the (fictional) IE in the satirical sketch are often shorter than those produced by the IE in the serious interview (for reasons explained below).

4. The recipient design of the talk In both events there is evidence that the talk is designed for an overhearing audience. For example, in the form of: – –

Lack of response tokens produced at potential TRPs by IR (see Fragment 2 above) Summaries and reformulations of IE’s response provided by IR for overhearers (Fragment 3)

Fragment 3 (LONG JOHNS ELECTION) JB: Because our job (.) as you probably know (.) is to get this ↑whole↑ group of people (.) .h.h. and get them to vote for us JF: A- a- and you’ll ↑do↑ that by telling them that you’re going to keep (.) Conservative policies

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In Fragment 3, the (fictional) IR provides a potential extension and completion of the IE’s assertion by simply conjoining an utterance on to the IE’s immediately prior turn. The utterance is an assertion that offers to the IE (and the overhearing audience), the IR’s interpretation of how New Labour will get Conservatives to vote for them. In sum, the similarities in the formats form a way of marking to the audience what kind of event is being represented. Because the format of the satirical event is presented as a television interview it evokes particular expectations or presuppositions in an audience who are familiar with such events. That is, it creates a frame of reference upon which they can judge the performance in terms of expectable, appropriate and realistic behaviour between an IR and IE. But how is the difference seen between the ‘normal’ event and the event which adopts its format?

Differences Apart from these four similarities, there are some differences between the formats. The most obvious differences concern: – – –

The duration of the events themselves (30 minutes versus 15 minutes) The length and duration of both IR and IE turns The participation framework of each event, which takes the form of: (a) evidence of the serious interview as an event addressed to a co-present overhearing audience with deferred rights of response (Fragment 4) (b) Evidence that the satire is designed for a co-present audience with (restricted) rights to immediate response (Fragment 5).

Fragment 4 (DIMBLEBY) PA: but what people out here I expect people in your audience want to know (.) is what do you stand for in the context of the election .h.h and we want to say [ ] JD: Well le- lPA: that plainly (.) and in a common sense fashion and with the costs attached [ ] JD: Of oJD: of course they’ll also want to know er er when you when you’ve stood for things like electoral reform like constitutional reform what would be the impact what is the highly conceivable outcome which is that there would be a [ ] [ ] [ ] PA: An- anan- an- ↑and↑

Footing, framing and the format sketch

Fragment 5 (LONG JOHNS ELECTION) JB: .h.h.h.h.h Well of course it’s a waste of time talking to our supporters (XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX) JB: Because our job (.) as you probably know (.) is to get this ↑whole↑ group of people < who normally vote Conservative> (.) .h.h and and get them to vote for us JF: A- a- and you’ll ↑do↑ that by telling them that you’re going to keep (.) Conservative policies → (....) (XXXXXXXXXXX) JB: Well how else do you get Conservatives to vote for you (XXXXXXXXXXX)

In Fragment 4, the IE makes reference to the co-present studio audience. It is significant, in terms of the IE’s footing at this point in the interaction, that he refers to this group of ratified recipients as “people out here...people in your audience”, thus implying that he is referring to people in the immediate vicinity of the studio (co-present participants), and that he is making relevant the IR’s role as acting on behalf of the studio audience. The IR, in the next turn, responds in his capacity as animator of (possible) public opinion by beginning his turn with the confident assertion “[...] of course they’ll also want to know...”. In Fragment 5, evidence that the event is produced for a group of recipients who have the rights to respond audibly to the interaction enacted before them is displayed in the form of audible audience response. It is notable, however, that when the audience do not respond immediately, the performers may wait for that response (see the gap marked by the arrow in Fragment 5), thus making the response relevant. A little bit less obvious, but possibly more important, is the following difference. In both the ‘normal’ or serious event, and in the satirical sketch, the boundaries of normal expectations may be stretched. But in the satirical sketch they may be stretched much longer, and this is in part what gives the satire its own character. Both events are rich sources of various behaviour, behaviour which although not normal or typical for the frames, nevertheless does not break from them. For example, although politicians are expected to answer the questions put to them by IRs in a serious interviews, it is possible for them to refuse to answer such questions or supply the information requested, and for this action to be contained within the frame of a serious interview. The action of course will be consequential for the interview and the participants and this will have

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to be negotiated within the interview, but such action does not require a reinterpretation by participants or audience of the event as anything other than an interview. Such a situation occurs in Dimbleby and the interview becomes much more confrontational, but is nevertheless still an interview (see Fragment 6). In the satire which is a keying of a serious interview, incidents can occur which would not be acceptable in a serious interview. The interview can be interrupted by a telephone call for example, nevertheless although this requires a readjustment in framing it is not a break. The audience by their response still (correctly) interpret the phone call as part of the satire, one of the elements of mockery introducing the target of Peter Mandelson (see Fragment 7). Fragment 6 (DIMBLEBY) JD: this is er just (.) if I can just clarify that a touch further then (.) .h.h is it the ide:a that you would have em on the:se (.) er this agreed package as a combined as it were manifesto pledge (.) or two separate pledges to the same thing (.) the same end [ ] PA: .h.h.h Well er Jonathan PA: forgive me .h.h you you don’t institute talks of such an important nature between parties and then .h.h.h the party leader conducts those talks in a television audience and I don’t intend to do that .h.h.h (.) it (would be a breach of trust) [ ] JD: No ) but you wouldn’t get the trust would you though unless people knew that that there was a manifesto h. [ ] PA: You understand you’ll understand PA: that since the talks are about the implementation of a reform programme through the House of Commons i- it I’m going to wait until the outcome of those talks to see what that outcome will be (**)

In Fragment 6, the IE challenges the IR by blatantly refusing to answer the IR’s question. Here, I would suggest that although such an action is consequential for both the IE and the IR, it does not result in a break in frame, for example from the frame of an IR to that of a confrontation. However, the refusal begins a series of activities which illustrate the complexity of interactional moves required when participants deviate from behaviour that is normative for their discursive roles. First ‘metacommunicative’ (Bateson 1972) strategies are employed by the IE who draws attention to the interview itself and what he considers to be inappropriate as a topic for discussion on television. Thus, the IE

Footing, framing and the format sketch 

departs from the conventions of behaviour appropriate for the institutionally defined role of IE in the context of a political interview (that is, he refuses to answer the IR’s question and he refuses to affiliate with the topic selected by the IR for discussion). An important cue for the shift in tone is the IE’s apology, which prefaces what may be called a ‘dispreferred response’ (see Heritage 1984), and the realisation of the vocative ‘Jonathan’, which may mark an attempt to soften the forthcoming action. What is very remarkable about this exchange is the way the concept of ‘trust’ also undergoes a reformalisation. ‘Trust’ is first made relevant by the IE as an attempt to justify why he will not discuss the content of the talks. From the context of the utterance it is obvious that the trust to which he refers is the trust between politicians (professional loyalty). Through selecting this as the reason why he will not discuss certain issues, the IE may be attempting to present himself as a man of integrity. However the IR reframes this ‘trust’ as trust between a politician (‘you’) and the public (‘people’), thus implying that what is (really) at stake is one of the main reasons why a politician would agree to take part in a public interview: to gain the confidence of the electorate. In the format sketch a different (and deliberate) type of rekeying occurs when the interviewee (fictionally) receives a telephone call from Peter Mandelson (then the campaign manager for New Labour) in the context of the interview itself (see Fragment 7 below). Fragment 7 (LONG JOHNS ELECTION) JB: Even Socialists (.) we em we welcome (.) ↑ev↑ery opinion (.) mm (.) every opinion er and one of the things we pride ourselves on is (.) is tolerance [peep of pager] JB: ↑Ooh↑ JF: Is that your pager JB: Right right JF: Sorry JB: [Reading off pager] Ring Peter Mandelson (.) [to IR] got to keep in touch with headquarters (****) you know (.) all the time JF: Mhm JB: Yes twenty four hours a day JF: F- feel free JB: [on phone] Hello (.) it’s George Parr (...) yes h-h-h- hello (.) ↑ye:s↑ (...) no no it’s not a bad time at all (.) you know (.) I wasn’t doing anything very much (XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX)

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JB: ↑No↑ o:h dear (.) er did I say that (.) well I suppose if you’ve recorded it (.) then [] (XX) JB: I then I then I did (....) it’s er forbidden is it (.........) tolerance (....) yes I did (.) [ ] [ ] (XXX) (XX) JB: hang on a moment [off phone to IR] is this (.) is this live JF: Yes JB: [Back on phone] Yes apparently it is (.) it is live (XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX) JB: And (.) I do(h)n’t know what you can do about that Peter because (..) em I well I can hardly say I didn’t say it when I just said it a minute ago (.) I mean we normally leave at least half an hour between complete changes in policy don’t we (XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX) JB: Yes I see (.) well I’m sorry Pe- Peter (...) I’m sorry that you’re taking that attitude (.) I mean I know discipline is important (.) but it’s not very nice of you to say you know where my children live em (XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX) JB: em Well er look you know em (.) Peter ◦ Peter◦ (....)[off phone to IR] yes well I’m sorry about that (.) yes er cou- cou- what were we talking about and could we talk about something else

The ways in which the satire operates in this fragment, particularly with respect to the evocation of stereotypes, will be discussed in more detail below. However, what is displayed in Fragment 7, is a temporary suspension of the interview frame through an unexpected telephone call. Shifts in production bases (from producing fresh talk to reading off a pager), and in particular shifts in footing, from the one-way responses to an unheard caller and back to the IR, keep alive the two frames, that of the telephone call and that of the interview, however the interview itself is suspended, the IR no longer asks questions to which the IE responds. Nevertheless, evidence of the overall macroframe of satire is overt in the audience response. Laughter occurs, for example, at the IE’s definition of taking part in an interview as ‘not doing anything much’, laughter is produced when the IE mentions the fact that the caller has recorded the IE’s contributions, laughter is heard when the IE mentions words such as ‘forbidden’ and ‘tolerance’, and the (studio) audience laugh when the IE (apparently) receives a death threat (or a veiled threat to his children, at least). The signifi-

Footing, framing and the format sketch

cance of these items will be discussed in Section 6, below, but the extract does show the extent to which embedded keying occurs in this sketch. . Footing Issues of footing are exemplified in some of the extracts above (notably Fragments 4 and 5), and the significance and diversity of footing shifts in both the events will become apparent in further discussion. Since the participation framework is central to footing, I will concentrate in particular on explicit footing shifts pertaining to the referencing of sources in the serious interview and in the format sketch (4.2.1), and on those which occur at the termination of both events (4.2.2). These referencing issues mark a significant difference between the two events. .. Referencing of sources The following extracts represent the explicit references to sources made by the IR and by the IE in the serious interview (DIMBLEBY): ... References by IR. The IR makes reference to the following sources: Member of IE’s party (quoted in a newspaper): Mister McEllen↑ is quoted in one of the newspapers (.) who’s leading your team in the talks (.) as saying that . . . The IE himself: but you’re always talking about being very transparent . . . Member of the IE’s party speaking directly to the IR: Glenis Campbell em I a:sked him em (.) about this and ↑he↑ was very unequivocal (.) I said are you saying to Tony Blair (I) ↑don’t↑ think that if you have a small majority that you will be able to deal with the Lib Dems (.) this was the context of ↑all↑ sorts of having a good relationship (.) ↑deal↑ with Lib Dems unless you sign up for the first wave of a single currency (.) I’ve got that right (.) I a:sked him (.) and he said indeed you have ... The Prime Minister: is precisely what the Prime Minister referred to today as you cosying up Liberal Democrats cosying up to Labour and saying I don’t wonder why anyone ↓both↓ers to vote Liberal at all

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Members of IE’s own party: you see you’ve got people like (.) Liz Lynne (.) leading member of your party (.) Martin Bruce(.) Chris Davies (.) ↑all↑ effectively saying .h.h ↑don’t↑ touch Labour with a barge pole . . .

... References by IE. The IE makes reference to the following sources: Reports in newspapers: I can confirm that th[i] (.) reports in today’s newspapers er are .h.h.h not accurate on (.) I ↑hope↑ they’re premature although I want to underline that there’s a long way to go and Member of another party: No: I no by no means it’s interesting however that Emma Nicholson (.) for instance (.) has argued the case for constitutional reform electoral reform for some time... The Prime Minister: the Prime Minister said today that he’d fight an election that was going to be clean well ↑he’s put himself↑ in the front line for that he’s now decided that it is he who is responsible for that

The following extracts represent the explicit references to sources made by the IR and by the IE in the satire (LONG JOHNS ELECTION): ... References by IR. The IR makes reference to the following sources: ‘People’: but then people have complained (.) in this campaign that th[i:] great issues simply haven’t been discussed or but there ↑are↑ people who (.) surely (.) when they think of the Labour Party think of it as a great sort of crusading movement No antecedent: Well you know things like (.) poverty (.) justice (.) Europe (.) I mean (.) these things are not being talked about are they Member of IE’s own Party: Well Gordon Brown announced that he was going to adopt the Conser-

Footing, framing and the format sketch 

vative spending plan (.) and then you discovered that that spending plan had to be funded from privatisation

The significance of using a reference to ‘people’ lies in the generality and vagueness of referring to a mass, which helps to reinforce the IR’s attempt at achieving neutrality. Yet, we must bear in mind that unlike the real interview where the IR backed up a general reference to ‘a lot of people in your own party’ (Fragment, within Section 4.2.1.1) by naming those people in a subsequent turn, there is no naming of the people in the satire. The second significant property of ‘people’ may lie in the irony inherent in the implication that the Labour Party, traditionally the people’s party, is now being brought to account by ‘people’. ... References by IE. The IE makes reference to the following sources: ‘People’: When people think about th[i] Labour party they used to think about... No antecedent: No they haven’t been discussed at all (.) no not at all (.) just remind me what they are will you Groups of people defined by profession: No yes (.) poverty poverty ↓yes charming↓ (.) no (.) well (.) that’s not true entirely (.) I mean the bishops talk about poverty (.) the judges talk about (.) justice (.) businessmen write to FT about (.) about Europe (.) I mean it’s all (.) that’s all you want isn’t it

When we compare the references to sources in the serious interview and the satire, it is obvious that more referents are made explicit in the serious interview than in the satire. The overall lack of specification, and vagueness or generality of referencing in the satires occurs: First, because it is less important for the fictional IR to maintain a neutralistic stance (to detach himself from contentious assertions) in the satirical sketch than it is for a professional broadcast interviewer to do so in the context of a serious interview. Secondly, because although the satires are based on facts, these are frequently, commonly known facts without a specific source. Thirdly, the satire itself revolves around assumptions of stereotypical political behaviour to which no one person can be held responsible. And finally, because the function of the satire is not primarily informative but rather it is entertainment, and moreover, it is a form of

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entertainment in which there is probably a higher tolerance for contentious or controversial remarks than there would be in a serious interview. .. Footing shifts at terminal points of the interviews Fragment 8 (DIMBLEBY) JD: We’ll pursue some of these things in (.) just a moment (.) because you’ve heard now what Mister Ashdown stands for on these important issues .h.h what’s our (.) audience going to make of it (.) we’ll find out after the break

In Fragment 8 a shift in footing occurs through which the IR stops addressing the IE and the studio audience and directly addresses the viewers. Although it is not shown in the transcription, the IR also turns his head to face the camera directly, thus using gesture and gaze to reinforce the shift in footing. We may also notice that he stops asking questions to the IE, presenting instead: a predictive assertion located in the immediate future, “We’ll pursue some of these things in (.) just a moment”, a summary for the viewers “because you’ve heard now what Mister Ashdown stands for on these important issues”, a rhetorical question “what’s our audience going to make of it”, and a closing assertion reformulating and expanding on the opening component of the turn “we’ll find out after the break”. The changes in pronominal reference are interesting in their contributions to the different footings the IR takes. The first ‘we’ may be assumed to include the IR the studio audience and the IE, because the broadcast audience cannot actually ‘pursue’ the issues, they can only witness the pursuit. ‘You’ obviously is a direct address to the viewers, supported mainly by the fact that the IR is facing the camera therefore the broadcast audience are the primary overhearers. ‘Our audience’ marks an affiliation between the broadcast journalist and the viewers at home, and anticipates the change in the viewers’ role from overhearers to active participants in the forthcoming interaction. The final ‘we’ again includes the broadcast journalist and the viewers. The change in temporal references from ‘in just a moment’ back to ‘now’ and again to ‘after the break’ help to create immediacy and suspense, and the categorisation of time in terms of the television format (a commercial break) again reinforces the sense that these utterances were addressed primarily, and possibly exclusively, to the broadcast audience of viewers. Finally, and very importantly, the cessation of the question and answer sequence, the turning of the body and forms of address to indicate the viewers at home are primary recipients of the IR’s address, and the metacommunicative topicalising of the televised event, makes

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this turn, and especially the final component, something of a bracketing device, marking the end of the interview, and the beginning of the commercial break. Fragment 9 (LONG JOHNS ELECTION) JB: I mean ↑why not why not↑ (.) we’ve waited eighteen years for this I mean (.) i- i- it’s our turn now (XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX) JF: George Parr (.) thank you very much indeed (Audience applause)

In the corresponding terminal turn in the satire (Fragment 9 above), the IR terminates the event by thanking the IE. The change in audience response from laughter to applause, is the bracketing cue that functions as an explicit display of audience appreciation and their recognition that the event is closed. The analysis in Sections 4.1 and 4.2 has established the following points with respect to the correspondence and difference in framing and footing in the serious interview and the format sketch. These observations may be summarised as follows: 1. There are differences in the interpretative frames between the events which are established and reinforced through previewing, programming, familiarity with the participants in their public roles. The framing of the events is also developed through differences in the formats, and ‘verisimilitude’ (Todorov 1981) is created through similarities in the formats. 2. Differences in footing strategies practised in the two events may be explained in terms of: (a) the IR’s professional obligation to maintain neutralistic stance in the serious interview, (b) the performers’ need to keep relevant different keys and production bases in the satire (e.g. talking on a telephone in the context of an interview), (c) a device in which a shift to reality and increased informational content may be achieved in the satire, and (d) differences in the status of the studio audience. However there is still another aspect left which explains part of the difference between the normal or serious event and its satire. We have to draw upon mental concepts such as stereotypes, assumptions, and perhaps culturally influenced expectations that members of a speech community may have about politicians and political behaviour. This aspect will be addressed in Section 4.3.

 Janet Cowper

. Political and satirical discourse and strategies: Points of contrast If we regard, at one level of analysis at least, the satirical sketches to be caricatures of stereotypical politician’s behaviour (because the characters are stereotypes of commonly held assumptions of politicians and institutional persons), then we can pick out some of the accentuated political strategies. As a caricature, the satire may include strategies such as an inversion of behaviour typical or appropriate for an IR and IE or for a politician; similarly, with the same ironic motivation, the satire may emphasise or exaggerate behaviour or conduct typical of politicians. Whatever the case, if we are examining the evocation of ‘stereotypes’, especially in the context of broadcast material, then we are looking for essentially commonly held assumptions, for example, Quasthoff (1989: 183) writes that the inferability of a stereotype “is due to the fact that stereotypes typically are elements of common knowledge shared in a common culture”. In the following analysis, I shall examine how the discourse of the politicians in the serious and the satirical interview may evoke and possibly reinforce characteristics or traits of political imagery which might create negative stereotypes of politicians and political behaviour, or which may evoke and perpetuate a positive image of politicians and political behaviour. ..

Negative stereotypes and expectations of politicians and political behaviour We may distinguish the following stereotypes which are shown or expressed in the data. ... Politicians are/may be evasive when answering questions (cf. Harris 1991; Holly 1989) Fragment 10 (DIMBLEBY) JD: he’s doubtless by now heard your invitation (.) ↑now↑ look (.) on this particular thing (.) of Europe and the single currency (.) you are (.) committed to a single currency (.) can you co-operate with: the Labour Party on the terms on wh:ich you are talking about (.) if Labour is not committed to joining a single currency in the first wave PA: .h.h.h Well (.) it’s vital that the next er parliament er should ensure that ↑if↑ a single currency is formed which is founded firmly on the Maastricht er conditions and that Britain can join it Britain should join it and the Liberal

Footing, framing and the format sketch

JD: JD: PA: JD: JD:

PA: PA:

JD: PA: JD: PA:

Democrats will work with others to ensure that happens [ ]

that wasn’t quite my question = = Oh I’m sorry what’s your question [ ] er er let me put I- er would you be able to co-operate with Labour on any point (.) on any of these package of constitutional reforms that we’re talking about .h.h if they did not commit themselves unequivocally to joining the single currency in the first wave [ ] Bu- th- (.) I’m tr- (.) I’m trying to answer your question as directly as I can (.) but your presumption is that the ↑on↑ly way to cooperate is co-operate in par- in government ↑that’s non↑sense we co-operated with the Conservatives across the floor of the House of Commons er to ensure Britain’s [ ] .h.h.h future in Europe↑so it’s perfectly poss-↑ let me see if I can a- let me see if I can aYeah all right well that’s c- can I just a:sk you Let me see if I can answer your question directly .h.h.h...

Fragment 10 exemplifies both the IR’s and IE’s attempts to manage the way in which questions are answered, and shows the IR making explicit an instance in which he regards the IE’s response as not addressing his question, and the IE’s explication of his intention not only to answer the question but to do so directly. Fragment 11 (LONG JOHNS ELECTION) JB: em Well er look you know you know em (.) Peter ◦ Peter◦ (...)[off phone] yes ell I’m sorry about that (.) yes er cou- cou- what were we talking about and could we talk about something else Fragment 12 (LONG JOHNS ELECTION) JF: Well (.) em (.) perhaps (.) we should (.) (.) em something er (.) a little less: (.) personal [ ] JB: Personal

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JB: yes yes you’re absolutely right JF: Policies JB: er em Aaaaaa

In Fragments 11 and 12, very overt examples of a politician discontinuing a sensitive topic (Fragment 11) and showing his inability to address a topicalised issue (Fragment 12) satirise political evasion. ... Politicians have a party political agenda (Heritage & Greatbatch 1991): They will promote their own party ideals and attack/blame the opposition Fragment 13 (DIMBLEBY) PA: ... .h.h. I’m quite happy to be in go into a position at the next election in which the Liberal Democrats commitment to things like for instance electoral reform (.) is consistent and clear whereas em Labour is em is is is wobbly and vague about it (.) [ ] JD: But that PA: I don’t anticipate that will happen mind you

Fragment 13 shows the politician first promoting his own party’s image, then indirectly attacking the opposition (I am considering all other leading parties to be in opposition), and finally, through a shift in footing, qualifying the attack with an additional component which marks the tentativeness of the contrast between the two parties. Fragment 14 (LONG JOHNS ELECTION) JF: I see (.) because this is a tre-tremendous sort of paradox isn’t it JB: Why why er beJF: Well because if you’re not (.) if you’re not going to do anything once you get into power JB: Yes (.) but i- i- i- i- i- if nothing’s going to be done it’s better that we don’t do it than that the Conservatives don’t do it (XXXXXXXXXXXXXX) JB: If you see what I mean JF: W- why is this (.) JB: Becau:::se er (.)

Footing, framing and the format sketch

JB: Because er (.) oh God I’ve been told this (.) because [ ] (XXXXXXXXXX) JB: Oh yes yes I’ve got it (.) because we aren’t the tired old faces that the Conservatives are

The example above illustrates what is apparently the politician’s attempt to promote his own party’s interest and to attack the opposition. However, the politician’s naiveté is expressed by the fact that he is claiming that his party is better at doing nothing than the opposition, and the politician’s credibility is lost through a comment that shows he is merely animator of clichéd attacks on the opposition “Because ... I’ve been told this before ...”. ... Politicians can’t really be trusted (see Holly 1989; Livingstone & Lunt 1994) Fragment 15 (DIMBLEBY) PA: .h.h now we understand: why the public will be reluctant to put a full trust in Labour because of their (.) ↑his↑tory on this matter (.) and that’s why it’s so: important that this is presented (.) and (.) is (.) part of [ei] ↑com↑prehensive package it’s not a pick and mix area (it’s a) comprehensive package [ ] JD: Right JD: this is er just (.) if I can just clarify that a touch further then (.) .h.h is it the ide:a that you would have em on the:se (.) er this agreed package as a combined as it were manifesto pledge (.) or two separate manifesto pledges to the same thing (.) the same end [ ] PA: .h.h.h Well er Jonathan PA: forgive me .h.h you you don’t institute talks of such an important nature between parties and then .h.h.h the party leader conducts those talks in a television audience and I don’t intend to do that .h.h.h (.) it (would be a breach of trust) [ ] JD: No but you wouldn’t get the trust would you though unless people knew that that there was a manifesto

The exchange in Fragment 15 was considered earlier (Fragment 6 above) to exemplify how variation in interviewee-appropriate behaviour may occur within the frame of a political interview. However, the discourse also shows a subtle reinterpretation of the extremely important issue of trust. The example

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 Janet Cowper

shows that the politician first makes relevant the degree of trust existing between the public and a competing political party (the Labour Party), implying that Labour proved themselves less than trustworthy in the past, and that the Liberal Democrats, through their actions, will not make the same mistake (e.g. they can be trusted). The second mention of trust occurs in the IE’s second turn in this exchange, and given the context, refers to the trust between the party leader and other politicians, and is therefore most likely to be an attempt by the politician to show his respect toward integrity, professional loyalty and confidentiality. However, in the final turn exemplified above, the IR, perhaps intentionally, misinterprets the politician’s utterance by implying that without the information he requested (whether or not there would be a manifesto pledge) the public would be unable to trust the Liberal Democrats. This interplay between the various possible interpretations of ‘trust’ e.g. trust (or lack of it) between the public and various political parties, and trust between politicians themselves, and the fact that issues of ‘trust’ are used both to attack a rival party and to promote political body, shows something of the significance of matters of integrity and also displays the politician’s awareness of the link between winning people’s trust and winning votes. The politician talks about trust between politicians, and the interviewer draws attention to the fact that public television is the mechanism for a politician to increase or diminish his credibility. Fragment 16 (LONG JOHNS ELECTION) JB: I mea(h)n (.) you know (.) i- it’s logical this < I mean this is the case> (***) Tony Blair (.) it’s a matter of trust (.) isn’t it JF: Yes JB: We have to persuade these people (.) that tha- we’re telling them the ↑truth↑ (.) JF: [clears throat] er When you say that you’re going to keep (.) Conservative policies = JB: = Yes yes (.) JF: I see: (.) but (.) I mean (.) what about your (.) old supporters (.) JB: .h.h.h.h.h ↑Well↑ we just have to hope that they think we’re lying (XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX [+ applause] ) JB: That’s = JF: = An- er (.) and do you think they’ll do that JB: ↑Well↑ I mean (.) it’s what they’re used to (.) isn’t it (XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX)

Footing, framing and the format sketch

In Fragment 16, gaining the trust of the electorate is made relevant, but more importantly, the strategies through which this trust is gained are revealed. That is to say ‘persuasion’ as a verb carries the implication of coercion. The implication that the politician is trying to convince on half of his supporters that he is ‘telling the truth’ and the other that he is lying, shows the impossibility of trying to fool all of the people even some of the time, even if (as the politician asserts) that is what some of the people are used to. .. Positive expectations about politicians and political behaviour ... Politicians should support the people who elected them Fragment 17 (DIMBLEBY) PA: let us just take a look then at what the practice of the last four or five years has been (.) er: Liberal Democrats are now the second party in the local government in Britain .h.h we have an e↑norm↑ous degree of public trust and confidence and influence (.) and power (.) ↑how’ve we done it↑ .h.h by taking our ground up very clearly .h.h we’ve done it by working with other parties and putting the interests of th[i] people we represent first Fragment 18 (LONG JOHNS ELECTION) JF: Really (.) but when you talk to your supporters on the doorstep (.) I mean aren’t they expecting a little ↑more↑ than this JB: .h.h.h.h.h. Well of course it’s a waste of our time talking to our supporters Fragment 19 (LONG JOHNS ELECTION) JF: .h.h But aren’t the voters expecting you know a little bit more than that (XXXXXXXXXXX) JB: ↑No↑ no no no (.) look ( . ) look look (.) the voters have got their job [ ] JF: Mhm Mhm JB: And the politicians (.) we’ve got our job JF: Yes JB: And when the voters have voted us in (.) that’s their job over (.) .h.h.h.h and you see we areprofessional politicians now for the first time and if you are a person you employ a professional ( . ) I mean you don’t interfere with him [ ] JF: Mhm [grunt of negation] JB: do you I mean if you employ a quantity surveyor you don’t ring him up every five minutes and say you know (.) how much cement (XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX)

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 Janet Cowper

JB: have you bought today JF: ◦ No◦ JB: No you don’t (.) you leave him alo:ne and the voters should leave us alone to get on with the job (***)

Fragments 18 and 19 show the operation of an extended metaphor ‘them and us’. However, unlike the argumentative situation in a serious interview, ‘they’ are not other political parties (the opposition) but rather, ‘they’ are the voters. ... Politicians should offer change (especially in the context of the 1997 Election) Fragment 20 (DIMBLEBY) PA: ... my view is that what this country desperately needs now is change .h.h I don’t believe we can ↑yet↑ rely on the Labour Party (.) ↑it’s no↑thing to do with Mister Blair’s revolution (.) the nature of the Labour Party is such that I don’t believe that it can yet be relied upon to govern this country (.) ↑if↑ my party can play a part in making change safe and secure .h.h if we can prove to the people that we can be trusted ↑this↑ far by speaking plain language and simple terms ↑if↑we can add an extra value a value to their vote which says .h.h ↑not only↑ do we stand for things no other party stands for (.) but also that we will work with other parties where we agree it’s in the national interest .h.h. I think that’s good for Britain and I believe it will be good for the Liberal Democrats too Fragment 21 (LONG JOHNS ELECTION) JF: But there is still the accusation of inexperience isn’t there (.) I mean you’ve been in opposition for eighteen years (.) you don’t have any experience at all JB: W- well I mean this doesn’t (.) this doesn’t stand up at ↑all↑ (.) as indeed I (don’t) when I speak to Peter Mandelson (XXXXXXXXX) JB: But but but em er (.) we have experience JF: Yes JB: We have completely changed the Labour Party JF: Yes JB: We have totally transformed it JF: Yes JB: And I mean (.) that means we are perfectly capable of carrying out the task that the public expect of us in government JF: Which is what

Footing, framing and the format sketch 

JB: Which is not to change anything at all (XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX)

In Fragment 21, irony operates in full swing. First there is a build up of positive assertions ‘we have completely changed the Labour Party ... We have totally transformed it’. I would suggest that the use of alliteration in these assertions marks them as rather clichéd. This is followed by an utterance that is plucked from the political register “we are perfectly capable of carrying out the task that the public expect of us in government”. However, the IE’s response to the IR’s request for elucidation (final turn) is not only pathetically amusing (at least to the audience), but implies that the public targeted by the candidate are those who would expect no change (namely Conservatives, or those inured by eighteen years of Conservative governing). ... Politicians should present a united party (or at least a democratic one) Fragment 22 (DIMBLEBY) PA: Well l- l- there’ll ↑al↑ways be those who er take a different view of course we’re a democratic party there will be those ↑but↑ the truth is of course that that hasn’t happened .h.h in fact since May last year the share of the Liberal Democrats in local government has gone up it’s Labour’s figures that have gone down so the fact is wrong but I think the judgement is wrong as well but there may be people who argue this in my party it’s a democratic party...

Perhaps it is rather predictable that the leader of the Liberal Democrats should claim that his party is ‘democratic’, but in Fragment 22, the shift in footing from “those who take a different view” to “people who argue this in my party”, implies not only that the party tolerates diverse opinions (many points of view), but also, that a distinction may be made between opinion and argument. Fragment 23 (LONG JOHNS ELECTION) JF: B- b- but there ↑are↑ people who (.) surely (.) when they think of the Labour Party think of it as a great sort of crusading movement JB: Oh yes yes JF: People with passionate convictions JB: Yes [ JF: Aren’t aren’t they you know being rather left behind = JB: = ↑Oh↑ no no (.) not at all not at all (.) I mean the Labour Party’s a broad church

 Janet Cowper

JF: Mhm JB: And (.) er nobody need to be afraid of expressing er (.) their views ◦ their views◦ eheh (.) JF: Even Socialists JB: ↑Ooooooooooo↑ (XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX = JB: em ha oh No yes (.) yes (.) absolutely absolutely [ ] =XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX) JB: Even Socialists (.) we em we welcome (.) ↑ev↑ery opinion (.) mm (.) every opinion er and one of the things we pride ourselves on is (.) is tolerance

In this example, the politician momentarily ‘floods out’ by producing a nonverbal response of shock/horror at the interviewer’s suggestion that the views of Socialists may be expressed within the Labour party. However in competition with audience response, the (fictional) politician regains his benevolent footing by expressing the tolerance of his party. This actually cues a keying of the telephone exchange with Peter Mandelson. ... Politicians should not be interested(only) in personal gain Fragment 24 (DIMBLEBY) PA: Now if you’re asking is Paddy Ashdown interested in Paddy Ashdown’s bum on the Labour seat of a government Daimler to do the things I don’t believe in .h. to ensure that (.) we don’t have a clear policy on Europe (.) not to invest in education (.) not to bring about constitu- then the ↑an↑swer is I’m not interested (.) ↑I:’m↑ in politics .h.h. for what we can do: for (your) country in consistency with th[i] views you hold (.) now that’s er a perfectly clear position Fragment 25 (LONG JOHNS ELECTION) JF: Yes but if you even if you win and you can’t do anything (.) I mean what are you going to be elected ↑for↑ (.) JB: A:::::::::::::::::::A:::::::::::::::::: em (.) em oh er ↑oh↑ I’ve been told this before (.) no it’s gone (.) sorry em JF: I mean (.) it can’t just be to ride around in large official cars and feel important and have hundreds of civil servants fussing over you and huge offices and pretty secretaries

Footing, framing and the format sketch 

JB: .h.h.h.h.h ↑Yes↑ I think so I think so (XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX) JB: I mean ↑why not why not↑ (.) we’ve waited eighteen years for this I mean (.) i- i- it’s our turn now

Fragments 24 and 25 illustrate the serious and the satirical response of a selfmade (rhetorical) or other-produced claim that politicians are only or mainly interested in personal gain. .. Other satirical devices To complete the analysis, I would like to examine one more satirical strategy. This I will call characterisation or more specifically the negative characterisation of a targeted person or group of people. The targets of the attack are (1) members of the fictional politician’s own party), (2) the campaign manager for New Labour’s election campaign (who, incidentally, was the person most involved in the media coverage of New Labour’s campaign). ... Negative characterisation (of a targeted ‘type’ or person) Fragment 26 (LONG JOHNS ELECTION) JF: We were talking about your inexperience of government JB: Inexperience (.) well I don’t think we need experience to carry out our policies do we really (XXXXXXXXXXXX) (.) JF: Why not JB: Well (.) they’re mostly Conservative policies and they have a lot of experience in in (.) government JF: Yes but I mean isn’t there a problem there JB: What JF: Well Gordon Brown announced that he was going to adopt the Conservative spending plan (.) and then you discovered that that spending plan had to be funded from privatisation JB: Yes but that wasn’t the only thing that was wrong with Conservative spending plans (.) I mean they were comp- (.) they didn’t add up at all not at all (.) I mean they didn’t make sense Conservative spending plans (.) I mean anyone can see that (.) JB: So (.) why did you (.) adopt them (.)

 Janet Cowper

JF: ↑Well↑ we didn’t know did we (.) I mean we didn’t (.) we didn’t think of them (.) they did (.) we assumed they’d be all right (XXXXXXXXXXX) JB: This is a question of ↑trust↑ you see (.) I mean (.) we trusted the Conservatives to come up = = (XXXXXXXXXXXXX) JB: With spending plans that we could use (.) and they fell down on the job (XXXXXXXXXXXX) JF: But but couldn’t you have looked at these plans and spotted the problems before you adopted them [ ] JB: ↑We-↑ (.) we JB: had other things to do I’m very very sorry we we had our headquarters to decorate (.) we had the mobile phones to get for the battlebus we had to choose er (.) the carpet for the People’s Platform John Prescott’s hair cut (XXXXXXXXXXXXX) JB: A hundred and one (.) I mean these things don’t do themselves (.) I mean I’m very sorry for Gordon Brown he’s got a lot on his plate (.) I mean he can’t close his mouth properly (.) he has to [ (XXXXXXXXXXXXXX) [ ] JB: He’s JB: worried about flies going in and out and you know and building their little nests there (.) I mean he can’t just worry about where all the money’s coming from I mean no (***)

In Fragment 26 named referents are the targets for the satire, the Conservative Party, Gordon Brown and members of New Labour. Irony is achieved because the politician’s negative comments are directed toward his own party and members of his party, for example, comprising topicalisation of: the lack of foresight in New Labour, the misappropriation of priorities, and a ridicule of physical properties of the party members. In this sense, the attack is made, but it loses credibility for three reasons: (1) because it is made by a member of the target group, (2) the assertions made are personal rather than political, and (3) it is made by a character who, at this point in the satire, has lost all credibility as a reputable source. ... Negative characterisation of New Labour’s campaign manager. As an example, consider again Fragment 7. In this Fragment a keying occurs which

.

Footing, framing and the format sketch

creates another lamination of experience. We have already established that the satirical sketch is an keying of a serious interview which keys the behaviour or actions of politicians (see Section 3 above). Therefore, when the telephone exchange occurs we have another layering, that of a telephone call keyed within an interview which itself is embedded within a comic sketch. However, in order for the satire to work, and especially as a means of making the broadcast institution itself a target for mild satire, it is important that all the embedded events are kept relevant. This relevance is achieved through shifts in footing. The IE who is also the recipient of the call addresses the caller, and at certain points shifts footing to address the IR. Keyed metacommunicative messages such as ‘is this live’ and responses which refer back to the interview “no I wasn’t doing anything important” keep the interview frame relevant. At the centre of the satire is an attack on Peter Mandelson (the publicity manager for New Labour in the party’s election campaign). Through responses produced by the fictional IE, Peter Mandelson is presented as some sort of totalitarian despot. The way this is achieved is once again through the evocation of culturally specific schema regarding stereotypical despots. These are made relevant through metaphor and keywords (see also Garton et al. 1991 on this). Examples of such keywords and phrases are: “recorded”, evoking images of politicians recording others (and, perhaps, images of Watergate), utterances which imply tyranny or at least that the recipient is subject to some higher authority e.g. “It’s forbidden” , “I can’t say that” and “I know discipline is important”, and eventually the implied death threats to the candidate’s children. Footing shifts in the form of addresses to the IR keep active the interview frame and the production of singular responses by the IE show the telephone call in operation. The ringing of the pager and the lack of a terminal response “Peter... ◦ Peter◦” mark the brackets of the call. All these laminations occur, of course, within the relevant satirical frame of reference, and therefore, are laughed at by the audience rather than receiving some other response. .. Summary The satirical strategies isolated so far in the analysis, include: the inversion of appropriate political behaviour or of arguments used by politicians in an election campaign, for example through depicting a politician attacking members of his own party, thus implying disloyalty; through displaying the politician’s argumentation which creates a dichotomy between the politicians and the electorate, rather than between one political party and the other(s); through creating paradoxes in the form of a politician stating that changing the Labour Party has produced a party incapable of changing anything, and thus making relevant

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all the irony inherent in the paradox that the Party that was once the instigator of radical change is now more conservative than those it seeks to replace. The folly of using policies designed by the opposition is made explicit; and the evocation of old scripts pertaining to Old Labour and Socialists reinforces the extended dichotomous metaphor (‘old’ versus ‘new’), and the formulation of ‘the professional politician’ helps to satirise another dichotomous metaphor (‘them’ versus ‘us’). Nevertheless, the satire is made effective by keying it as a serious interview, that is by using the format of a serious interview and adopting and adapting the same register of language and the same arguments used (as the examples from the serious interview illustrate) by ‘real’ politicians in ‘real’ interviews.

. Conclusion By means of a conclusion, I would like to make two points, the first is related to the methodology employed in this study, the second more generally applicable to satirical and political discourse. In terms of the methods of analysis employed, I am aware that I have at times had to draw on subjective knowledge and assumptions of politicians and political behaviour which I have found difficult to support with overtly explicit examples from the data. This goes against the principles of CA and the ethnomethodology from which it is derived, and therefore leaves the analysis open to the same criticisms which have been applied to Goffman’s study of interaction: e.g. lack of empiricism; the evocation of the ‘familiar’ through details rather than data (see Schegloff 1988b; Levinson 1988 for example). Nevertheless, I shall leave the analysis as it stands, because I firmly believe that whilst there may be evidence of the strategies relevant to ‘framing’ and ‘keying’ and even more certainly ‘footing’, it may be much more difficult to define exactly what these concepts are. That is to say, can we really isolate what is in an individual’s schemata? Can we make unqualified statements about what comprise the stereotypes in a culture or a community? In a sense the very fact that political messages work and that satire is appreciated show that there is something ‘going on’ between the audience and the producers of such messages. However that ‘something’ may be elusive. Secondly, I would like to say that it is not surprising that serious political interviews resemble satirical ones because or vice versa (a) satire exposes political behaviour (b) satirical format sketches are based upon stereotypical

Footing, framing and the format sketch 

political interview behaviour, and (c) both satire and political discourse deal with abstractions and inferencing . As a caveat I must state that despite Bird and Fortune’s sketch, New Labour had a landslide victory in the general election. At least one source has attributed the scale of the success to the strategic media management orchestrated by Mandelson and the New Labour campaign team (see Jones 1997).

Note . See Appendix for transcription conventions used in the Fragments.

Appendix: Transcription conventions (adapted from Jefferson 1979) : (colon)

>< ↑↑ ↓↓ WORD ◦◦

.h.h.h.h h.h.h.h Word (.) (....) (XXXX) Word [ ] Word Word [ Word** (Word) Word =

Wo[Text]

Stretched syllable or consonant. Number of colons = impression of length Utterance or utterance part perceived as being produced with greater speed than the surrounding talk Utterance or utterance part perceived as being produced slower than the surrounding talk Raised arrows enclose items perceived as being produced with raised pitch Arrows pointing downwards enclose items perceived as being produced with lowered pitch Items transcribed in uppercase letters (excluding conventions of punctuation) indicate increased volume Items enclosed by degree signs indicate relatively reduced volume Indicates an audible intake of breath. Number of ‘.h’ s = impression of length Indicates an audible exhalation. Number of ‘h.’ s = impression of length Underlined syllables indicate extra stress A dot enclosed in brackets indicates a micropause Several dots enclosed in brackets indicate longer pauses (untimed) Rows of X s enclosed in brackets indicate audience laughter Square parenthesis between items produced by different speakers indicates overlapping talk A single square bracket at the beginning of utterances produced by different speakers indicates a simultaneous start Asterisks indicate unclear speech (each asterisk represents one syllable) Items enclosed in round brackets indicate a tentative transcription Equals signs occurring at the end of one speaker’s turn and the beginning of another’s indicates ‘latching’, through which turn exchange occurs with no audible gap or overlap Incomplete words followed by a dash indicate a cut off Situational or interpretative information

 Janet Cowper

References Agar, M. (1990). Language Scenes and Political Schemas. Journal of Pragmatics, 14(1), 25–28. Austin, J. L (1970). Pretending. In J. L Austin Philosophical Papers (2nd edition) (pp. 253– 271). Oxford: Oxford University Press. (Orig. pub. from The Proceedings of the Aristotelian Society Supplementary Volume 32 (1957–1958)). Bateson, G. (1972). A Theory of Play and Fantasy. In G. Bateson (Ed.), Steps to an Ecology of Mind (pp. 177–193). Aylesbury, Bucks.: International Textbook Company Ltd. Blom, J.-P. & Gumperz, J. (1972). Social Meaning in Linguistic Structure: Code-Switching in Norway. In J. Gumperz & D. Hymes (Eds.), Directions in Sociolinguistics (pp. 407–433). New York: Holt, Rinehart and Winston. Clayman, S. E. (1991). News Interview Openings: Aspects of Sequential Organisation. In P. Scannell (Ed.), Broadcast Talk (pp. 48–77). London: Sage. Clayman, S. E. (1992). Footing in the Achievement of Neutrality: The case of News Interview Discourse. In P. Drew & J. Heritage (Eds.), Talk at Work (pp. 163–198). Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Garton, G., Montgomery, M., & Tolson, A. (1991). Ideology, Scripts and Metaphors in the Public Sphere of a General Election. In P. Scannell (Ed.), Broadcast Talk (pp. 100–118). London: Sage. Goffman, E. (1974). Frame Analysis: An Essay on the Organization of Experience. New York: Harper & Row. Goffman, E. (1981a). Footing. In E. Goffman (Ed.), Forms of Talk (pp. 124–159). Oxford: Blackwell. (Orig. pub. Semiotica, 25, 1979, 1–29). Goffman, E. (1981b). Radio Talk: A Study of the Ways of our Errors. In E. Goffman (Ed.), Forms of Talk (pp. 197–330). Oxford: Blackwell. Greatbach, D. (1992). On the Management of Disagreement Between News Interviewees. In P. Drew & J. Heritage (Eds.), Talk at Work (pp. 268–301). Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Heritage, J. (1984). Garfinkel and Ethnomethodology. Cambridge: Polity Press. Heritage, J. & Greatbatch, D. (1991). On the Institutional Character of Institutional Talk: The Case of the News Interview. In D. Boden & D. Zimmerman (Eds.), Talk and Social Structure: Studies in Ethnomethodology and Conversation Analysis (pp. 93–137). Cambridge: Polity Press. Herman, V. (1995). Dramatic Discourse: Dialogue as Interaction in Plays. London/New York: Routledge. Holly, W. (1989). Credibility and Political Language. In R. Wodak (Ed.), Language, Power and Ideology: Studies in Political Discourse (pp. 115–136). Amsterdam/Philadelphia: John Benjamins. Hymes, D. (1972). Models of the Interaction of Language and Social Life. In J. Gumperz & D. Hymes (Eds.), Directions in Sociolinguistics (pp. 35–72). New York: Holt, Rinehart, and Winston. Jefferson, G. (1979). A Technique for Inviting Laughter and its Subsequent Acceptance/ Declination. In G. Psathas (Ed.), Everyday language: Studies in Ethnomethodology (pp. 76–96). New York: Irvington.

Footing, framing and the format sketch 

Jones, N. (1997). Campaign 1997: How the General Election was Won and Lost. London: Indigo. Jucker, A. (1986). News interviews: A pragmalinguistic view. Amsterdam/Philadelphia: John Benjamins. Levinson, S. (1988). Putting Linguistics on a Proper Footing: Explorations in Goffman’s Concepts of Participation. In P. Drew & A. Wooton (Eds.), Erving Goffman: Exploring the Interaction Order (pp. 161–227). Cambridge: Polity Press. Livingstone, S. & Lunt, P. (1994). Talk on Television: Audience Participation and Public Debate. London and New York: Routledge. Oxford English Dictionary (2nd ed.). (1989). Oxford: Clarendon Press. Quasthoff, U. (1989). Social Prejudice as a Resource of Power: Towards the Functional Ambivalence of Stereotypes. In R. Wodak (Ed.), Language, Power and Ideology: Studies in Political Discourse (pp. 181–196). Amsterdam/Philadelphia: John Benjamins. Rose, B. (1985). Preface to B. Rose (Ed.), TV Genres: A Handbook and Reference Guide (pp. viv–ix). London: Greenwood Press. Ruse, C. & Hopton, M. (Eds.). (1992). Dictionary of Literary And Language Terms. London: Cassell. Sacks, H., Schegloff, E., & Jefferson, G. (1974). A Simplest Systematics for the Organisation of Turn-Taking in Conversation. Language, 50, 690–735. Scannell, P. (1991). Introduction: The Relevance of Talk. In P. Scannell (Ed.), Broadcast Talk (pp. 1–13). London: Sage. Schegloff, E. A. (1988a). Discourse as an Interactional Achievement II: An Exercise in Conversation Analysis. In D. Tannen (Ed.), Linguistics in Context: Connecting Observation and Understanding (pp. 135–198). Norwood, NJ: Ablex. Schegloff, E. A. (1988b). Goffman and the Analysis of Conversation. In P. Drew & A. Wooton (Eds.), Erving Goffman: Exploring the Interaction Order (pp. 89–135). Cambridge: Polity Press. Schiffrin, D. (1987). Discourse Markers. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Tannen, D. (1989). Talking Voices: Repetition, Dialogue, and Imagery in Conversational Discourse. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Tannen, D. (1993). What’s in a Frame? Surface Evidence for Underlying Expectations. In D. Tannen (Ed.), Framing in Discourse (pp. 14–56). New York and Oxford: Oxford University Press. Thompson, D. (Ed.). (1995). Concise Oxford Dictionary (9th edition). Oxford: Clarendon Press. Todorov, T. (1981). Introduction to Poetics. Brighton: Harvester. Wilmut, R. (1980). From Fringe to Flying Circus: Celebrating a Unique Generation of Comedy. London: Methuen. Wodak, R. (1989). Introduction. In R. Wodak (Ed.), Language, Power and Ideology: Studies in Political Discourse (pp. xiii–xx). Amsterdam/Philadelphia: John Benjamins.

Polyphonic constructions in everyday speech Ursula Bredel

.

Introduction: Authorial and non-authorial voices in discourse

With regard to literary narratives we are used to expect more than one voice in the text. The narrative text is told by at least one narrator, whereas several protagonists act and speak within the story. Both the narrator(s) and the protagonists each have their own voices. Therefore, it is fundamental for an adequate interpretation of a literary narrative to identify which voice the utterances belong to (see e.g. Leech & Short 1981; Banfield 1982). The normal expectation of different voices is less commonly made with regard to non-literary narratives as they occur in everyday speech. When analysing verbal behaviour, most linguists assume that speakers are the sole and authorial voice of their utterances. In this way they neglect strong indications that in everyday speech people use more than one voice to organise their discourse. It is the aim of this paper to demonstrate that speakers use different voices in their story telling, and to propose means for the description and possible explanation of this use. The discussion of voices may be related to a general view of language, specifically regarding the socio-cultural aspect of language. Focusing on this aspect, Bakhtin (1979, 1981) argued that the idea that language has to be seen as inherently unitary or homogeneous is rather misleading. In discarding that idea, he criticised both the unifying implications of de Saussure’s concept of ‘langue’, and Chomsky’s concept of ‘competence’. Bakhtin started from the assumption that each socio-ideological group in society has its own ‘language’. Thus, a cultural-societal background of heteroglossia exists within each (national) language, whereas unifying, centralising forces in society attempt to establish homogeneity. It is this tension between homogeneity and heterogeneity that reflects, according to Bakhtin, the ‘polyphonic’ or ‘dialogic’ character of language use. The dialogic character creates, so to speak, languages within lan-

 Ursula Bredel

guage. Hence Bakhtin’s radical extension of the thesis that only literary texts are constructed by several voices toward the idea of the fundamental polyphony of language itself. On a more concrete level of analysis, the use of different voices in discourse may be related to the concept of reported speech. Thompson’s (1996) considerations with respect to ‘reported speech’ may be regarded as both challenging and expanding the theory of everyday speech. Thompson pays due attention to the various forms of the integration of foreign voices in text and discourse. In so doing, he rejects the exclusive relevance of the categories of direct and indirect speech, although they are still commonly seen as the only relevant, for well describable, forms of reported speech.1 On the basis of examples like It’s a case of ‘reform or die’, according to Jasper Baker or Jackie Mann, his wife says, has not been awfully well lately where one can localise ‘reported signals’ rather than fully elaborated forms of speech reports, Thompson (1996) proposes the notion of ‘signalled voices in the text’. In opposition to more traditional investigations he argues that “there are no consistent formal grounds for identifying a special range of categories as language reports” (506). This is the reason why he focuses on the function of ‘signalled voices’. Thompson argues that [t]he inclusion of as broad a range of types of language reports as possible helps us to place them in their wider context in the meaning potential of language, and thus to understand more fully the nature of language reporting in general and of the choices made by users of the language in any particular instance. (Thompson 1996: 506)

Instead of using the categories of direct and indirect speech, Thompson establishes four main dimensions in language report: a. the voice (who or what is presented as the source of the language being reported); b. the message (the way in which the function or content of the ‘original’ language is presented); c. the signal (the way in which the present reporter indicates that this is a language report); d. the attitude (the evaluation by the present reporter of the message or the original speaker). (Thompson 1996: 507) Thompson discusses a broad range of different functions language reports fulfil in conversations: distancing, identifying, criticising, emphasising/reinforcing the credibility of one’s own utterance, suggesting relevance, etc. In this paper I will use the term voice for all these categories. Because I follow Thompson

Polyphonic constructions in everyday speech 

(1996) and Plank (1984) in their thesis that there is no watertight criterion to categorise ‘indirectness’ or ‘directness’ of voices in a more integrative way, I try to reduce the complexity of these phenomena by restricting myself to the general concept of voice. So, whereas Thompson contrasts voice with message, signal and attitude, I use the concept of voice to refer to the purely structural property that a speaker uses more than one source within an utterance. While Thompson focuses on the relevance of language report from a sociolinguistic point of view, Wolf (1990) approaches the issue of using more than one voice from a psycholinguistic background. She starts by characterising the general assumption of self : Our most immediate definition of self is that of a coherent and distinctive centre: a bodily container, an anchor point for our sense of agency, a single source for our emotions [...], or a kind of volume where the chapters of a very personal history accumulate (183).

In contrast to this widespread assumption of a coherent self, Wolf proposes that there is a heterogeneous self that consists of a number of different, simultaneous experiences: It is to suggest that, like more observable and public forms of cognition, our most private moments of reckoning are profoundly social: they involve either the interplay of recollected voices or interchanges between several portions of our self – interchanges very similar to and perhaps even stemming from our conversation with others. (Wolf 1990: 184)

On this basis, Wolf investigates the development of such a complex selfidentity. Her observations of the interaction processes by young children result in the view that, in the early stages of development, children use several voices in order to reconstruct problematic events or events with inconsistent self-representations. But at the end of the language acquisition process, when becoming adults, they move away from the representation of inconsistent experiences in the form of several voices: instead, they deal with inconsistent experiences by working with forms of several inner-representations. Consequently, Wolf terms an adult an authorial self.2 However, when one observes everyday speech empirically, one needs to take another possibility into account: speaking with more than one voice proves to be a fundamental communicative resource in general, also in adult interaction processes. This paper intends to show that the use of polyphonic constructions within adult interactions is similar to the use in childish ones. These constructions enable speakers to deal with experiences the integration of which is not yet finished and therefore not yet stable.

 Ursula Bredel

The investigation of the forms and functions of ‘speaking with more than one voice’, then, pertains to the role of the integration of non-authorial voices. In order to get a grasp of these forms and functions it is useful to distinguish three main categories. The distinction is based on the question to whom the voice within an utterance may be attached. There are three possibilities: –

– –

intrapolyphonic constructions are utterances by which a speaker evokes more than one voice of him- or herself, and which thus may be conceived as a form of doubling of voices of oneself; interpolyphonic constructions are utterances by which a speaker calls up (different) foreign voices; furthermore, as it is possible for a speaker to blend different voices into one utterance, these constructions will be termed hybrid constructions, according to Bakhtin’s proposal (see Bakhtin 1979: 195ff).

The purpose of this paper is to demonstrate the use and function of integrating non-authorial voices in narratives. The examples used here stem from a corpus of ‘narrative interviews’ (see Schütze 1978) that were conducted between 1991 and 1996 in Berlin – called ‘Wendekorpus’. 31 people from West Germany and 37 people from East Germany were asked about their experiences ranging from the day of the fall of the Berlin Wall to the time of the interview. The main analysis of the data was executed in the DFG-project ‘Perspectivity in discourse’ (conducted by Prof. N. Dittmar at the FU Berlin, 1995–1998). The project focuses on two questions: 1. Which differences – apart from lexical differences – concerning particular linguistic structures might be defined as culture-specific differences (see Bredel & Dittmar, J. 1997; Dittmar, N. 1996)? 2. Which differences in the ways of assimilating novel experiences might be observed after the fall of the Berlin Wall and the time after? The present paper reflects in particular the second question (which is discussed more elaborately by Bredel 1999). The narratives that are investigated adhere to the definition of ‘strict narratives’ as defined by Ehlich (1983): a narrator transforms single events, he/she was involved in as a participator, in personal/private experiences. Worth telling are single events disturbing customary routines. Evidently narratives, which deal with situations regarding to upheavals show this quality in the core. The narratives on hand inspired the analysis of forms and functions of speaking-with-several-voices, since at first sight the data had shown that speakers from East Germany tended to use a lot more polyphonic constructions (in

Polyphonic constructions in everyday speech

the sense as defined above) than speakers from West Germany. One might hypothesise that this is a culture-specific feature. However, if one takes into account the main function of polyphonic constructions – which is the establishing of and working with pieces of knowledge standing in contradiction to each other – one may find another explanation for this observation. Because of the fundamental change of their social and political orientations, East Germans had to deal with multifarious pieces of information and new perspectives which contradicted their former experiences. Thus, speaking with several voices does not seem to be a culture-specific feature of the language of the GDR, but rather to be specific for social upheavals. In order to make this explanation plausible two narratives from interviews with East German speakers were chosen. What follows in the remainder of this paper is a contrastive analysis of both examples. The first narrative (Section 2) exemplifies intrapolyphonic constructions and demonstrates how the (female) narrator evokes two voices of herself within her narration. The second narrative exemplifies both interpolyphonic (Section 3) and hybrid constructions (Section 4) and shows the way a (male) speaker acts concerning the narration of new experiences. The final part of the paper (Section 5) discusses possible explanations for the use of the different constructions.

. Intrapolyphonic constructions During the construction of a narration within an interaction, a speaker may establish more than one voice of him- or herself. For instance, he may cause an inner dialogue, i.e. when he calls up two self-perspectives. Or the evocation of two voices of him- or herself may occur within specific patterns of verbal actions, such as for the pattern of question-answer or assertion-reasoning. The classification of utterances as intrapolyphonic constructions is motivated as follows. Because language use may be seen as realised by basic patterns of (verbal) actions (see Ehlich & Rehbein 1977), utterances get their meaning by ‘fitting into’ certain parts of these patterns. Many of these action patterns are characterised by their sequentiality, so that the actualisation of a pattern needs more than one speaker (thus, the question-answer-pattern is realised by one speaker asking the question and the other providing the answer). In intrapolyphonic utterances, however, speakers execute these action patterns (or parts of them) by themselves. Thus used, these constructions do not contribute to the support of mutual understanding between a speaker and a hearer





Ursula Bredel

but rather serve as a mutual understanding between two voices within the speaker himself. In narratives there are at least two voices of him- or herself: the speaker of the narrative (S1 ) and the figure represented in the story (S2 ). This distinction leads to the difference between a narrative I and a narrated I.3 Both can obtain verbal autonomy with the help of, for instance, the so-called scenic present tense (see Quasthoff 1980), or of so-called performance features (see Wolfson 1979) such as direct speech, expressive sounds, sound effects, motions and gestures. If we assume that both S1 and S2 can be split, we are able to distinguish three categories of intrapolyphonic constructions: a. S1 –S1’ b. S2 –S2’ c. S1 –S2 Which of these categories the speaker evokes depends on the issue that is to be dealt with. More relevant in this respect, however, is that the categories may be observed empirically. This is demonstrated in the following narrative, the first example. The main subject of many narratives from the ‘Wendekorpus’ is the socalled ‘Begrüßungsgeld’: the welcome money was the sum of DM 100 which the West German government issued to East German citizens shortly after the fall of the Berlin Wall as a symbol of good will. Most stories told about the ‘Begrüßungsgeld’ are constructed in a similar way. People tell that they took the money, but on the other hand they remember this action as embarrassing since at the very moment of telling (at the time of the interview) they realised that they had been overestimating the value of one hundred German Marks. More gravely, they felt humiliated and unwittingly bribed by the West German government. The following passage therefore could be taken as representative of the corpus.4 Alla, a 54 year old female teacher from Brandenburg (East Germany), reflects her experience concerning the ‘Begrüßungsgeld’ as follows: Extract 1. Alla, B ON 1005 1 J: und die hundert Mark∧ 2 I: ja die hab ich dann auch einmal ge/dann einmal geholt 3 das/ ach so das war auch noch das Schlimmste

1 J: and the hundred marks∧ 2 I: okay some time I pick/some time I picked them up 3 that/yes that was also the worst

Polyphonic constructions in everyday speech

4 5 6 7

8 9

10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22

23 24

hab ich gedacht was machst du denn nun läßt du-s verfalln na ja @kaufen kannste sowieso nichts@ dann also mußt du irgendwo hier in so-ne Sparkasse und das war eh/ wo war denn/ auch/ doch das war nochmal Wedding ich glaube Wedding + und das war/ eh war auch nochmal so-n sch/ so-ne schlímme Situation da STAND eine Schlánge vor der/vor der Sparkasse die hatte noch nich geöffnet nachmittags glaub ich und eh mir @ging das Herz wie verrückt also@ eh die Polizei hatte da eh geórdnet weil soviele Leute warn und dann drinnen/ drinnen wars ja ganz schnell ich glaube man mußte nur den Ausweis vorzeigen ich weiß es schon gar nicht mehr ja den Ausweis glaub ich und dann kriegte man die hundert Mark eh die hundert Mark hat ich EWIG @@@@ weil ich einfach nich wußte @was ich mit den hundert Mark machen sollte@ weil ich einfach nich wúßte was/ was káufst du was was nímmst du dafür

4 5 6 7

8 9

10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22

23 24

I thought what are you going to do now will you let it go to waste well @in any case you can’t buy anything@ then you have to go somewhere to one of those saving banks and that was eh/where was/also/indeed it was Wedding [a West-Berlin district] I think Wedding + and that was/ eh was again such a ba/ such a bad situation there WAS a queue in front of the/in front of the bank that had not yet opened in the afternoon I think and eh @my heart was going crazy@ eh the police had eh organised there because there were so many people and then inside/ inside it all went very quickly I believe you only had to show your identity card I don’t know anymore yes the identity card I believe and then you got the hundred marks eh the hundred marks I had FOR AGES @@@@ because I simply didn’t know @what I should do with the hundred marks@ because I simply didn’t know what/what do you buy what will you get for it



 Ursula Bredel

25 26

ich glaub ich hab als erstes n Buch dann gekauft +2+ und dann hat@dann hats mir leid getan daß die hundert Mark weg warn@@@

25 26

I believe first of all I bought then a book + 2 + and then I @ then I regretted that the hundred marks were gone@@@

The main problem, according to Alla’s narrative, appears to be a lack of power in her recollection. This can be observed in segments 7, 8, 9, 12, 17, 18, 19, and 25 where Alla wrestles to get hold of the correct remembrance. Her uncertainty is marked not only by the very frequent paraphrase ich glaube (segments 8, 12, 17, 19, 25), which means here to the best of my recollection, but also by the direct questioning of herself (segments 7, 18–19). In segment 7 she asks herself: “wo war denn/?” It is quite clear that the hearer (i.e. the interviewer) is not able to give the correct answer. Consequently, the function of this question is not to require the hearer’s search for the right piece of knowledge in order to close the action sequence, rather it functions in such a way as to instruct the speaker herself to find the correct piece of knowledge in order to complete her narrative. The answer given in 7 (doch das war nochmal Wedding) serves as the beginning of establishing the imagination space (see Rehbein 1980, 1989), which is a relevant part of the narrative that Labov and Waletzky (1967) call orientation. In such a way, Alla’s actual self is split into two voices (the voices are S1 and S1’ ). This voice splitting might be called self-interaction. In segments 18–19 the form of the self-interaction is less easily identifiable. We can yet discover its structure if we focus on a single linguistic expression in segment 19. In this segment, Alla says: “Ja den Ausweis glaub ich”. Ja is a linguistic expression normally used in order to answer a yes-no-question affirmatively. In this case, however, no such question has been asked. Yet, there is a marker of uncertainty (ich weiß es schon gar nicht mehr), signifying a gap in the mental representation of the speaker’s experience about which she is going to tell her story. This gap corresponds to gaps that questions usually display, albeit in the hearer’s mental representation. This way, Alla herself has taken on this role of someone else, a non-existent hearer. Again we see a dissociation of the speaker’s voice (S1 , S1’ ). We find a second form of intrapolyphonic construction in the case where Alla instructs an imaginary second voice of the narrated story (S2’ ) by using the voice attached to the narrated I (S2 ). This is called inner dialogue. It can be witnessed in segments 4–6 and in segments 23–24. To start with the latter: the function of the inner dialogue in segments 23–24 is quite simple. S2 asks the question was/ was kaufst du was nimmst du dafür to an imaginary voice of her-

Polyphonic constructions in everyday speech

self (S2’ ) (=du) in order to solve the problem she has in making a difficult decision. This mental process, the reanimation of the experienced situation itself, eventually leads her to the answer (25) (ich glaub ich hab als erstes n Buch dann gekauft), again embedded in uncertainty markers. What is more, in an earlier stage she did not arrive at this answer, for the mere description of the same fact previously given in 22 (which is from the perspective of S1 ) was clearly unsuccessful. This inner dialogue, then, turned out to be necessary in order to reflect the state of the (narrated) experience. The former case of inner dialogue is not as simple as the latter one. In segments 4–6 the speaker tries to deal with two tasks by using inner dialogue. Segments 4–5 contain a question-answer structure, which operates as a form of self-interaction within the inner dialogue (Question: was machst du denn nun läßt du-s verfallen. Answer: na ja kaufen kannste sowieso nichts). Again S2 communicates with S2’ (du); again the speaker copes with a question of decision. The matter of having to decide something is taken up in segment 6 (dann also mußt du irgendwo hier in so-ne Sparkasse). In contrast to the first speech actions (4–5), however, Alla does not work on an inner conflict but instructs herself how to act. It is this instruction that enables her to get into the narrative.6 In the example, yet another form of intrapolyphonic speech is realised. This third form may be interpreted as communication between S1 and S2 . Alla laughs while speaking in segments 5, 13, 21, 22, and 26. In segments 21 and 26 Alla laughs after achieving the speech actions in question. If laughter takes place in this order, then it may be interpreted in conformity with conventional behaviour (see Jefferson 1979; Rehbein 1989): it is an invitation to the hearer to share the speaker’s evaluations. In segments 5, 13 and 21, however, the speaker laughs while she is speaking. Consequently, there is no space for the hearer to participate in the laughter. Yet, by referring to more general motivations why people laugh, this construction gives room to another interpretation. Laughter in general may be seen as a reaction to an opposition. For instance, we laugh when something injures our expectations. It concerns an opposition between imagination (or probability) and reality. We also laugh at the contrast between elevation and profanity. But what does Alla laugh at? Her laughter may be interpreted as the opposition between the self at the time of experience and the self at the time of the narrative. Alla is ashamed about the action she recalls. This inner contradiction not only clarifies her lack of recollection (and in consequence motivates the forms of self-interactions) but also explains why Alla laughs. It is a compensation of the two experiences that are recalled together: the experience of S1 and the experience of S2’ .



 Ursula Bredel

To sum up, the analysis accentuates Alla’s problem of a defective recollection. This defect signals a deeper problem Alla has. The topic of the ‘Begrüßungsgeld’, upon which – as many in the corpus – she tries to elaborate, evokes a representation of the self which is in contradiction to the representation of the self she has at the time of recalling her experience. The interference of a former self with the self at the time of speaking causes the lack in the recollection. Furthermore, it also causes the intrapolyphonic structure of the narrative. In the corpus there is some evidence for the representativeness of those questions in narrative interviews. Intrapolyphonic constructions then may be seen as having a specific function: they are used in order to solve problems that arise from working with disparate or contradictory forms of knowledge of oneself.

. Interpolyphonic constructions The preceding intrapolyphonically constructed narrative will now be contrasted with a narrative that may be characterised as being built interpolyphonically. In this story we may detect several forms of evoking foreign voices but we cannot perceive any form of intrapolyphonic construction. It may be coincidental that in the sample on hand the female speaker uses exclusively intrapolyphonic and the male speaker only interpolyphonic constructions. Further investigations must show whether or not the preference for the one or the other use of voice is gender specific. I will return to the possible explanation for this preference in conjunction with more psycholinguistic considerations in Section 5. Speakers who call up other persons’ voices are working with interpolyphonic constructions. These constructions usually occur as a form of direct speech but can also emerge in indirect speech or in what Thompson (1996) calls ‘signalled voices in texts’. The basis of classifying utterances as interpolyphonic constructions is the fact that speakers use explicit indicators of the foreign voice, such as deictic expressions, specific voice expressions or reference to the foreign source. Attention will be paid in this paper, however, only to cases where the speaker uses foreign utterances that appear as direct speech imports. Direct speech, especially in narratives, is usually seen as a method of reanimating an original scene in the actual interaction. Quasthoff (1980), Rehbein (1984), Goffman (1974) and Tannen (1986) assume that direct speech,

Polyphonic constructions in everyday speech

especially in narratives, has the function of involving both the speaker and the hearer in the represented scene. Tannen puts forward that constructed dialogue in conversation and in fiction is a means by which experiences surpass story to become drama. Moreover, the creation of drama from personal experience and hearsay is made possible by and simultaneously creates interpersonal involvement among speaker or writer and audience. (Tannen 1986: 312)

Rehbein (1984) suggests that the method of establishing direct speech especially in narratives triggers a specific mental process: the speaker establishes the mode of imagination by restaging the voices of the scene. In such a way, speaker and hearer are shifted into the imagination space, which carries the special effect that both speaker and hearer might be able to arrive at a mutual evaluation of the particular scene imagined. Rehbein argues that this device may rank as one of the most important functions of narratives. Another perspective of dealing with direct speech in narratives comes to the fore if we move away from this process of mutual understanding between speaker and hearer. Instead of doing so, we have a closer look at the functions of foreign speech imports in relation to the actual processing of knowledge.7 More specifically, we focus on the processing of contradictory pieces of knowledge. We can find out the function of a concrete speech import in two ways: by looking at its position in the succession of verbal actions within the narrative, and by considering the specific form of the integration of the foreign voice. With regard to the latter criterion, it is possible to distinguish different types of direct speech imports by answering two questions: (a) Is the original speaker referred to or not? (b) Is the original scene reconstructed or not? As a result, we get four different procedures of importing foreign speech in narrations: Table 1. Four procedures for the integration of foreign speech imports Reference to the original speaker

contextual reconstruction

+ – – +

+ + – –

type of import scenic speech staged speech decontextualised speech quoted speech

In the following example (Extract 2) all these types of speech imports are realised. For that reason, it might be called a textbook-example. Dirk is a 33-yearold male musician who has been unemployed since the fall of the Berlin Wall.



 Ursula Bredel

In his narrative he deliberates why he feels that it is impossible for him to get a job as a musician. He also speculates on future possibilities to accept any job, not for his own satisfaction but simply in order to earn his living. His narrative thus reflects his social decline: Extract 2. Dirk, B 02 OF 1 I: hier vom Rundfunksinfonieorchester die Fusion dit hat ja ooch nich jeklappt 2 und die hatten ja schon alle + so jut wie-n Vertrach inne Tasche + 3 die sitzen ja nun ooch alle uff der Straße ne∧ + 4 naja dit is + 5 hab mich grad jes/ heute mit dem eenen unterhalten 6 der is so + na + ick weeß nich (x) wie alt der is ick schätze mal so Mitte vierzich + 7 Trompeter von da 8 sagt er wat soll ick-n machen sagt-a + 9 ick brauch doch nich mehr ürgendwo vorblasen zu gehen + 10 kannste doch vergessen + 11 %dit steht% 12 da brauch icke ja nich ma mehr hingehen + 13 und weeß ick wenn de dreizich überschritten hast 14 dann is schon bloß noch naja wir werden ma sehen und + 15 also wenn de nich top bist + wa∧ 16 früher sind weeß ick zu ner Probespielstelle in der Komischen Oper + 17 Paukenstelle weeß ick noch sind acht Leute jekommen +

1 I: also, here the merging of the radio orchestra hasn’t worked 2 3 4 5 6

7 8 9 10 12 13 14 15 16

17

and they all almost + had contracts in the bag + now they are all unemployed aren’t they∧ + well it is + I have just talked with one guy yes / today he is about + well + I don’t know how old he is I guess perhaps in his mid-forties a trumpeter from there he says what shall I do he says + I need not go anywhere anymore to audition you can forget it 11 %it’s fixed% I need not even go there anymore + and I don’t know if you are older than thirty then there is merely already well we will see and + so if you are not good + well∧ earlier there came I don’t know to an audition in the Komische Oper + a position as a drummer I still remember eight people came there +

Polyphonic constructions in everyday speech

18 19

20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28

29 30 31

32 33 34 35 36 37

naja und in München warn hundertssechzich + naja da kannste dir schon mal die Relation ausrechnen wie die Chancen dastehen ja∧ + und dann sind die natürlich (h) weeß ick zwanzich Jahre und bis unter die Schädeldecke motiviert + handwerklich natürlich super + dit sind sicher viele da

18

aber auch so die Motivation und die Nerven und dit spielt ja allet ne Rolle + und da komm ick als dreiunddreizichjähriger + Sack da an und und und denn sagen se ja machen se mal und dann komm noch die Nerven und weeß ick wat und +

24

ne also ick hab jesagt also + wir ham auch bei uns im Orchester jesacht also wir machen noch bis einunddreizichsten Zwölften + halten wa noch zur Stange ob se noch ürgendwat auf die Reihe kriegen und denn + she ick zu dass ick ürgendn Job kriege + ick hab schon jesacht heute ick werd drei Tage Taxi fahrn + a bist du verrückt da passiert dir noch wat und so ick sach: ach quatsch + oder ürgendn Job machen wat weeß ick Aldi Arzneimittel oder ürgendwat

29 30

19

20 21 22 23

25 26 27 28

31

32 33 34 35 36 37

well and in munich there were a hundred and sixty + well you can already imagine what the chances are to get the job thereˆ + and then they are naturally (h) I don’t know twenty years old and fully motivated + of course technically brilliant + certainly many of them are brilliant but also the motivation and the nerves and that it all plays a part + and I come along a thirtythree year old + codger and and and then they say sell yourself and then on top of this are the nerves and I don’t know what and + no so I said so + we also said in our old orchestra so we will continue until the thirty first of the twelfth + we will continue to support it whether they are able to pull it off and then + I will see if I can get some job + I have already said today I will drive a taxi three days a week + ah, are you crazy something bad will happen to you I say: such a nonsense + or any job I don’t know Aldi [a German food shop] medicines or anything else



 Ursula Bredel

38 39 40 41 42 43

u:nd weeß ick drei vier Tage die Woche und denn biste versichert und haste und denn kannst nebenbei machen watte willst und denn tut dit keenem weh + und denn isset jut + ne∧ aber ick meine bloß auf blauen Dunst (x)

38 39 40 41 42 43

and I don’t know three four days a week and then you are insured and you have and then meanwhile you can do what you want and then it hurts nobody + and then it’s okay + well∧ but I think it’s only sheer invention (x)

. Scenic speech Scenic speech appears in segments 8–12. Dirk evokes a colleague’s voice who, like Dirk, is an unemployed musician. However, it is not clear why Dirk calls up a foreign voice at this point if he wants to stress that it is hopeless to get a job as a musician – which is the general expectation he has constructed thus far. We can find an indication for an explanation in segment 4. In this segment Dirk begins to evaluate the proposition that all musicians are unemployed: naja dit is, where dit (that) refocuses the proposition at issue. Obviously he has difficulties in making this evaluation. So he projects his evaluation onto a colleague’s voice to take up his point. By employing the foreign voice as the ‘bearer’ of this proposition, Dirk is able to stress the point that all musicians are unemployed without being the ‘owner’ of the proposition. In such a way, Dirk inserts a specific proposition in his discourse without responsibility for its validity. This form of direct speech insert – scenic speech8 – functions, then, as a means that has two sub-functions: to establish knowledge parts that are either not in agreement with the speaker’s knowledge (maybe also not with his self-image) or to deal with propositions, which the speaker does not want to take responsibility for. Regarding the entire ‘Wendekorpus’, there are reasons for the assumption that the aforementioned function of establishing foreign voices is an important motivation for producing foreign voices in the form of scenic speech. Scenic speech occurs often in order to signal the speaker’s unwillingness or incapability to accept the ‘content’ of the utterance.

Polyphonic constructions in everyday speech

. Staged speech Staged speech appears in segment 35. Dirk evokes a stranger’s voice without referring to the original source. The hearer does not know exactly who is speaking. So the question is why Dirk switches the voice. A closer look at the propositions of the different speech acts reveals Dirk’s using the foreign voice in order to examine possible doubts about his new orientation. However, he displays the doubts by means of the other voice so as to be able to picture his personal decision as a decision without hesitation. . Decontextualised speech Decontextualised speech occurs in segments 14 and 27. In both cases, the scene is not elaborated on for the hearer; i.e. neither the pre-history nor the posthistory of the scene is alluded to. Nor does the hearer learn anything about the speaker from this direct speech import. The potential motivation of decontextualised speech in the above cases needs scrutiny. To arrive at a possible interpretation, one of Michel’s (1985) insights proves useful. Michel investigated the use of collective knowledge patterns by people who tell stories about the Second World War. She thematises dass es Typen von Geschichten gibt, die gekennzeichnet sind durch eine bestimmte Darstellungsmodalität [...] und durch ein Themenpotential [...] Die Erzähltradition liefert [...] ein ganzes Inventar an typischen Begebenheiten, Personen, Dialogen, Formulierungen usw. (Michel 1985: 103) that there are types of stories marked by a certain modality of presentation [...] and a potential for a certain subject. [...] Narrative tradition provides an inventory of typical events, protagonists, dialogues, phrasing, etc. (Michel 1985: 103)

A narrator is able to use ready-made speech patterns or stereotypical features of scenes in order to point to a specific kind of narrative. Accordingly, the decontextualised speech Dirk is evoking here may signal the application of such typical features of scenes. Because these features are part of the common knowledge in society and therefore standardised the hearer is able to complete their contexts. The typical scenes that Dirk creates by the speech imports naja wir werden mal sehen (segment 14) and machen se mal (segment 27) denote hierarchical positions between the actors. The actors of the imported speech elements are the agents of an institution, in this case the opera; the other part of the scene, the client, is Dirk who is not mentioned, although he depends on the insti-



 Ursula Bredel

tutional decision in order to secure a position. These standard scenes, then, are scenes of failure. The propositions of the imported speech actions focus on future actions, which the client (i.e. Dirk) will have to carry out. The formulation of the speech actions contains simultaneously the hint that it is pointless for Dirk to even begin ‘selling himself ’, since the decision has already been made against him. Yet the allusion to these standard scenes is functional. It serves to ratify the anticipated lack of any chances Dirk has from the very onset of seeking employment, without Dirk himself being accountable. By means of a decontextualised speech import Dirk is able to adopt a piece of knowledge that he assumes to be true, but which at the same time is not based on evidence. This contradiction is dealt with by the use of what is called in German unverantwortete Sprache, i.e. ‘non-responsible language’. . Quoted speech Quoted speech occurs in segments 31–32. Dirk quotes his former colleagues’ voices. He quotes them as saying: bis zum einundreißgsten Zwölften halten wa noch zur Stange ob se noch ürgendwat uff de Reihe kriegen. Like scenic speech, the quoted speech here covers for a previous evaluation by himself, which he inaugurated in segment 29: ne also ick hab jesacht also. Again Dirk hesitates during the process of completing the evaluation. In this situation he substitutes foreign speech import for the self-import. It is interesting here that Dirk at the same time changes the imagination space. Instead of evaluating the narrated story (the imaginary situation in Munich) the quoted colleagues evaluate a completely different experience: the musicians’ real situation in their old orchestra. Thus Dirk reverses social roles that are constitutive of a situation where decisions have to be made: it is not the employers who decide on the employee’s future but the employees who decide on their employers’ future. Consequently, the quoted speech enables Dirk to change his self-representation. Dirk turns from a non-autonomous into an autonomous being. This interpretation may be supported by the following observation. Within the quoted speech Dirk restructures the voices, i.e. he turns the quotation of foreign voices into a quotation of his own voice: und denn seh ick zu det ick ürgendwo ’n job kriege (segment 33). Thus, the foreign voice use seems to be a functional conversion strategy. The foreign voice use enables Dirk to change the mode of his narrative: the story of him being at the mercy of someone else becomes a story where he attains agency. Accordingly, the speaker in the speech actions (segments 34–43) refers to his new (autonomous) plans of simply taking any job just in order to earn a living.

Polyphonic constructions in everyday speech 

. Hybrid constructions A third form of speaking with several voices appears in the blending of one’s own voice with another person’s voice. Rauh (1982, 1983), for example, conceptualises what in German is called ‘erlebte Rede’ (interior/inner monologue, or free indirect discourse, see Simpson 1993: 28) as a form of doubling of voices. Rauh argues that in the case of inner monologue the narrator’s voice is blended with the voice of the protagonist of the story within one utterance. The temporal reference (past tense) reflects the narrator’s voice, whereas other dimensions (such as the use of deictics or the modal properties of the utterance) reflect the protagonist’s perspective. In literary narratives it is a commonly used technique. Other forms of voice blending are less obvious. Another example of voice blending is the usage of proverbs, which functions in the following way: proverbs provide on the one hand frozen evaluations, so that their report by the narrator on the other hand may add new specific meanings. According to Thompson (1996), this is a means of signalling attitude. Constructions that result from the fact that the speaker uses not only his own voice but also involves other persons’ voices are called hybrid constructions. Following Bakhtin (1979, 1981), we distinguish two categories of hybrid constructions: a. blending of utterances, b. blending of speakers. Blending of utterances is a procedure by which speakers blend another person’s utterance with his or her own voice within one narrative-related utterance. We encounter this type of hybrid construction in the inner monologue. Blending of speakers happens when the hearer cannot decipher the source of the voice the actual speaker uses. In clear contrast to intrapolyphonic and interpolyphonic constructions, there are no distinct formal categories for classification. In order to demonstrate the function of hybrid constructions two examples will be highlighted that occur in Dirk’s narrative (Extract 2). . Blending of utterances In segment 26 a blending of utterances is achieved: un da komm ick als dreiundreißigjähriger Sack da an. Underlying this utterance there are two contradictory evaluations with respect to the concept of age. The first concerns the common sense view that thirty-three years of age is classified as being young, whereas the other evaluation is the imagined employers’ one that classifies the

 Ursula Bredel

age of thirty-three as being old. Both contradictory evaluations – the former evaluation with which Dirk identifies and the latter one with which the foreign voices identify – are melted within this hybrid utterance. In the ongoing narration, however, its special effect is that Dirk can actualise three illocutionary forces by just one utterance. First, the utterance functions as a narrative orientation (see Labov & Waletzky 1967). As such, it concerns a speech action within a more complex concatenation of speech actions, whose purpose is to establish the imagination space of the narrative. Secondly, Dirk criticises the imagined employers by contrasting their view on age with the common sense view. Thirdly, Dirk tries to provide an explanation for his unemployment. The fact that the imagined employers do not share the common sense view (i.e. that one still should be considered young at the age of thirty-three), evokes the underlying argument that the speaker does not expect to gain employment in the future. In brief, Dirk’s utterance as a hybrid construction may be considered an example of what Rehbein (1982) calls inscription of evaluation. This inscription ensues from the evocation of another person’s voice (in this case the imagined employers’ voice ).9 Hybrid constructions like these are frequently found in cases where people deliberate on social categorisations of themselves which they do not share. By using this strategy of representing social categorisations, speakers deal with their knowledge in a specific way. On the one hand, they apply a specific social categorisation that they do not prefer themselves, on the other hand, they invalidate this social categorisation by indicating its inappropriateness. Thus, these hybrid constructions function as a communicative resource which enables speakers to give excuses, apologies, or justifications for problematic events in their biographies. . Blending of speakers In Extract 2 we encounter another hybrid construction in segments 8–14 (which we already discussed in Section 3.1). In segments 8–14 it turns out to be rather difficult to decipher the boundaries of the foreign import. Particular attention needs to be paid to its ending. Segments 13–14 could be interpreted as a further component of the colleague’s speech but it could also be seen as Dirk’s return to his own voice. This kind of ambiguity is called blending of speakers. Dirk’s use of such an ambiguity gives support to the above-mentioned interpretation of utterances in segments 12–14. The foreign voice is not evoked in order to build a different perspective but rather to establish a foreign source which is responsible for the

Polyphonic constructions in everyday speech 

proposition that, as an unemployed musician, one will not get a chance to gain any further employment.

. Conclusion and outlook The analyses thus far have shown the following forms of polyphonic constructions and their inner differentiations: Table 2. Polyphonic constructions intrapolyphonic constructions

interpolyphonic constructions

hybrid constructions

S1 –S1’ self-interaction S2 –S2’ inner dialogue S1 –S2 laughter

scenic speech staged speech quoted speech decontextualised speech

blending of utterances blending of speakers

The tertium comparationis of all these types of polyphonic constructions is not simply a phenomenological one, i.e. their polyphonic character, but it is also a specific function which all polyphonic constructions share. In all of the above cases it has been demonstrated that people who talk about problematic events in their lives or about personal conflicts are looking for some relief by using different voices. This observation brings us back to Wolf ’s (1990) focus, who suggested that speaking with several voices in early childhood results from inconsistent representations of experiences. It is exactly this function that has been found in the empirical data discussed in this paper, although (in contrast to Wolf ’s thesis) adult speakers were involved. Putting Wolf ’s considerations and the results of the present analysis together, the following generalisation may be proposed. Speaking with more than one voice is an elementary communicative resource used to deal with invalid and/or inconsistent knowledge, which speakers have of themselves and/or of their social environment. If necessary, people can integrate this invalid or inconsistent knowledge into their discourses by evoking different voices. There is, however, another consideration to be made. It is the context that plays an important role in the data. The examples above are parts of narrative interviews. Narrative interviews may be seen as a specific sort of ‘hot-housesituations’ (Quasthoff 1980: 21). Schütze (1984: 79ff) characterises them as a type of discourse within which the relevant alter egos of one’s own biography take on the place of an actual interlocutor. These alter egos and their typical

 Ursula Bredel

speech actions are at the same time represented within the speaker’s own discourse. On the basis of this interpretation, we may offer an explanation for the high frequency in our data of importing both own and foreign voices. In narrative interviews interviewees have to fulfil both the role of the speaker and the role of the hearer. Consequently, interviewees represent their experiences by establishing different perspectives that are provided by the role of the relevant alter egos. If this hypothesis is plausible we may wonder whether there is an explanation why speakers use on the one hand intrapolyphonic constructions (Alla’s case, Extract 1) and on the other hand interpolyphonic constructions (Dirk’s case, Extract 2). Two explanations seem possible: the use of one or the other polyphonic construction depends either on the specific problem the speakers deal with, or it depends on the speaker’s psychosocial disposition. We may find support for both explanations in the data. Alla’s case is characterised by the fact that she deals with an inner conflict, a contradictory representation of the self. Thus she evokes intrapolyphonic procedures, the ‘significant other’ as another voice of herself. Dirk, in contrast, deals with an external conflict, a contradiction between his desires and the (im)possibilities to meet them. Therefore he uses interpolyphonic constructions, which means that the ‘significant others’ are the recent colleague, the imagined employers and his former colleagues. This way, the question whether the use of one or the other polyphonic strategy is motivated by underlying problems or by any particular disposition cannot be definitively answered. However, the data show some evidence concerning the second assumption, in particular if one tentatively extrapolates from all interviews contained in the ‘Wendecorpus’. We may consider the use of polyphonic constructions a ‘window’ through which we can observe the inner structures of both self-representations and object-representations of human beings. On the one hand, speakers who use intrapolyphonic constructions appear to display social conflicts as internal conflicts. They picture specific contradictory constellations or situations as an inner problem of themselves. On the other hand, speakers who evoke interpolyphonic constructions appear to localise social conflicts mainly as external conflicts. They do not build contradictory constellations or situations as intrasubjective conflicts but treat them as problems that they have with their external environment. Finally, I should like to return to an observation that has only been made in passing. The two extracts show a clear preference for the choice of voices. This preference seems to be gender related inasmuch as the female speaker tends to use intrapolyphonic constructions exclusively, whereas the male speaker without any exception uses interpolyphonic ones. If this finding turns out to be rep-

Polyphonic constructions in everyday speech 

resentative, that is, if one is able to generalise this particular observation and to develop it on a broader basis, then gender specific differences with respect to constructing of and dealing with problematic events of life may be discovered. The interactional work that is underlying the communicative actions that are characteristic of the interviews, opens new perspectives in order to investigate not only voice features in general, but also gender-related aspects of the use of voices. In such a way, Bakhtin’s concept of heteroglossia – which inspired the present investigations – may be completed by gender-related interaction and narrative phenomena.

Notes . The traditional emphasis on these forms of language reports and the relationship between them may be due at least partly to the long-standing interest in the grammatical phenomena of sequence of tenses and backshift (see e.g. Comrie 1986; Huddleston 1989; Declerck 1990). . This assumption contradicts Piaget’s conception of development. Piaget starts from the egocentric stage of the individual in early childhood. By passing several stages of development, an adult arrives at an increasing decentralisation of the original egocentric state (see Piaget 1953). Wolf ’s observations suggest quite the opposite: she agrees with Vygotsky (1962), who suggests that there is a gradual incorporation of external to internal representations of language and, in this respect, incorporation of experiences. . For a theoretical reconstruction of the situation of communication in narratives see Lindemann (1993). . In the transcription the following signs have been used: ∧

/ @ + + number + bold % xxx %

= = = = = = =

rising intonation, interruption of a turn, laughter, short break, break, that lasts a number of seconds, accentuation, quiet.

. The indices of the interviews (here B ON 100) correspond to the official indices of the DFG-project ‘Perspectivity in discourse’. . This segment may serve as an announcement, see Rehbein (1981). . When knowledge is referred to, this is done in correspondence to the term as it is worked out by Ehlich and Rehbein (1977). . This function of direct speech was clearly seen by Coulmas: “The speaker does not claim authorship for a part of his utterance which he ascribes to another speaker or unspecified source. This part of his utterance does not serve a regular referential function such that words refer to things. Rather, they refer to words, not to any arbitrary words, that is,

 Ursula Bredel

but purportedly to those that some other speaker uttered at some other time” (Coulmas 1986b: 12). . Thompson (1996) characterises this phenomenon as inserting a foreign speaker’s attitude.

References Bakhtin, M. (1979). Die Ästhetik des Wortes. (R. Grübel, Ed.; R. Grübel & S. Reese, Trans.). Frankfurt: Suhrkamp. Bakhtin, M. (1981). The Dialogic Imagination. Four Essays. (M. Holquist, Ed.; C. Emerson & M. Holquist, Trans.). Austin: University of Texas Press. Banfield, A. (1982). Unspeakable Sentences. Narration and Representation in the Language of Fiction. Boston: Routledge & Kegan Paul. Bredel, U. (1999). Erzählen im Umbruch. Studie zur narrativen Verarbeitung der “Wende” 1989. Tübingen: Stauffenburg. Bredel, U. & Dittmar, J. (1997). Strukturelle Planbrüche als Hinweise auf Registerkonflikte im Sprachgebrauch von Ostberlinern nach der Wende. Deutsche Sprache, 25(1), 39–53. Comrie, B. (1986). Tense in indirect speech. Berlin: de Gruyter. Coulmas, F. (Ed.). (1986a). Direct and Indirect Speech. Berlin/New York/Amsterdam: Mouton. Coulmas, F. (1986b). Reported speech: Some general issues. In F. Coulmas (Ed.) (pp. 1–28). Declerck, R. (1990). Sequence of tenses in English. Folia Linguistica, 24, 513–544. Dittmar, N. (1996). The modal particles “halt” and “eben” as indicators of register change in the Berlin speech community after the fall of the wall. Unpubl. Ms., Freie Universität Berlin. Ehlich, K. (1983). Alltägliches Erzählen. In W. Sanders & K. Wegenast (Eds.), Erzählen für Kinder–Erzählen von Gott. Begegnung zwischen Sprachwissenschaft und Theologie (pp. 128–150). Stuttgart/Berlin/Köln/Mainz: Kohlhammer. Ehlich, K. & Rehbein, J. (1977). Wissen, kommunikatives Handeln und die Schule. In H. Goeppert (Ed.), Sprachverhalten im Unterricht (pp. 36–114). München: Fink. Goffman, E. (1974). Frame analysis: An essay on the organisation of experience. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Huddleston, R. (1989). The treatment of tense in indirect speech. Folia Linguistica, 23, 335– 340. Jefferson, G. (1979). A technique for inviting laughter and its subsequent acceptance declination. In G. Psathas (Ed.), Everyday Language. Studies in Ethnomethodology (pp. 79–96). New York: Wiley. Labov, W. & Waletzky, J. (1967). Narrative analysis: oral versions of personal experience. In J. Helm (Ed.), Essays on the Verbal and Visual Art (pp. 12–44). Seattle/London: American Ethnological Society. Leech, G. & Short, M. (1981). Style in Fiction. London: Longman.

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Lindemann, B. (1993). Einige Fragen an eine Theorie der sprachlichen Perspektivierung. In P. Canisius & M. Gerlach (Eds.), Perspektivität in Sprache und Text (pp. 1–39). Bochum: Brockmeyer. Michel, G. (1985). Biographisches Erzählen – zwischen individuellem Erlebnis und kollektiver Geschichtentradition. Tübingen: Niemeyer. Piaget, J. (1953). Sprechen und Denken des Kindes (N. Stöber, Trans.). Düsseldorf: Schwann. Plank, F. (1984). Zur Rechtfertigung der Numerierung der Personen. In G. Stickel (Ed.), Pragmatik in der Grammatik. Jahrbuch 1983 des Instituts für deutsche Sprache (pp. 195– 205). Düsseldorf: Schwann. Quasthoff, U. (1980). Erzählen in Gesprächen. Linguistische Untersuchungen zu Strukturen und Funktionen am Beispiel einer Kommunikationsform des Alltags. Tübingen: Narr. Rauh, G. (1982). Über die deiktische Funktion des epischen Präteritum: Die Reintegration einer scheinbaren Sonderform in ihren theoretischen Kontext. Indogermanische Forschungen, 87, 22–55. Rauh, G. (1983). Über die deiktische Funktion des epischen Präteritum: Die Reintegration einer scheinbaren Sonderform in ihren theoretischen Kontext. Indogermanische Forschungen, 88, 33–53. [continuation of Rauh 1982]. Rehbein, J. (1980). Sequentielles Erzählen – Erzählstrukturen von Immigranten bei Sozialberatungen in England. In K. Ehlich (Ed.), Erzählen im Alltag (pp. 64–108). Frankfurt: Suhrkamp. Rehbein, J. (1981). Announcing – On Formulating Plans. In F. Coulmas (Ed.), Conversational Routine. Explorations in Standardised Communication Situations and Prepatterned Speech (pp. 215–258). The Hague/Paris/New York: Mouton. Rehbein, J. (1982). Biographisches Erzählen. In E. Lämmert (Ed.), Erzählforschung. Ein Symposion (pp. 51–73). Stuttgart: Metzler. Rehbein, J. (1984). Beschreiben, Berichten und Erzählen. In K. Ehlich (Ed.), Erzählen in der Schule (pp. 67–124). Tübingen: Narr. Rehbein, J. (1989). Biographiefragmente. Nicht-erzählende rekonstruktive Diskursformen in der Hochschulkommission. In R. Kokemohr & W. Marotzki (Eds.), Biographien in komplexen Situationen. Studentenbiographien I (pp. 163–254). Frankfurt a.M./ Bern/New York/Paris: Lang. Schütze, F. (1978). Die Technik des narrativen Interviews in Interaktionsfeldstudien – dargestellt an einem Projekt zur Erforschung von kommunalen Machtstrukturen. Bielefeld: Universität, Fakultät für Soziologie. Schütze, F. (1984). Kognitive Figuren des autobiographischen Stegreiferzählens. In M. Kohli & G. Robert (Eds.), Biographie und soziale Wirklichkeit. Neue Beiträge und Forschungsperspektiven (pp. 78–117). Stuttgart: Metzler. Simpson, P. (1993). Language, ideology and point of view. London etc.: Routledge. Tannen, D. (1986). Introducing constructed dialoge in Greek and American conversational and literary narrative. In F. Coulmas (Ed.) (pp. 311–332). Thompson, G. (1996). Voices in the text: Discourse perspectives on language reports. Applied Linguistics, 17(4), 501–530. Vygotsky, L. S. (1962). Thought and Language. Cambridge, MA: MIT Press.

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Wolf, D. (1990). Being of Several Minds: Voices and Versions of the Self in Early Childhood. In D. Cichetti & M. Beeghly (Eds.), The Self In Transition: Infancy to Childhood (pp. 183– 211). Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Wolfson, N. (1979). The Conversational Historical Present Alternation. Language, 55(1), 168–182.

Ajax is the agent Subject versus passive agent as an indicator of the journalist’s perspective in soccer reports Louise Cornelis

.

Introduction

When a linguist wants to determine which factors in a language vary when the language user takes a certain perspective, he or she has to be sure to compare different perspectives on one single event rather than different perspectives on different events. In such a study of text perspective, the analyst will have to find two (or more) different texts about one single event, an event that allows for different points of view. In this contribution, I will show that a soccer match is such an event: there is one action (the match); the views on that action may differ according to the journalist’s personal views or to the newspaper’s stance. For example, the journalist (in very rare cases, she; henceforth ‘he’) may be biased towards either of the soccer teams, because he is writing for the local newspaper of that particular team, or because one of the teams is a ‘winner’ and deserves more attention and sympathy. Texts in newspapers about soccer matches, therefore, are a rich source for the linguistic study of perspective.1 In Section 2, I discuss the theoretical background to the kind of perspective under consideration. In the approach used, the relation between the language user’s perspective and certain ‘grammatical’ factors is studied. We will look at the role played by the passive voice in expressing perspective. In Section 3, the perspective is analysed of a number of soccer reports that appeared in two Dutch newspapers that could be expected to differ with respect to their view on the event. The event is the national championship of Amsterdam-based Ajax. One of the two newspapers is from Amsterdam; the other is from ‘rival’ Rotterdam, and in general has a rather different view on sports events. As we will see, passives are used in these newspapers in ways consistent with the difference

 Louise Cornelis

in orientation. In Section 4, I will present the results of an experiment that investigated whether readers recognise perspective as indicated by grammatical devices such as the passive. It seems that readers pick up at least some of the indicators for text perspective discussed. Interestingly, however, these indicators are rather hard to manipulate by writers.

. Theoretical background: Subject, passive and perspective According to a number of theories, the grammatical subject can be considered an indicator of perspective. I will discuss suggestions made by Kuno, Ertel, Dik and Tomlin, and present an integration of them in terms of identification. In these approaches to text perspective and the grammatical subject, terminology differs. Kuno (1987: Ch. 5), for example, uses the notion of empathy. According to Kuno, empathy (E) is the ‘camera angle’ or ‘distance’ between the speaker and the participants in the sentence. In Kuno’s words: “In producing natural sentences, speakers unconsciously make the same kind of decisions that film directors make about where to place themselves with respect to the events and states that their sentences are intended to describe” (Kuno 1987: 204). By means of various linguistic means, the speaker expresses this placement relative to the events and states. In the case of ‘close placement’ or even (total or partial) identification of the speaker with one of the participants, Kuno uses the term ‘empathy’. His definition (Kuno 1987: 206) is: “Empathy is the speaker’s identification, which may vary in degree, with a person/thing that participates in the event or state that he describes in a sentence”. One of the means by which empathy is expressed is through the selection of a certain entity for the subject role. The unmarked way of expressing empathy relations with respect to a causal event is an active clause, as in (1a). Thus, in (1a), empathy for the two participants is equal, or the speaker empathises more with John than with William. In (1b), however, the only interpretation is that the speaker empathises more with (‘expresses closer placement to’) William than with John. (1) a. John hit William b. William was being hit by John

E(John) ≥ E(William) E(William) > E(John)

According to Kuno, different empathy effects play a role in language. Kuno expresses them by means of hierarchies. The hierarchy relevant to the passive is the following: E(subject) > E(object) > E(oblique). This means that the participant closest to the speaker (most empathy) will most likely end up in

Ajax is the agent 

subject position in the clause. Next in the empathy hierarchy comes the object, and entities the furthest away will be realised in oblique constituents, for example in the passive agentive phrase (with Dutch door or English by). Thus, when the speaker wants to express closer placement to the patient, he will most likely choose a passive, in order for the patient to end up in the highest empathy signalling position, i.e. as the subject (as in (1b)). One of Kuno’s other hierarchies is E(referent of a personal pronoun) > E(referent of a full NP). Kuno claims that there should be no conflicts in empathy within one single sentence (the ‘Ban on Conflicting Empathy Foci’). This implies for example that personal pronouns are rare in the passive’s oblique phrase: since a pronoun is high on one empathy hierarchy, and the passive’s oblique phrase low on another, the combination of these two is an empathy conflict which, according to Kuno, does not often occur. Indeed, pronouns are rare in the passive’s oblique agentive phrase: in the Eindhoven Corpus (see uit den Boogaart 1975), there are only 4 passives with a door mij (‘by me’) agentive phrase, with a pronominal first person as the passive agent, as compared to 2923 active clauses with ik (‘I’) as the active agent (Cornelis 1997: 137). Third person pronouns occur marginally more frequent in the passive’s doorphrase: the proportion is 11 passives out of 2328 actives. This slightly higher frequency of third person obliques shows the influence of the ‘egocentrism hierarchy’ (E(me) > E(any other person)): when we talk about ourselves, we are most likely to empathise with ourselves, so the first person is most likely to end up in subject position. This means that it is natural to take our own perspective when describing things. A proposal similar to that of Kuno is that of Ertel (1977: 147) in his egoperspective hypothesis: “if the subject of a sentence represents a cognitive unit that has been mentally seized by the speaker one should expect symptoms of relative closeness between the subject element and the speaker’s ego”. By ‘mentally seized’, Ertel means that the speaker mentally ‘grasps’ the NP closest to the speaker’s ego in his ‘phenomenal field’. By means of subject selection, therefore, the speaker may indicate which entity he identifies most with, which entity is closest to him. In cases in which the speaker himself is present in the phenomenal field, this entity obviously is the closest and is most likely to be grasped. Again: the ‘I’ is most likely to become the subject. Dik (1989: 10.2, 212–214) has a view of subject selection which is also similar to that of Kuno. His term is ‘point of view’ (PoV): the speaker has several means to express his or her point of view on the ‘state of affairs’ as expressed in the clause. In some cases, there are lexical means to express a different point

 Louise Cornelis

of view, as with follow/precede. Both sentences in (2) express the same state of affairs, but from a different point of view: (2) a. b.

Joan follows Mary: Mary precedes Joan:

PoV: Joan PoV: Mary

In other cases, there are no lexical means to express a different point of view. In that case, the solution is a passive: (3) a. b. c.

John earns the money: The money ?? John: The money is earned by John:

PoV: John PoV: the money PoV: the money

Although Dik does not make it entirely clear what point of view is, it is clear from the examples that he considers the grammatical subject to be its grammatical indicator. According to Tomlin (1997), finally, the subject is the referent which is ‘attentionally detected’ at the moment of utterance production. An entity which for some reason attracts more attention than others is more likely to become the grammatical subject of the clause. Entities may attract attention for various different reasons. One of the reasons is movement: because of the mechanisms of our perception apparatus, we attend to moving entities more than to static ones. Agents are typical movers: they are the dynamic causers of the event. This, according to Tomlin, may be an important reason why agents are often also the grammatical subject. There may, however, be reasons why the agent does not become the grammatical subject, as in passives. For example, our attention may be drawn to an entity other than the agent because of its size, colour, salience in the environment, or because of its prominence in any other way. One reason why an entity may be more prominent than another is because we identify with it, which makes it stand out as a figure against a ground (in Gestalt-psychological terms, see Cornelis 1997: 79; Langacker 1987). Hence, attention may be drawn through identification mechanisms. Identification again implies that this entity is most like the ‘I’ of the speaker: the most I-like entity becomes the subject. Despite the differences in terminology, and despite some problems with these approaches – the discussion of which goes beyond the scope of this paper (but see Cornelis 1997: 2.3) – the conclusion of this literature is that all other things being equal, the subject of the clause functions as a perspective indicator, its referent being the entity that is most like us, whose perspective we take, and whom we identify with. Identification involves the interaction of two factors: ‘close placement’ or ‘ego-nearness’, and agency (the degree to which an entity

Ajax is the agent

can be considered as acting-through-moving, as actively involved in causing the event). The prototype of both is the acting human being, or the ‘I’. In a simple example sentence such as ‘Litmanen nam de hoekschop’ (Litmanen took the corner), this principle is clear: of the entities involved, Litmanen both receives most attention (as the moving causer) and is most like us as an acting human being: we identify with Litmanen rather than with a corner (if that were at all possible). In the passive ‘de hoekschop werd genomen [door Litmanen]’ (The corner was taken [by Litmanen]), however, the animate actor Litmanen is no longer the subject of the clause. This is, if anything, a marked choice: there seem to be reasons why Litmanen should not be the locus of identification, why he should not receive attention or empathy despite being the prominent human actor. Such a reason could be, for example, that Litmanen is not known yet at that stage in the discourse and has to be introduced before identification becomes possible. It may also be the case that the writer indicates that he does not want to identify with Litmanen: perhaps he does not think much of this player, or perhaps Litmanen failed to successfully take the corner. In the latter case, a little distancing will dissociate the journalist from the player’s failure, about which he is to report next. The precise reason cannot be deduced from an isolated example sentence such as this one, but the principle is clear: in the passive, the actor is not the entity with which we identify most, and this is a marked presentation. Note that the passive is not necessarily used to indicate identification with the patient. A corner is hard to identify with. The only possible thing to say about the patient/subject in passives is that the agent is identified with even less than that patient/subject. Another way to study the meaning of the passive construction is to look at its ‘building blocks’, worden (Dutch: ‘to become, to come into being’) and the past participle. Together, these blocks mean something like ‘process towards a final state’: worden indicates a transition, a change of state, and the past participle indicates the existence of a final state. The two parts of the construction taken together evoke the transition towards a final state of an entity. However, the whole of the construction means more than just the sum of its parts. As, in our model of the world, processes do not occur without being caused, this dynamic transition is conceptualised as caused by an external entity, the causer or agent. The passive construction, therefore, evokes this agent, but leaves it ‘offstage’, non-central in the conceptualisation. To evoke the agent, but to leave it off-stage, is a highly marked choice, especially because the agent is the entity with which the entire event begins, and because that agent is the entity that is so often close and similar to us. The markedness of the choice makes



 Louise Cornelis

the passive suitable to express non-identification with the agent. In brief, in a building-block-based analysis of the passive, its meaning reads ‘process towards a final state, the causer of which should not be identified with’ (see Cornelis 1997: Ch. 3, for a more elaborate explanation of how the passive’s meaning can be derived from its constituting parts and what they evoke). Summing up, the following conclusion about subject versus passive agent holds. Both are indicators of perspective in such a way that they show which one of the entities involved in the event is conceptualised as closest to us or most similar to ‘I’ (as the speaking or writing subject), and which one is not: the subject is close/similar, the passive agent is not. I will refer to this view on perspective (‘close/similar’) as identification, for which I use the symbol ‘I’, analogous to Kuno’s ‘E’ for empathy. This means that there is the following perspective or identification hierarchy: I (subject) > I (passive agent)

In the next section, I will use this conclusion as the basis for a hypothesis about subject selection and the use of passives in Dutch soccer reports.2 The question will be whether the use of subjects and passives is consistent with the identification relations expected on the basis of the orientation of the journalist or the newspaper. Note, however, that the similarity to ‘I’ and the distance to an entity are conceptualised or construed in a certain way, subjectively, by the language user; they are not given in an objective sense. The writer gives his construction of the event, including the identification relations, and he invites the reader to join in, and to conceptualise the event in the same way. Naturally, the writer adapts his construction on the basis of his knowledge of the entire communication situation: a certain given reader may call for a different construction in order for communication to be successful, and when the writer is aware of this, he will present such a construction.

. Ajax in Het Parool versus NRC Handelsblad On May 1st, 1994, the Amsterdam soccer team Ajax won the final round of the Dutch soccer competition and became the national champion. The day after, of course, this fact was reported in all newspapers throughout the country. In this section, I will compare two of those reports, both from papers appearing in the late afternoon of Monday, May 2nd. The first is the report in Het Parool, an Amsterdam-based newspaper, and the second is that of NRC Handelsblad, from Rotterdam, the home town of Feyenoord, the second team in the com-

Ajax is the agent 

petition. Both papers are distributed nation-wide. NRC Handelsblad has the reputation of being the best quality daily newspaper in the country. Het Parool has a stronger local appeal than NRC Handelsblad. Of both papers, I will first give a global comparison. Then, I will compare the use of the passives in the two newspapers, and finally, I will relate these two: is the use of passives (as indicators of the locus of identification as outlined in the previous section) consistent with their global orientation? . Comparison and expectations Both papers report the victory of Ajax on the front pages of the sports section. Het Parool has a large photo of some Ajax players celebrating their victory, in an article called “Van Gaal: ‘Titel triomf van de aanval”’ (Van Gaal: ‘Title triumph of the attack’; van Gaal was the Ajax coach). NRC Handelsblad has a somewhat smaller photo of the winning team, in an article called ‘Swingend Ajax neemt financiële voorsprong’ (Swinging Ajax takes financial head start). Het Parool article concentrates on coach van Gaal’s ideas and evaluations. A report of the match itself is found two pages later, and there are several other articles in the section, each dealing with different aspects of Ajax’s victory: a column, photos and a description of the celebrations afterwards. NRC Handelsblad has the front page article, of which a small part in a separate box is a report of the match, and an interview with a former Ajax player, who had to leave the team during the winning season because of back problems (‘Ik voel me helemaal niet zielig, ik kan alles nog’ I do not feel sorry for myself at all, I can still do anything). As might be expected, it is clear that the victory of the Amsterdam team is of more importance to their townsmen on Het Parool than to NRC Handelsblad. This can be concluded on the basis of the total volume of articles dedicated to the victory alone, which is larger in Het Parool than in NRC Handelsblad. The titles reinforce this impression. From NRC Handelsblad’s title it is clear that this paper, despite (or perhaps because of) its reputation for high quality, has a fairly cynical view of Ajax’s victory: it was not so much a sporting achievement, but rather a financial advantage. The interview with a clear ‘loser’ rather than with a member of the glorious winning team on the same page further reinforces this idea. From this broad description, it becomes clear that Het Parool has taken the Ajax side, whereas NRC Handelsblad distances itself from this team and its victory. This is no more than expected considering the intended audiences of the two papers. The question that is of interest here is whether the language used in the two papers also shows signs of this difference in orientation.

 Louise Cornelis

It may be expected that Het Parool journalists will tend to use linguistic means that also establish a close relationship (i.e. identification) between reader/writer and Ajax: the journalists express identification with Ajax and invite the readers to join in. On the other hand, NRC Handelsblad journalists will use more means that avoid such identification with Ajax. This means that I expect that linguistic instruments convey a message that is related to the content (identification with Ajax or not). I expect the difference to be gradual (i.e. relative to each other) and not absolute: I would not expect it to be the case that NRC Handelsblad used no linguistic means at all that express identification. After all, Ajax is the glorious winner. For the use of the passive, I would expect that Ajax and participants related to Ajax will function in the passive when they are actors (i.e. as agents of passives) more often in NRC Handelsblad than in Het Parool, because NRC Handelsblad will use the passive’s marked signal more often in order to express processes and events caused by Ajax, with which its readers should not, or do not need to, identify. Through the following analysis, it will become clear whether this expectation is justified. . A comparison of the passives used NRC Handelsblad has only two articles on Ajax’s victory, one about money, and an interview with a former Ajax player (the small box on the match was left out of the analysis; it does not contain any passives). Het Parool has two articles that roughly correspond to these: an interview with trainer van Gaal, and an overall impression of Ajax’s championship (‘Wij waren op alle fronten de beste’; We were the best on all fronts). This means that there are two sets of comparable articles, one from each paper: two interviews, and two general impressions. All passives in the four articles were included in the analysis. The first step was to determine (from text and context) whether the (implied or overt) agent is related to Ajax or not. Of the passives with an Ajax-related agent in the articles, the passive’s grammatical subject (i.e. its patient) was also determined. On the basis of the theoretical concepts discussed above, the subject of a clause can be considered an important indicator of the identification relations, in particular relative to the passive’s agent: in the passive, the patient/subject may be identified with more than the agent. In Het Parool’s interview ‘Titel triomf van de aanval’ (Title triumph of the attack), Ajax is the implicit agent in four passives, which, intuitively, might seem to be quite a lot, perhaps more than would be expected. However, in one passive the interviewed Ajax coach van Gaal himself is the patient, and

Ajax is the agent 

in two others, the patient is also an individual: a player that can be sold to or re-bought from another team. So in both papers there are passives in which an Ajax-related individual is the patient-subject, and Ajax as a team (which is conceptualised mostly as an institution buying and selling players) is the passive agent. These passives would seem to indicate that Ajax as a buying and selling institution should not, but that the Ajax-related individuals could be identified with. The other passives with an Ajax-related agent are also interesting. In ‘Mocht de trainer niet slagen in zijn opzet een buitenlandse aanvaller te strikken, dan bestaat de mogelijkheid dat voor een tussenoplossing wordt gekozen’ (If the trainer does not succeed in his plans to contract a foreign attacker, the possibility exists that a compromise will be chosen), it is not immediately clear who is the agent of the choosing. Van Gaal will probably have to negotiate with (for example) Ajax’s financial director in order to reach his goals: his wishes may be incompatible with the financial possibilities of the club. The compromise is not van Gaal’s own decision, but one which is influenced by others. Of course, van Gaal himself wants to ‘succeed in his plans’, and the passive indicates that any other agent that may make him have to compromise should not be identified with. The final Ajax-related agent passive is a matrix clause ending a quotation, ‘was een conclusie die gretig werd getrokken’ (was a conclusion which was eagerly drawn). It is van Gaal who is drawing the conclusion. In Cornelis (1997: 205) I show that passives (of ‘zeggen’; to say) are hardly ever used to introduce direct speech. I argue that that is because the liveliness of direct speech is in conflict with the absence of the ‘sayer’ (the agent), which is evoked by the passive. This passive can be considered infelicitous; it is not entirely clear why it ended up in the text here. NRC Handelsblad’s interview ‘Ik voel me helemaal niet zielig, ik kan alles nog’ (I do not feel sorry for myself at all, I can still do anything), contains five passives. In all of these five passives, the interviewee, former player Rob Alflen, is the subject. In three cases, the agent is Ajax-related (coaches). The other two are not entirely clear. In ‘in november ’93 werd Rob Alflen gewisseld, uit zijn lijden verlost, in het bekerduel tegen de Friese club’ (In November 1993 Rob Alflen was replaced, delivered from his pain, in the cup match against the Frisian team), it even depends on how the causal chain is conceptualised: the severity of Alflen’s pain in that particular match made the trainer replace Alflen, so the trainer’s responsibility is only partial, which makes the passive a good choice. In ‘de voetballer Alflen werd wel vergeleken met een andere Utrechter die bij Ajax furore maakte’ (The player Alflen was compared to another Utrecht player

 Louise Cornelis

who became famous with Ajax), it is not quite clear if his reputation was wellknown generally, or especially by the people of Ajax, who decided to buy him on the basis of the positive comparison. Thus, both interview articles contain passives with Ajax-related agents: in NRC Handelsblad’s article, at least 3 and perhaps 4 out of 5 passives (60–80%); in Het Parool’s article 5 out of 11 (45%). NRC Handelsblad has more Ajaxrelated agents, which is as was expected, but the difference is only small. In all NRC Handelsblad-passives, however, the interviewed player is the subject. The passives seem to indicate that this player rather than Ajax as a team should be identified with. Interestingly, that individual player is an ‘underdog’: he was expelled from Ajax’ selection because of injury. It seems to be the case that NRC Handelsblad identifies more with an injured, individual (ex-)player than with Ajax as a team. In Het Parool, the passives indicate that Ajax as a buying and selling enterprise should not be identified with. In Kuno’s terminology Het Parool expresses more empathy with the individual coach of Ajax than with Ajax as a buying and selling enterprise. In a hierarchy: I(individual) > I(team), with two sub-hierarchies I(underdog) > I(team) (for NRC Handelsblad) and I(coach) > I(team-as-enterprise) for Het Parool. In Het Parool’s general impression of the victory ‘Wij waren op alle fronten de beste’ (We were the best on all fronts), 4 out of a total of 6 passives have vague and unspecified agents, referring to people who have said negative things about Ajax in the recent or remote past. Thus these people should not be identified with: not only are they hard to identify with because they are vague and unspecified, but identification is also undesirable because their attitude towards Ajax is negative. The lead, given in (4), contains two passives (and a stative zijn-passive of which it is not clear whether the agent is general or Danny Blind, ‘vergeten was’; forgotten was – in general, I excluded zijn-passives from the analysis; see Cornelis 1997: 68 for a motivation of considering worden-passives the only ‘real’ Dutch passives), one of which is one of the 4 passives with a general and unspecified agent that is potentially negative about Ajax (the second passive of (4)). Indeed, the clause shows just such a negative evaluation by Blind in the did not want to be that accompanies the passive: the memory caused by this agent, whoever it may be, is not desirable. The first passive of the lead contains a door-phrase with an inanimate agent (‘nederlagen’; defeats), and it also expresses a negative event. (4) Vergeten was de ‘rampweek’ in maart, toen Ajax door nederlagen tegen Parma en NEC zowel uit de Europa Cup als uit de nationale beker werd gemikt. Aan die smet op een bewogen en succesvol seizoen wilde Danny

Ajax is the agent

Blind niet meer worden herinnerd. ‘We waren op alle fronten de besten,’ zei hij resoluut. Forgotten was the disaster week in March, when Ajax was chucked out of the national and the European leagues by defeats against Parma and NEC. Of that stain on an emotional and successful season Danny Blind did not want to be reminded any more. ‘We were the best on all fronts,’ he said decidedly.

In the sixth passive of the article, the final of two with a specific agent, the agent is not directly related to Ajax: it is a gynaecologist who was present because the wife of one of the players had a baby on the day of the victory. In NRC Handelsblad’s general impression ‘Swingend Ajax neemt financiële voorsprong’ (Swinging Ajax takes financial head start), Ajax is the implicit agent of 4 out of a total of 8 passive clauses. In three of these, the part of Ajax referred to is the more technical and financial part of the institution, the businessmen buying and selling players or making profit, not the team of players. Only in the last passive, given here as (5), team, which has to do the winning, is the implicit agent. (5) Als een financiële voorsprong ook omgezet kan worden in successen op het veld dreigt er de komende jaren een sportieve verwijdering ten opzichte van de Nederlandse concurrentie. If a financial head start can be transformed into successes on the field, a sporting gap threatens [to occur] in the next years with respect to the Dutch competition.

This is the only instance where the actual winning team is the implicit agent of a passive, and even in this case, it is not Ajax as the present champion. . General comparison In the soccer articles in the two newspapers, passives are used in order to avoid identification with the agent in general. Some examples of that were the vague and unspecified agents that even expressed negative opinions about Ajax. The passive is also used for other actors that are hard to identify with, namely inanimate ones (‘door nederlagen’; by defeats, in (4)). Passives were also used to avoid identification with Ajax as agent. There is only one example of ‘Ajax as the winning team’ as a passive’s agent. As could be expected, this passive occurred in NRC Handelsblad. In the other passives with Ajax-related agents, this agent is ‘Ajax as an organisation or institution’ (buying and selling players, earning money, making a profit, etc.). This usage

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 Louise Cornelis

of Ajax-related agent passives occurred in both newspapers: in Het Parool’s interview with Ajax coach van Gaal, and in NRC Handelsblad’s report on the victory. There is, however, an interesting difference between the passives in these two articles, and that difference lies in their subjects: in Het Parool’s passives with Ajax as the agent, the subject is always an individual player, whereas in NRC Handelsblad’s passives, subjects are vague and unidentified, or even abstract and inanimate: ‘talenten’ (talents) and ‘Zuideuropese interesse’ (Southern-European interest), and ‘geld’ (money). In Kuno’s terms this article expresses more empathy with money and related interests than with Ajax as a team. The article adopts an almost cynical distance to merchandising Ajax: money and related interests are identified with more than the team’s victory. In the two newspapers, there appears to be different identification hierarchies at play. First of all, there is I(individual) > I(team (Ajax)). For Het Parool this seems to be the only hierarchy at stake in the use of passives. In NRC Handelsblad, however, money and financial matters were also more important than the team’s victory. In a hierarchy: I(individual) > I(money and financial interest) > I(Ajax), thus placing Ajax’s sporting achievements below financial profit on the identification hierarchy. This is also the general line of argument in the article (or even in NRC Handelsblad in general, which has a strong financial orientation), and this means that the use of the passive is consistent with it. All in all, the articles do not contain many passives of the expected kind: Ajax is the winner, and winners do not often occur as the agents of passives. However, the passives in the articles are of the expected kind: Ajax occurs slightly more often as the passive’s agent in NRC Handelsblad, and the passives are used in ways that reveal the same perspective on the events as does a global impression of the two newspapers.

. Further empirical evidence: A recognisable perspective Inspired by the analysis of the reports on Ajax in Het Parool and NRC Handelsblad, Janneke van Oorschot and I conducted an experiment (reported in van Oorschot 1996), in which we manipulated the reports of two soccer matches in such a way that one of the teams was either the active agent or the (overt) passive agent in the clauses reporting the events in the match. In the case of a report of a match of Flenk against Rotsal (fictitious names), Flenk was the active agent in one alternative, and Rotsal the agent of passives. In the other alternative, this was the other way around: Flenk was the passive agent and

Ajax is the agent 

Table 1. Design of the experiment

Independent variable: perspective taken as manipulated Text example Passive’s agents Active’s agents Passive’s subjects (patients) Outcome as expected: readers judge article to appear in

Text 1

Text 2

Flenk’s

Rotsal’s

(6) Rotsal Flenk Flenk or neutral Flenk’s hometown

(7) Flenk Rotsal Rotsal or neutral Rotsal’s hometown

Rotsal the active agent. In the case of the passives, the grammatical subject was either neutral or a reference to the other team (see Table 1 for an overview of the experimental design). The following examples are taken from the manipulated texts. Note that the initial letter of names indicates to which team a person belongs: players with names beginning with F are Flenk-players, with R are Rotsal-players (the subjects in the experiment were instructed accordingly): (6) [...] Flenk vocht in de tweede helft flink terug. Een solo van Frits werd onreglementair afgebroken door Roland. Uit de toegekende vrije trap passeerde de spits van Flenk, Frits, keeper Ramon van Rotsal: 1-1. Flenk fought back vigorously in the second half. A solo by Frits was broken off irregularly by Roland. From the subsequent free kick, Flenk’s centre forward Frits passed Rotsal’s goalkeeper Ramon: 1-1. (7) [...] In de tweede helft werd er flink teruggevochten door Flenk. Roland brak een solo van Frits onreglementair af. Uit de toegekende vrije trap werd keeper Ramon van Rotsal gepasseerd door de spits van Flenk, Frits: 1-1. [...] In the second half, there was vigorous counter action [‘fighting back’] by Flenk. Roland broke off a solo by Frits in an irregular manner. From the subsequent free kick, Roman’s goalkeeper Ramon was passed by Flenk’s centre forward Frits: 1-1.

In (6), Flenk is the active agent in the majority of clauses. In (7), it is the passive agent. It was predicted that the subjects would judge (6) to appear in a newspaper of Flenk’s hometown, and (7) in that of Rotsal’s home-town, or a neutral paper (see Table 1). In the experiment, van Oorschot asked 20 subjects to determine to which hometown they expected the newspaper in which the report appeared to be-

 Louise Cornelis

Table 2. Results of the experiment (p < .05)

Number of readers (N=20) who judge the text to appear in Flenk’s hometown

Text 1

Text 2

18

5

long. The results of the experiment indeed show that of those reports where Flenk was the active agent (grammatical subject, as in (6)), 18 out of 20 subjects expected the newspaper to appear in Flenk’s hometown. In the reports where Flenk was the passive agent (in an oblique phrase, as in (7)), however, 15 out of 20 subjects expected the newspaper to appear in Rotsal’s hometown. Table 2 gives an overview of the results of the experiment. The difference of 18 versus 5 judging the report to be written from Flenk’s perspective is statistically significant (p < .05). The experiment strikingly confirms the textual analysis reported above: readers clearly recognise the journalist’s perspective through such linguistic means as the passive by interpreting those linguistic signals as indications of the identification relations. It cannot be concluded, however, that it is the passive agent that led the subjects to the correct answers, but the passives themselves do, by providing an indication of the journalist’s perspective either through indicating negative identification (the passives), or through indicating positive identification (the subjects). Interestingly, the subjects in the experiment were asked to think aloud, and in the protocols they often indicated that they used the sentence’s starting points in order to determine the expected home town (one of the subjects claimed to have chosen one of the home towns because ‘daar begint het steeds mee’; it starts with that all the time). The starting point is the sentence’s initial constituent (MacWhinney 1977) or initial participant, and it is also considered to be an indicator of perspective. Subjects tend to occur clause-initially, and passive agents more towards the end of the clause. There is a correlation between voice (active versus passive) and starting point (agent versus patient). It is not entirely clear, therefore, whether position in the clause or grammatical function was decisive for the subjects in the experiment. In order to determine whether ‘starting point’ or ‘grammatical subject’ is the more important indicator of perspective, van Oorschot analysed a large number of soccer reports. She showed that in these texts, grammatical subject is a clearer indicator of perspective than starting point because there are more neutral starting points in the texts than neutral subjects. Many starting points in the soccer reports in van Oorschot’s sample are neutral, for example by giving the time of a certain action only (‘in de tiende minuut’; in the tenth minute).

Ajax is the agent 

It seems justified to use grammatical subjects in text analysis, for clearer results, even though it is not entirely clear what is used more by readers, grammatical subject or clause-initial referent, in order to determine the perspective (as was shown in the experiment). Other results from this analysis of a great number of soccer reports from various different newspapers (regional as well as national) show that a journalist’s perspective as showing from his choice of grammatical subjects is influenced by several factors. For example, in the national newspapers, the three major teams of the Dutch competition (Ajax, PSV and Feyenoord) are identified with more than the other teams. In general, the winner is identified with more, and so is the team that is performing better in that particular match. One of the most interesting factors van Oorschot found for local newspapers is geographical proximity, an almost literal interpretation of Ertel’s ‘ego-nearness’ and Kuno’s ‘close placement’ as discussed in Section 2. Van Oorschot studied the newspaper De Stem, from Breda in the Southwest of the Netherlands, in particular. In this newspaper, other teams from the South or Southwest are identified with more than teams from the North (other factors remaining equal). Van Oorschot decided to focus on De Stem, because readers of the soccer reports in this newspaper judged those reports as being negatively biased towards the hometown’s soccer team NAC. These reports only differ with respect to van Oorschot’s category of ‘sympathy’, the words used to either negatively or positively qualify the team, and not with respect to identification (‘empathy’ in van Oorschot’s operationalisation: the subjects that refer to NAC as a proportion of the total number of subjects referring to either team). In an interview with van Oorschot, the responsible journalist of De Stem admitted that he did not want the newspaper to seem a fanzine for NAC. In order to function as the ‘conscience’ of NAC, it may be that the journalists of De Stem manipulate verbal sympathy, but not grammatical empathy, and this could mean that sympathy is more easily manipulated in texts than empathy. Van Oorschot’s conclusion from the experiment and the interview is that readers are somehow able to distil an impression of the perspective the text has been written from on the basis of both identification patterns (as in the experiment, with passives and subjects as the important factors) and sympathy (as in their judgement of De Stem being negatively biased), and that sympathy is easier to manipulate for a journalist than empathy.

 Louise Cornelis

. Conclusion and discussion In this contribution, I started by building up the ‘identification hierarchy’ I(subject) > I(passive agent) from the theory that considers both the grammatical subject and the passive agent to be perspective indicators in text. I applied this hierarchy to analyses of soccer reports, showing how newspapers may differ in their identification patterns with respect to the reports on a single soccer event. Subsequently, I discussed an experiment in which readers successfully determined the perspective indicated by – again – subject and passive agent. . Conclusion Summing up, the following conclusions can be drawn: 1. Soccer reports from different newspapers are a fruitful type of text in the study of text perspective: they describe one event from several different perspectives. They show which factors may be important in determining a journalist’s perspective: not only the sport events and the teams involved matter, but also newspaper-internal factors such as a financial or regional orientation. 2. The position the actor takes in a clause is an important indicator of a journalist’s perspective in those soccer reports. The actor as grammatical subject indicates positive identification; the actor as the passive agent indicates the opposite: the passive agent should not be identified with. This means that a (personal) passive may actually contain two indicators of perspective: the agent (implicit or explicit) and the grammatical subject or patient. From the identification relations, the journalist’s perspective may be inferred: the journalist expresses a positive stance towards one of the teams, and a negative one towards the other (with ‘positive’ and ‘negative’ being seen in relation to each other, not as absolute indicators). 3. In order to determine empathy or identification hierarchies, a rather profound analysis of a text is necessary. For example, on the basis of a simple analysis of the passives in NRC Handelsblad’s reports on Ajax’s victory, a possible conclusion would be that NRC Handelsblad journalists violate at least the animacy hierarchy (I(animate entities) > I(inanimate entities)): in the hierarchy found (I(individual) > I(money and financial interest) > I(Ajax)), money and financial interest rank above Ajax. This finding is hard to understand in the light of general theories on identifi-

Ajax is the agent 

cation and empathy, where a champion, consisting of acting sportsmen, would always be expected to be an empathy/identification focus, much more so than abstract notions such as financial interest. However, a better analysis of the text and of the newspaper’s orientation reveals that this strange hierarchy is actually consistent with the paper’s overall message. There may be some universal hierarchies (as in I(first person) > I(any other person), but the actual occurrence in text of constructions and other text perspective indicators depends on the actual text, its context and the communicative situation in which it functions. An analysis of that context and situation is always necessary in order to understand the way language reflects perspective. 4. Readers do well in distilling the journalist’s perspective on the basis of indicators such as subject (or starting point) and passive agent (although it is not entirely clear which indicator is most important and how they come to their conclusions). However, perspective at this ‘grammatical’ level seems to be difficult to manipulate by writers, as compared to ‘sympathy’. . Discussion This last point presents a challenge to critical linguistics. In this approach to the analysis of the function of language in society, the passive is seen as a means to mystify (see for example Hodge & Kress 1993: 33): since the passive makes it possible not to specify the agent, it may be used to leave the responsible entity vague. Hodge and Kress (1993: 134) give examples from a historical text by G. R. Elton, in which it is well known is used. They ask: ‘Who knows it well?’ – all adult Englishmen? all historians? specialists in medieval history? G. R. Elton? and they go on to state that the passive ‘creates an impression of objectivity through the impersonality of the language’. This is certainly a possible effect of the passive, frequently encountered in scientific texts (as in this example, and see Cornelis 1997: 7.2 for an evaluation) and in, for example, policy papers (see Cornelis 1997: 5.2), in which the vagueness of the responsible instance may be a crucial factor. However, in the soccer reports analysed here, the vagueness of the identity of the agent is not usually a problem. In the experiment, the agent was made explicit by means of a ‘door’ (by)–phrase, and in the reports on Ajax’ national championship, it is obvious that Ajax is the agent of some clauses. In other passives, the identity of the agent does not matter, and ‘mystification’ is a term far too weighty. In example (4), the passive ‘Danny Blind wilde niet meer worden herinnerd’ (Danny Blind did not want to be reminded any more), the agent

 Louise Cornelis

of ‘herinneren’ (to remind) is a general and unspecified one, and its identity does not need to be further specified. Mystification is not a problem here, and neither is vagueness. However, the research reported here shows that mystification of the agent is not the only function of the passive that could be of importance to critical discourse analysis. Although the soccer reports in Het Parool and NRC Handelsblad did not contain any unexpected indicators of perspective (the way subjects and passive agents are used is consistent with the overall orientation of the newspaper), the reports on NAC in De Stem, studied by van Oorschot, show inconsistencies that could be attributed to (rather annoying, but harmless) manipulation: the lexical means in the article point towards a different (not NAC’s) perspective than do the grammatical means (NAC’s). Readers consciously recognise the first (readers of De Stem judge the reports on NAC as being negatively biased) and are manipulatable on this level. However, they are also able to judge the second (as the experiment reported in Section 4 has shown). For writers it appears to be more difficult to manipulate these grammatical realisations of identification than the lexical realisations of sympathy (as can be concluded from the interview with the journalist of De Stem). Therefore, perspective indicators such as subject and passive agent should be considered in any critical analysis of a text. It may then become possible to separate conscious manipulation of perspective (lexical) from unconscious mechanisms (grammatical) that may show a different and un-manipulated perspective. In other texts than soccer reports, more harmful traces of manipulation may occur. This article has shown how to discover them.

Notes . The research leading to this publication has been made possible by a grant from the Netherlands Organisation for Scientific Research NWO, foundation for Language, Speech and Logic (TSL). I would like to thank Arie Verhagen and Janneke van Oorschot for their co-operation on the analysis of soccer reports. . The research reported in Sections 3 and 4 pertains to textual materials in Dutch, whereas the theoretical discussion in Section 2 is based on examples in English. I assume that the textual functions of the passive, especially its effects on the expressed point of view, are rather similar in different languages, especially when these languages are related historically.

Ajax is the agent 

References Cornelis, L. H. (1997). Passive and perspective. Amsterdam/Atlanta: Rodopi. Dik, S. C. (1989). The Theory of Functional Grammar. Part I: The structure of the clause. Dordrecht: Foris. Ertel, S. (1977). Where do the subjects of sentences come from? In S. Rosenberg (Ed.), Sentence production. Developments in Research and Theory (pp. 141–167). Hillsdale: Erlbaum. Hodge, R. & Kress, G. (1993). Language as Ideology. London and New York: Routledge. Kuno, S. (1987). Functional Syntax. Anaphora, Discourse and Empathy. Chicago: University Press. Langacker, R. (1987). Foundations of Cognitive Grammar. Volume 1. Theoretical Prerequisites. Stanford: Stanford University Press. MacWhinney, B. (1977). Starting Points. Language, 53, 152–168. Tomlin, Russell S. (1997). Mapping Conceptual Representations into Linguistic Representations: The Role of Attention in Grammar. In J. Nuyts & E. Pederson (Eds.), Language and conceptualization (pp. 162–189). Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. uit den Boogaart, P. C. (Ed.). (1975). Woordfrequenties in geschreven en gesproken Nederlands. Utrecht: Oosthoek, Scheltema & Holkema. van Oorschot, J. (1996). Tekstperspectief in Wedstrijdverslagen. Een onderzoek naar het perspectief van de journalist. Unpublished manuscript (Master’s thesis), Department of Dutch, Utrecht University (The Netherlands).

Perspective in medical correspondence English and German letters-to-the-editor Ines-A. Busch-Lauer

.

Introduction: The pragmatics of perspective

Perspectivisation has predominantly been the subject of investigations in the fields of social psychology, literary research and political rhetoric. However, this concept has only inconsistently been applied to linguistic analyses of subjectspecific texts (Laurén & Nordman 1996: 96). Only recently, the linguistic manifestation of author–reader interaction in written specialist texts has been centred on by LSP researchers, basically in genre studies (see Gläser 1990; Swales 1990). Examples for the various approaches applied in this context are presented in Laurén and Nordman (1996) who transferred the concept of ‘point of view’ on a corpus of six Swedish technolects. The collection of articles edited by Markkanen and Schröder (1997) focuses on interpersonal aspects, hedging and related discourse markers in scientific texts. Likewise, Graefen (1997) discusses personal deixis in German scientific articles from various fields and Laurén (1998) presents preliminary results on ‘shift of perspective’ in Swedish sociological texts. The first systematic overview of research in the field of perspectivisation goes back to an article published by Sandig (1996). Following Graumann and Sommer (1986: 5), Canisius (1987), Lindemann (1987) and Graumann (1993: 159), Sandig defines perspective as the “representation of something for somebody from a given position” (1996: 37). It is this particular ‘something’, e.g. an object, a person, a statement, an event, an activity, which is important to an individual person from one or several aspect(s) and it is therefore verbalised on purpose, i.e. for an addressee to achieve a previously defined communicative function.

 Ines-A. Busch-Lauer

Linguistic expressions for perspective may be explicit or implicit. Explicit expressions are for example ‘from my point of view’, ‘I think’, ‘it is my belief ’, which sometimes intuitively indicate deviation from another perspective. Implicit expressions of perspectives include passive constructions (e.g. ‘this can be seen/considered as’) and other impersonal and generalised expressions (e.g. ‘one may consider’, ‘it is generally accepted’). This in fact means that perspective may be expressed linguistically by various degrees of explicitness, which Sandig calls ‘perspectivising styles’. She proposes to consider the linguistic manifestation of perspectives applying the following categories: i. person (who has got the perspective?), ii. point of view (what place and moment of time is relevant?), iii. linguistic repertoire for seeing, perceiving, knowledge, belief and conviction (which linguistic means are used for expressing perspective?), and iv. subject of perspective (what is seen under what circumstances?). Moreover, perspective is considered as a dynamic concept. It may change with time, place, social status, genre, individual and/or group and even within a single text. To study these ‘shifts of perspective’, Sandig distinguishes between the ‘perspective of the agent’ and the ‘perspective the agent derives from others’. Furthermore, she differentiates between the ‘perspective of the addressee’ and a ‘general, common perspective’ of ‘others’. She then elaborated this conception applying examples from everyday language and daily newspapers. Perspectivisation and its devices have since become subject of linguistic research in various areas: political rhetoric, stylistics, diachronic development. A brief overview of some of its results is presented below and will illustrate the general approach. Sauer (1996) transfers the concept of perspective to the analysis of political rhetoric, i.e. the address of Queen Beatrix to the Israeli Parliament. He underlines that “perspectivisation is a functional-communicative procedure which can be used to realise complex observations and different pointof-view relations” (Sauer 1996: 261). Thus, an orator is able and sometimes even forced to select from the linguistic repertoire to make the audience participate in (re)constructing societal experience and ideology. In his investigation Sauer establishes 10 types of perspectives which proved relevant in the Queen’s message, e.g. time perspectives: general then-perspective, a general now-perspective; place perspectives: a now-and-here-perspective; interpersonal perspectives: a Dutch, a Jewish perspective, etc. He concludes that:

Perspective in medical correspondence 

there is neither continuation of perspective nor duration of involvement patterns. The constellation of perspectives and points of view varies partly according to the thematic organisation of the passage, partly according to moral statements and ritual phrases, partly according to commemorative sequences. (Sauer 1996: 262)

Hartung (1997) discusses the interrelationship of perspective and style. He demonstrates that perspective is clearly linked to what is called societal and/or individual thought and considers perspectivisation as basically devoted to human perception and activity (Hartung 1997: 126). Human beings are both physically and mentally at determined places. Thus, the world around them is exactly the one, which they can view upon from this place. Of course, people can – to a certain extent – change place and ‘step by step’ explore different and larger areas of the world or other worlds. Therefore, it seems to be ‘natural’ in communication that human beings present something about their ‘circumstances’ from a certain perspective and that they are sometimes unwilling to consider perspectives of others. Consider for example social status, culture, religious beliefs and ideology, i.e. participants’ objective and subjective worlds. We often perceive a communicative situation from the perspective of the social/professional group which we belong to, or from a perspective which inclines us to identify with it. Scholars, for example, consider research results from the perspective of a specialist and of a member of the scientific community, whereas the public may perceive the same results from quite a different angle. Thus, different and contradictory perspectives evolve and have to be negotiated. Author and addressee may choose rhetorical devices from the linguistic repertoire of their language(s) to keep communication going, to ‘save’ their face and not to ‘threaten’ that of their opponents (see politeness strategies in Brown & Levinson 1987). A very interesting, not yet explored field of perspectivisation is the investigation of shifts of perspective from a diachronic point of view (Gansel 1997). Using the concept of SEARCH, Gansel studied the perspective of the underlying activity, the progression of contents as well as prototypic patterns of formulation in German job advertisements in daily newspapers (19th and 20th centuries). Her study reveals that the semantic roles in texts from the period between 1849–1923 and of 1993 have altered which can be traced when examining the preferred linguistic devices used in these texts. Authors of job advertisements dating from 1993, for example, present themselves as enterprises and not as individuals (as was the case in the 19th century) and they provide

 Ines-A. Busch-Lauer

a full description of the required qualities for the vacant position in a rather impersonal style. This brief look into research on perspectivisation already indicates the enormous communicative potential this field provides for applied linguistic research. Since perspective can be traced in all general and argumentative texts, it is only natural to consider its role in scientific discourse – a communicative area where different approaches, attitudes and views play a decisive role in the further development of science and technology. The present article considers perspective in letters-to-the-editor published in medical journals. Genre and field were chosen because the letters occurring in medical journals have developed into a clear medium of written scientific debate among medical researchers. They reflect readers’ attitudes towards writer(s), topic and presentation of an original publication. Therefore, this genre seems to be ideally suited to study both perspective and shift of perspective. This paper falls into two parts: First, I introduce some basic characteristics of scientific letters-to-the-editor and provide the key data of the studied text material. Then I present some results of the corpus analysis on perspective in 25 English and 25 German letters, which were randomly drawn from quality medical specialist journals. Finally, the role of perspective in medical letters-tothe-editors will be discussed.

. Letters-to-the-editor: Genre characteristics and corpus data . Genre characteristics Specialist journals are the major source of written information transfer between medical researchers, doctors and medical staff. In recent years the ‘publish or perish policy’ as well as the growing need to disseminate medical research results more effectively have provoked major changes in the spectrum of journal publications. On the one hand, we observe a growing specialisation within the range of medical journals which resulted in strict instructions to authors and rather standardised text patterns applied as selection criteria for publication. On the other hand, we can observe a rapid trend towards ‘English only’ and electronic publications on an international scale (Avenarius 1994: 444). In addition, major genre shifts evolve which enable authors and readers to communicate more effectively. In this context a growing number of general medical

Perspective in medical correspondence 

journals have adopted letters-to-the-editor as a forum for scientific debates and discussion. The major reasons why scientists use this genre are: i.

Letters have traditionally been a prominent form to express readers’ opinions and thoughts. ii. Letters express an individual point of view and allow for a rather unconstrained expression of agreement, doubt, criticism, whereas journal articles would require substantial enquiry processes prior to submission. iii. Letters are usually short and will be published in specialist journals in a comparably short time (within 4–6 weeks in weekly journals like The Lancet). iv. Letters-to-the-editor enable a larger audience (both scientists and practitioners) to participate actively in discussions of current medical issues (research results, diagnoses, cases) as well as health policy, to contact fellow researchers and to eventually fill the gap between theory and practice (see Channer 1994). According to Avenarius (1994: 445) the publication of letters in medical journals like The Lancet or The New England Journal of Medicine has already developed into a ‘letter culture’. The Lancet, for example, publishes about 33 letters per issue, the Journal of the Royal Society of Medicine (monthly) an average of 10 letters; the Journal of the American Medical Association about 11 (plus replies by primary authors) and The New England Journal of Medicine about 16 letters per issue. In contrast to this practice, German medical journals publish remarkably few letters (usually 1–2 letters per issue) despite editors’ encouragement of German scientists and practitioners. A preliminary investigation into letters-to-the-editor (Busch-Lauer 1995) revealed that medical journals basically publish two kinds of letters: (i) comments as a response to previously published material and (ii) short communications which present the authors’ own research findings. The investigation gave clear evidence for the fact that German medical journals predominantly publish the latter type of texts whereas international journals basically prefer to publish comments on previous research. The publication of letters-to-the-editor, like any other form of publication, requires the maintenance of certain standards. Therefore, most specialist journals regularly publish guidelines (within the section Instructions to Authors) which constrain the scope and style of the presentations. Authors are requested to strictly adhere to these guidelines, because otherwise their chances to get published will decrease. The traditional British Medical Journal, for example, restricts letters-to-the-editor with regard to length and format (400 words, five

 Ines-A. Busch-Lauer

references, one illustration, double spacing, etc.). Other journals, like Annals of Internal Medicine, Journal of the Royal Society of Medicine, Journal of the American Medical Association and The Lancet, request authors not to exceed 300 or 500 words and not to include more than five references. The ‘Hinweise für Autoren’ (guidelines for authors) in German medical journals are not as strict as the Anglo-American regarding the format and style of letters, except from Deutsche Medizinische Wochenschrift (which allows for 50 lines, one illustration, three authors). The following extract from a letter-to-the-editor written by English native speakers shall illustrate what kind of letters are published in medicine, in particular focusing on the evaluative parts of the letter. The example is taken from the British Medical Journal (16 July 1994: 191): Hormone replacement therapy – Should be used selectively Ward F. Posthuma and colleagues suggest that [...], but their conclusion is flawed. They assume, firstly, that a lower risk of cancer is evidence of a healthy cohort, and, secondly, that hormone replacement therapy has no benefit on [...], yet they provide no evidence to support these assumptions. They also overlook the observation that for many cancers, stage for stage, women have a better survival than men, which has led others to postulate that oestrogens have a protective effect on [...]. The authors ignore the fact that the larger studies of hormone replacement therapy have drawn their groups from populations that are fairly homogeneous, having a common profession [...]. The largest of these studies showed little effect on the relative risk of cardiovascular disease in women using [...]. Hunt et al. compared the mortality rations [...]. The consistent fall in these ratios during the study indicates an effect of treatment rather than selection. Posthuma and colleagues ignore the possibility of bias against the effect of hormone replacement therapy on [...] due to misclassification of users and nonusers [...]. Thus the true reduction in [...] may be even greater [...]. The authors ignore the compelling biological reasons why hormone replacement therapy would be expected to protect against cardiovascular disease, perhaps wishing to lend support to [...], which would lead to unproved and expensive polypharmacy in place of hormone replacement therapy [...].

Usually a letter-to-the-editor first refers to the subject under investigation – the original information (mainly provided in the headline or in the first sentence of the text). This information is then examined from a certain perspective in a step-by-step procedure, either supporting the original author’s opinion by facts or criticizing it, that means seeing it from a contradicting perspective. For this purpose the authors – as a rule – apply research findings of other specialists in

Perspective in medical correspondence 

the field and analyse their individual results relating to the used original information. Finally they provide a conclusion which mainly comprises a summary of the deficiencies of previous research. In our text example the authors discuss the shortcomings of research done by other specialists regarding hormone replacement therapy in women and give reasons why this research is not very convincing. The argumentation starts with fairly weak arguments and continues to strong ones. Interestingly, the evaluative elements of the text also consist of a lot of hedging expressions, i.e. expressions of probability such as “seems to be”, “may be even greater”, which are used to downtone the criticism and therefore make the different perspective less contradicting. The letter contains three main types of perspectivisation: 1. author–research results; 2. author–readers; 3. author–science. These perspectives will be discussed in Section 3 in more detail. . Corpus data The studied corpus material comprises a total of 50 texts which were randomly drawn from medical quality journals. Tables 1 and 2 provide an overview of the scope of the German and English corpora (number of paragraphs, sentences, words as well as words/sentence-ratio). Considering the structure of the letters-to-the-editor in the studied corpus and their contents, we can distinguish between two types: (i) letters which add information to previously published or discussed publications and report on the authors’ own practical experience and (ii) letters which present an argumentation and evaluation of previously published materials. However, these aspects should not be overestimated because letters might have undergone editorial policy prior to publication (rearrangement of items and abridgements). Table 1. Length of corpora (25 English and 25 German texts) # paragraphs

# sentences

# words

words/sentence-ratio

130 135 265

349 442 791

10309 10590 20899

29.5 23.9 26.4

Corpus English corpus German corpus Total # =number of

 Ines-A. Busch-Lauer

Table 2. English and German corpora min.

max.

a.

English corpus # paragraphs # sentences # words words/sentence-ratio

2 7 59 8

7 23 589 35

3.6 13.5 343 25.5

German corpus # paragraphs # sentences # words words/sentence-ratio

2 5 92 14

9 35 719 32

4.5 17.1 353 20.9

# =number of; min. = minimum; max. = maximum; a. = average

Following the communicative-functional approach of text analysis developed by Gläser (1990: 144) and Swales (1990: 137), who consider the interrelation between form, contents and function in texts, we can establish that the following structural-functional units (‘moves’ in terms of Swales 1990) constitute compulsory elements of letters-to-the-editor in both corpora: – – – –

MOVE 1. Establishing reference to the original work MOVE 2. Initial evaluative statements on the publication under investigation MOVE 3. Detailed commentary on the publication, author, impact of research, etc. MOVE 4. Conclusions

Table 3 gives an overview of the occurrence and frequency of these four moves in the studied material. The move analysis is based on the sentence level. When we compare the occurrence and distribution of these four moves in the two corpora, we cannot find striking differences with regard to Moves 1 and 2. However, there are differences in Moves 3 and 4. Obviously, German letters refer more strongly to the description/report of contents, devote particular interest to the authors’ own research and use less critical comments on other researchers’ findings. The English letters, in contrast, use a critical-argumentative pattern and report less on the contents of the original work. They usually include a final statement or evaluation. German letters, however, are more often completed with a general recommendation which also points to research gaps. (For a more detailed description of these moves, see Busch-Lauer 1995.)

Perspective in medical correspondence 

Table 3. Occurrence of moves in the English and German corpora in % English corpus (349 sentences = 100%)

German corpus (442 sentences = 100%)

MOVE 1

54 sentences (15.5%)

62 sentences (14.0%)

MOVE 2 reasons positive evaluation negative evaluation

36 sentences (10.3%) 0.6% 3.4% 6.3%

40 sentences ( 9.1%) 2.0% 4.6% 2.5%

MOVE 3 comment criticism supplement specification generalisation authors’ own research recommendation

202 sentences (57.9%) 16.3% 8.4% 3.7% 8.9% 6.6% 10.6% 3.4%

294 sentences (67.7%) 20.8% 5.9% 4.8% 4.3% 5.0% 23.7% 2.0%

MOVE 4 final statement/comment recommendation others

57 sentences (15.4%) 12.6% 2.3% 1.4%

46 sentences (11.7%) 6.3% 3.4% 0.7%

These different approaches already signal different perspectives medical researchers apply to text organisation and may prove valuable for describing intercultural differences in text organisation as well as intellectual styles, which were intuitively described by Galtung (1983) and empirically studied by Clyne (1987) and Kaplan (1966). Let us now examine the interrelation between moves and perspectives and how this relation is reflected in the two corpora.

. Perspectives and perspectivisation shifts . Perspectives – Some general remarks As defined in the first part of this paper, perspective is understood as the linguistic expression of ‘something’ by a speaker or writer from a certain angle or point of view. Letters and replies as interpersonal genres have a single or multiple author- and readership and express individual and/or collective opinions, ideas, etc. This is because the letters are written by individuals or research teams which first address the editorial board of the journal and then, as their primary

 Ines-A. Busch-Lauer

target, the author(s) of original publications as well as readers of the journal. Thus, author perspective in the studied letters may be considered as (i) the linguistic manifestation of an individual and/or collective point of view regarding published material(s) and as (ii) an expression of the policy of the editorial board members who decided about publication or rejection of submitted letters. However, perspectives and views expressed in the letters need not coincide with the intention/attitude of the editorial staff (as is sometimes indicated). The editorial policy determines which letters will be published and so the publisher’s perspective may become visible. The specialist journal determines a certain scientific view on research results and on their authors, and of course this includes the publisher’s image and prestige. These aspects are influenced by other objective and subjective criteria, like value of contribution, social status of author(s), reputation of author’s institution, etc. When we examine the author perspective (perspective of the letter writers), we can differentiate between three main types which resemble perspectives in peer reviews and reviews in general (Kretzenbacher & Thurmair 1994). These are: (1) author–research results, i.e. the results and textual presentation of an original article, (2) author–readers (author(s) of the original text, editorial board and general public) and (3) author–science. These perspectives will be discussed in the following in connection with the four previously established moves, using sample sentences from the corpus (Cl = English corpus; C2 = German corpus). .. Move 1 Move 1 (Establishing reference to the original work) is used to set the scene, i.e. to familiarise the reader with the subject of investigation. Therefore, the authors often make use of linguistic stereotypes which already point to their perspective on the source material under investigation. The symmetrical constellation of the communicative partners allows writers to choose from a variety of linguistic devices and to either use a very personal style (e.g. personal pronouns, the names of the author(s) they want to address), or a rather impersonal style (e.g. passive constructions, metonymic phrases like “the authors discuss ...”, “im Originalartikel heißt es weiter ...” (in the original paper it is further stated ...)). Furthermore, value statements may be expressed either in a neutral, positive or fairly negative mode or in emotional vs. unemotional style. However, to get published, letter writers have to adapt to regulations and norms of the discipline and of the journal. Therefore, they are advised to pursue a ‘face saving’ strategy (see Brown & Levinson 1987), i.e. they use hedging de-

Perspective in medical correspondence 

vices to avoid direct confrontation with the researchers if they want to express something negative. When we examine the English corpus, authors often make use of the standard initial phrase “I read with interest (author’s name) article in (source) on (topic)”. The writer thus indicates personal involvement in the topic and implicitly signals a positive attitude (‘interest’) towards the contents of the studied publication. In German letters, however, this individual perspective is often hidden via impersonal expressions, passive constructions, e.g. “Die Arbeit von (Name) zeigt interessante Befunde zum Zusammenhang von ...” (The work of (name) shows interesting results pertaining to ...). Thus, the writer remains in the background, at a certain distance. This may be due to writing conventions in science which often require agentless expressions. It may also be a sign of hesitation when expressing critical author perspectives. Passive and impersonal linguistic means are also used in English letters in cases when the writer wants to express (slight) disappointment or disagreement, e.g. “In his article (name) tries to explain”. The phrase “to try to explain” implies that the writer doubts that the author of the original contribution was convincing in his explanation of research and indicates that the author considers the topic from a different point of view. In the German corpus authors of letters-to-the-editor often want to ‘market’ their own research results. Therefore they refer to the source publication, emphasise some critical issues and turn to their own subject under investigation, e.g. “Zum Beitrag von (Name, Quelle) möchte ich über ... Patienten mit ... berichten” (In relation to the contribution of (name, source) I should like to report about our investigation of ... patients ...). Thus, the intention of this author is not to evaluate the results of others (implicitly another perspective is indicated) but to present his own findings. .. Move 2 In Move 2 authors give an initial evaluation of the studied material. The following example is prototypical for the strategy medical researchers apply in this context: (1) positive statement (“we are very much indebted to ..., for the excellent trials”), (2) elaboration on shortcomings (“... does not address an important issue”) and critical aspects (“the title ... was unfortunate”); (3) final statement, in this case a requirement (“should have made this clear”). Cl: We are very much indebted to the GISSI group for the excellent trials that they have conducted, and GISSI-3 (May 7, 1115) adds further to our knowledge of the management of myocardial infarction. In his reply to ...,

 Ines-A. Busch-Lauer

however, Tognoni does not address an important issue. The title of the GISSI paper was unfortunate since it implied that ..., whereas it was in fact a trial of ... The GISSI investigators should have made this clear. (The Lancet, Vol. 344, July 16, 1994: 203)

Interestingly, one can trace a shift from a very personal author’s perspective (“we are”, “our knowledge” – which could also be considered as collective knowledge of cardiologists) to an impersonal, neutral scientific evaluation (“the title ... was unfortunate”, “investigators should have made this clear”). The readers, in particular the authors of the GISSI paper, are also addressed differently, depending on the positive/negative attitude of the writer, i.e. GISSI group can be considered to be less formal than GISSI investigators. A similar strategy is applied in the following German example: C2: (Name) ist es ausgezeichnet gelungen, das Krankheitsbild zu charakterisieren und Diagnostik sowie Differentialdiagnostik aufzuzeigen. Sehr interessant sind die eigenen Untersuchungen der Autoren dargestellt. Wir teilen die Auffassung, daß ... Man sollte sich allerdings im klaren sein, daß ... Bisher werden alle diese Theorien noch untersucht, und, soweit mir bekannt, konnte noch keine bewiesen bzw. abgelehnt werden. ... Zum Abschnitt Therapie möchte ich ergänzend bemerken, daß ... (case report). (DMW 1994, Nr. 47: 1639) Translation: (Name) has succeeded in characterising the illness and diagnostics as well as differential diagnosis. Particularly interesting are the own investigations of the authors. We share the opinion that ... However, one should be clearly aware of the fact that ... So far all these theories are still under investigation, and, to my knowledge, none could be provided evidence for or rejection. ... With regard to the section therapy I would like to add that ...

We can see that German authors again use a rather impersonalised language (“ist es ausgezeichnet gelungen” (has succeeded), “sehr interessant sind” (particularly interesting are ...). The author’s individual perspective is only explicitly expressed in “wir teilen die Auffassung” (we share the opinion), indicating that the author’s opinion coincides with the presented ideas. Furthermore he considers himself part of the scientific community, which is a strategy that has traditionally been used in German scientific discourse – it is also referred to as ‘collective we’, or can be considered as a pluralis majestatis. Having stated his positive evaluation of the publication, the author suddenly leaves his individual perspective to return to a neutral, impersonal style in form of a generalisation (“man sollte sich im klaren sein, daß ...” (one should be clearly aware

Perspective in medical correspondence 

that); “bisher werden noch untersucht” (are still under investigation)). Personal stance (“soweit mir bekannt” (to my knowledge), “möchte ich ergänzend bemerken” (I would like to add) is reintroduced to indicate specialist knowledge and competence. .. Move 3 Move 3 is usually highly argumentative in nature and is basically devoted to a discussion and evaluation of the studied material. The textual passages are organised either in a rather descriptive (German letters) or argumentative (English letters) pattern. This depends on the topic discussed and the genre of the original publication (case, experimental study, editorial) as well as on the individual perspective of the author(s). As can be seen from the examples below, the German text remains impersonal, the author perspective is only implicitly expressed: “Der Einsatz ... ist damit offenbar wesentlich” (The use of ... is apparently essential), “... dürfte entscheidend sein” (might very well be decisive). In contrast, the English example comprises an argumentative analysis of the individual ‘flaws’ which is explicitly directed towards the authors of the original publication (author–reader perspective), without addressing them personally (“the authors ignore the fact ... they”). In this case the English authors of the letter avoid face threatening strategies. C2: Einfluß der Konversionsenzymhemmung In einer prospektiven, offenen Behandlungsstudie konnten Ratzmann und Mitarbeiter zeigen, daß ... (Move 3). Damit bestätigten bzw. erweiterten die Autoren, durch Messung eines anderen tubulären Markers bei hypertensiven Patienten, frühere Beobachtungen (reference on authors’ own results), daß sich die Langzeittherapie mit einem Konversionsenzymhemmer auf das im Rahmen der Entwicklung der diabetischen Nephropathie ebenfalls geschädigte Tubulussystem der Niere günstig auswirkt ... Der Einsatz eines die Angiotensinwirksamkeit blockierenden Therapieprinzipes ist damit offenbar wesentlich für den günstigen Einfluß der blutdrucksenkenden Behandlung auf ... Wie die Ergebnisse aus den Akutversuchen zeigten, dürfte zumindest in diesen der Effekt der geblockten Angiotensinwirksamkeit auf die intrarenale Mikrozirkulation für die Senkung der Exkretion glomerularer wie tubulärer Marker entscheidend sein ... (DMW 1995, 120.Jg., Nr. 1 82) Translation: Impact of Conversion Enzyme Inhibition In a prospective, open study Ratzmann and colleagues presented that ... (Move 3). In this way the authors confirm or extended earlier observations via measurement of another tubular marker in hypertensive patients that

 Ines-A. Busch-Lauer

the long-term therapy using a conversion enzyme inhibitor has a positive effect on the tubulus system that is also impaired in the context of developing diabetic nephropathy ... Use of a therapy approach that is blocking the impact of angiotension seems to be by far more essential to the positive influence of treatments to lower the blood pressure ... As results from acute tests revealed, the effect of the blocked angiotensin impact on the intrarenal microcirculation might at least be decisive for lowering the excretion of glomerular and tubular markers ... Cl: Hormone replacement therapy – Should be used selectively Ward F M Posthuma and colleagues suggest that ..., but their conclusion is flawed. They assume, firstly, that a lower total risk of cancer is evidence of a healthy cohort and, secondly, that hormone replacement therapy has no benefit on ..., yet they provide no evidence to support these assumptions (Move 3). They also overlook the observation that for many cancers, stage for stage, women have a better survival than men, which has led others to postulate that oestrogens have a protective effect on ... The authors ignore the fact ... The authors ignore the compelling biological reasons why hormone replacement therapy would be expected to protect against cardiovascular disease, perhaps wishing to lend support to ... (BMJ, Vol. 309, July 16, 1994: 191)

.. Move 4 Move 4 basically consists of a final statement which might be a comment, a generalisation or a recommendation. Here again, author perspective can be traced. Linguistically, this is expressed by phrases that state opinion, agreement, disagreement. Whereas the English letters make use of personal expressions (“we agree”, “we disagree”), the German letters remain rather vague and impersonal: “Die vorliegenden Daten lassen keinen eindeutigen Schluß zu” (The present data do not allow an unambiguous conclusion). Thus, we can conclude that there is a trend to depersonalise German letters whereas in the English letters there is a tendency to foreground the writer of the letter and to make his perspective explicit. Cl: We agree that hormone replacement therapy should not be prescribed to all postmenopausal women as some with no symptoms and no increased risk ... We disagree with the recommendation not to advocate hormone replacement therapy to prevent cardiovascular disease. In postmenopausal women it seems negligent not to offer this treatment. (BMJ, Vol. 309, 1994: 191)

Perspective in medical correspondence 

C2: Die vorliegenden Daten lassen keinen eindeutigen Schluß zu, welche der beiden Methoden der Wirklichkeit näher kommen – doch dafür war diese Studie wohl auch nicht geplant gewesen. (WMW, Heft 17, 1994: 429) Translation: The present data do not allow an unambiguous conclusion which of the two methods is closer to reality – but this study was also not planned to aim at this objective.

From the examples presented so far, we can assume that there is a link between the structure of the letters, i.e. the arrangement of moves and the types of perspectives used by authors. The perspective author–research results seems to be the most important in the letters and runs through all structural units. However, this perspective is sometimes closely linked to the author–reader perspective which basically occurred in Moves 2 and 3. In these text passages writers often leave their neutral position and present their attitudes in a rather emotional way. To avoid communicative failure, these two perspectives interfere with the generalised author–science perspective which could be found when the research results are questionable, remain debatable and somewhat ‘fuzzy’ and the authors of the letter do not wish to explicitly identify themselves with certain issues (Moves 3 and 4). This generalised perspective is also used in highly evaluative and argumentative text passages. To weaken claims and harsh criticism and to ‘save face’, authors therefore quite often apply indirect expressions and hedges (e.g. “the authors try to explain”, “it seems reasonable to assume”, “this is probably due to ...”). In both corpora ‘author perspective’ is expressed linguistically by personal pronouns, although their total occurrence is smaller compared to the use of passive constructions and impersonal expressions. In the English corpus a total of 72 personal pronouns (47x ‘I’, 24x ‘we’, 1x ‘you’) occurred; in the German corpus 60 personal pronouns (26x ‘ich’ (I), 34x ‘wir’ (we)) and 9x the impersonal form ‘man’ (one). ‘Wir’ (we) was used as (i) a collective expression for the authors as a ‘team’; (ii) plurale majestatis (especially) in German texts and (iii) ‘inclusive we’ for the general readership. The personal pronoun ‘mich’ (me) was used in stereotyped expressions (“I read with interest ...”) as well as to indicate individual (critical) thought (“I look forward to the results of their proposed case-control study to clarify some of these issues”; “I have some doubts ...”). The I-form in the German texts was also used to structure the letters: “Damit komme ich zur Kritik des Hygieneverhaltens vieler Arzte im ...” (Now I touch on the criticism of the hygienic behaviour of many doctors in ...).

 Ines-A. Busch-Lauer

. Perspective ‘author–research results’ This perspective is used to express the writer’s general attitude towards research findings and to approve or to disapprove of individual aspects of the studied material in an unemotional way. In the English corpus it is striking that writers often combine positive and negative, sometimes relatively hesitant depersonalised statements which are presented in a ‘gentleman-like’ manner. It is important to note that hedging devices (e.g. modal verbs like ‘may’, probability adverbs like ‘probably’, ‘obviously’) play a central role in this context to downtone the strictness of statements. Contrast as well as concession are mainly signalled by ‘however’ or ‘but’, cf. C1: (Names’) analysis probably has limited applicability to contemporary practice. Substantial benefits were reported, principally in patients with more severe coronary disease and more so during early rather than late follow-up. However, the findings are weakened by the absence or adjustment for confounding by the probably greater use of ..., about which data were limited in the original studies. (The Lancet, 344, 1994: 1222)

‘Backgrounding of the author’ is often applied in German letters-to-the-editor. In the following example the presence of the author is only noticeable in the final part of the passage (using collective ‘we’ in “halten wir ... für nicht gerechtfertigt” (we consider ... as not justified)) where a concluding evaluation is given. C2: Diese Studie ist ein wichtiger Erfahrungsbericht, der Beachtung finden muß. Aufgrund der Studienmethodik können jedoch die gezogenen Schlußfolgerungen primär nur für die berichtende Klinik gelten. Die grundsätzliche Überlegenheit des einen oder anderen Verfahrens ... als belegt zu betrachten, halten wir aus methodischen Gründen ... für nicht gerechtfertigt. (DMW, 119, 1994: 1372) Translation: This study is an important experience report that really requires attention. Due to the methodology of the study design the derived conclusions may primarily be valid for the reporting ward. We consider the argument of the basic superiority of one or the other procedure ... as evidenced, as not justified from a methodological point of view.

This background position of the author may even lead to the phenomenon that the discipline and not the author himself seems to be decisive in announcing criticism, cf.

Perspective in medical correspondence 

C2: Gegen einige Angaben bezüglich Symptomen und Befunden auf neurologisch-psychiatrischem Gebiet muß aus der Sicht meines Fachgebietes allerdings Einspruch erhoben werden. (DMW, 119, 1994: 1640) Translation: However, from the point of view of my own discipline an objection has to be raised against some data regarding symptoms and results on neurological and psychiatric grounds.

. Perspective ‘author–reader(s)’ This perspective is predominantly used when authors of letters-to-the-editor want to express their support, surprise, unwillingness to accept or disapproval of published hypotheses, data or items. In volume 121 (December 1994: 983), The Lancet published several replies to a provocative article on Fever: Blessing or Curse? (Annals of Internal Medicine 1994: 120). Although all letters are rather critical, this message is conveyed linguistically in various ways. Thus, author– reader perspective may take the form of (i) (partial) agreement on proposed aspects (which is e.g. expressed by positive epithets such as ‘fascinating’ or ‘attractive’), (ii) critical argumentation (‘although’, ‘but’, ‘misunderstanding’, ‘has no basis in’) (iii) complete denial of article (“to consider seriously the wider implications”), cf. examples (a)–(c): a.

reference to aim of article – explication of critical aspects – agreement In his fascinating article, X proposes an attractive hypothesis for the continuing debate on the teleological question of fever as a friend or enemy. This hypothesis reconciles the results of experimental and clinical studies that show ... However, it is important to note that ... (referring to contents) ... Although I agree with Dr. X’s unifying hypothesis, some of the apparent contradictions concerning the ... can be caused by a lack of distinction between ...

b.

controversial attitude – reasoning Although I agree with Dr. X that it is useful to view biological processes ... from an evolutionary perspective, his hypothesis is based on a misunderstanding of the process of evolution ... His assumption has no basis in ...

c.

introduction/reference – main aspect of disapproval – generalisation – address to editors I read with interest Dr. X’s article. In his troubling conclusion he implies that ... It IS disconcerting when a physician or scientist attributes a teleological role to either a disease or a biological response. Scientifically, it must be considered fanciful to assume that fever has an evolutionary basis ... The

 Ines-A. Busch-Lauer

author proposes that ... (contents) ... On the surface, his assumptions seem plausible and are reminiscent of hypotheses ... I encourage the editors of this and other prestigious journals to consider seriously the broader implications of unsupported perspectives that may often have as their origins unsupported genetic or social principles, especially in the light of the history of such theories in the 20th century.

To show that letters in scientific discourse may also follow a rather exceptional pattern of author–reader perspective, I would like to introduce the following example – a very personal letter, obviously written by a medical researcher with long-standing reputation. It includes an address towards the editor, the author and the general readership. The letter is exceptional because the writer only applies the I-perspective, i.e. presenting his own experience, faults and even feelings and refers to the ‘one case only’ phenomenon which is unusual to consider in medicine. Cl: Dr. X’s letter (source) I regard as important, not only for its intrinsic merit but because, reporting one case only, you, Sir, had the percipience to publish. I approved his discussion paper which I urged him to offer for publication, for his conclusions were very similar to my own. Although I have known him for more than a decade as a result of our shared interest in allergy, I remained ignorant of his own food intolerance, the publication of the details of which I regard as important as his objective studies of his patients, since I believe there is much to be learned from doctors reporting their own symptoms and their management. (J Royal Society of Medicine 87, 1994: 246)

In contrast to the presented English examples I will now focus on some of the letters pursuing an author–reader perspective in the German corpus. Positive epithets (adjectives) are usually applied in the German letters to underline the efforts of a particular research team in presenting findings, (cf. has succeeded, Very interesting are ...). C2: (Name) ist es ausgezeichnet gelungen, das Krankheitsbild zu charakterisieren und Diagnostik sowie Differentialdiagnostik aufzuzeigen. Sehr interessant sind die eigenen Untersuchungen der Autoren dargestellt. (DMW 119, 1994: 1639) Translation: (Name) has succeeded in characterising the illness and diagnostics as well as differential diagnosis. Particularly interesting are the own investigations of the authors.

Perspective in medical correspondence 

Impersonal expressions, passive voice (cf. were not addressed, Insufficiently discussed was ...) and metonymy (the present study should like to ...) are also used in the German corpus to tone down harsh criticism and insufficiency of argumentation. Interestingly, the authors of the original publication are not mentioned in the following examples although the conveyed message is exclusively directed towards them (the quoted contention must be contradicted). This is another indicator for face-saving strategies in scientific discourse. However, this procedure may also be interpreted as being ignorant and impolite. C2: Andere Effekte, wie das fast vollständige Aufgeben des Rauchens, wurden nicht besprochen. Zu wenig diskutiert wurde meiner Meinung nach auch die Gewichtsnormalisierung in der Interventionsgruppe bei gleichzeitiger Gewichtszunahme der Kontrollgruppe. (DMW 119, 1994: 1018) Translation: C2: Other effects such as the almost complete termination of smoking, were not addressed. Insufficiently discussed was, according to my opinion, weight normalisation in the invention group with parallel weight increase in the control group. C2: Obwohl die vorliegende Übersichtsarbeit wohl keine ‘detaillierte’ Behandlungsanleitung (es existiert bislang keine!) vorlegen möchte, muß der zitierten Behauptung widersprochen werden, nach der ... als Therapie der Wahl gelten sollen. (DMW 119, 1994: 1641) Translation: Although the present review article will not provide detailed treatment guidelines (so far there is none!), the cited assumption has to be contradicted, according to which ... shall be considered as therapy of choice.

. Perspective ‘author–science’ The author–science perspective, which implies general statements, is used to signal implications for diagnosis and therapy as well as to indicate research gaps. This perspective often covers the criticism of the letter writer who usually does not present himself in these text passages or appears as part of a general scientific audience (“one should be cautious”, “one can be selective”), cf.: Cl: Practice should be based, when possible, on the results of good clinical trials. Interpretations, however, are not straightforward. One should be cautious about elaborating rigid rules on treatment and incorporating them into local protocols. It would be unfortunate if those physicians who believe that one can be selective about the use of delta blockade after infarction

 Ines-A. Busch-Lauer

were criticised or even penalised for not having achieved a questionable standard. (BMJ, 310, 1995: 61)

Similarly, the author–science perspective is used in German texts to signal criticism. Impersonal constructions (e.g. ‘man’ (one), ‘alle Experten’ (all experts)) implicitly include both the authors’ own perspective and the perspective of ‘third parties’. This strategy shall convince the authors of the original publication that something in their argumentation was wrong, cf . C2: Alle Experten sind sich zweifelsfrei darüber einig, daß beim ClusterKopfschmerz Akupunktur unwirksam ist und auch nicht indiziert ist. Ich selber habe im Laufe der letzten 15 Jahre mehr als 100 Patienten mit Cluster-Kopfschmerz behandelt. Aus der Anamnese ergab sich bei keinem dieser Patienten ein Therapie-Erfolg durch Akupunktur. (Internist 35, 1994: 672) Translation: All experts agree without any doubt that acupuncture is ineffective and also not indicated in case of cluster headache. I have treated more than 100 patients within the course of the last 15 years for cluster headache. The physical examination revealed that acupuncture did not result in a therapy success in none of the patient.

. Shift of perspective To demonstrate how authors may consciously shift perspective, I shall discuss two examples. In the first example, the author perspective changes from a personal stance to a very general attitude. Initially, the author of the letter expresses his personal disappointment about the discrepancy he discovered while reading the original document (‘I am, however, puzzled’). He changes this perspective into a general author–reader perspective (‘the text states’), i.e. how other readers would perceive the contents. To further generalise his point of view, he then enters an author–science perspective which he feels is appropriate to speculate about consequences (‘if the graph is correct this throws doubt on ...’). Thus, the author reduces his presence in the text to emphasise that other readers may arrive at the same critical point. This strategy seems to be persuasive for other readers to have a closer look at the original paper. C1: I am, however, puzzled by an apparent discrepancy between the figure and the text of the article. The text states that 30–60 minutes gained saves about 15 lives/1000 patients, yet the slope of the graph cannot be interpreted as indicating a saving of more than two lives per hour/1000 per hour gained.

Perspective in medical correspondence

If the graph is correct this throws doubt on the cost effectiveness of our treatment, requiring as it does the use of expensive antistreplase as opposed to the streptokinase given in hospital. (BMJ, 310, 1995: 60)

The second example is indicative for the fact that scientific discourse may also go beyond scientific reasoning, which sometimes involves personal conflicts between scientists. Let us trace this shift of perspective through the letter. At first the author presents himself as an authority (‘Koordinator’ (manager of the world wide conducted investigation)) and introduces the perspective from which he (as an expert) evaluates the study. He then categorises his counterpart (leading co-worker) and announces his criticism (I should like to reject that criticism as unfounded)). The author then constructs a whole pattern of arguments and counter-arguments, which finally culminates in a rather impolite personal attack directed to the author of the editorial (The criticism of Schröder is the more surprising...). Not to annoy his readers completely, he finally turns to a generalised statement (One should be warned against a malinterpretation). Thus, he escapes from a rather rude evaluation of another study. Interestingly, this type of critical evaluation was more common in the German letters-to-the-editor than in the studied Anglo-American letters. This suggests that questions of politeness should be studied in connection with author perspective and shifts of perspective. C2: In seinem Leitartikel hat sich Schröder auch zur GUSTO-Studie geäußert. Als Koordinator dieser weltweit durchgeführten Studie in Deutschland möchte ich zu diesem Artikel kritisch Stellung nehmen. Schröder, ein führender Mitarbeiter der ISIS-Arbeitsgruppe, kritisiert ... Ich möchte mit den wesentlichen Argumenten aus dieser Arbeit die Kritik von Schröder als unbegründet zurückweisen. ... Obwohl Schröder diese Vorgabe als geringfügig einstuft, entsprach sie den statistischen Vorgaben der ... . Die Kritik von Schröder erstaunt um so mehr, als in ... Auch die Behauptung, der Vorteil von ... sei mit ... zu erklären, hält einer statistischen Bewertung nicht stand. ... Auch hier muß vor einer Fehlinterpretation gewarnt werden. (DMW 119, 1994: 1220) Translation: In his editorial Schröder also considered the GUSTO-study. Being the co-ordinator of this worldwide study in Germany I like to critically assess this article. Schröder, a leading co-worker of the ISIS-working group criticises ... Using the essential arguments from this work, I would like to reject the criticism of Schröder as being unfounded. ... Although Schröder considers this requirement as low, it corresponded to the statistical requirements of ... . The criticism of Schröder is the more surprising



 Ines-A. Busch-Lauer

regarding... Also the assumption that the benefit of ... which can be explained by ... cannot be statistically evidenced. ... One should be warned against a malinterpretation.

. Summary: The function of perspective in letters-to-the-editor The present article aimed at presenting some findings on perspective in a corpus of 25 English and 25 German letters-to-the-editor taken from medical quality journals. The results reveal that English and German letters follow similar structural patterns but differ in the approaches of writers towards evaluating previously published material. German letters tend to be rather descriptive, whereas English may be considered argumentative in character. The linguistic manifestation of these patterns is determined by the topic under discussion, the individual style of the writer and possibly by intercultural styles of thought which have developed historically within the discipline. It could be established that letters-to-the-editor are rich in perspectives. At least three basic types could be found for author perspective: (1) author–research results; (2) author–readers and (3) author–science. When we examine the linguistic devices authors apply to express their perspective we can state that the English letters used a rather personal style. The authors present themselves as reading subjects in the text. In contrast, the German authors preferred an impersonal style of presentation which puts the writer in the background. In both corpora authors of letters turned to an impersonal style and changed perspective when they expressed their criticism or offered alternative views. A general author–science perspective is taken when writers wish to signal implications for diagnosis and therapy and/or to indicate research gaps. If we consider the studied corpus from an interlingual and intercultural point of view, we can state that English letter writers prefer a polite style of presentation, whereas the German writers sometimes go beyond scientific fairness and apply a rather ‘rude’ form of communication. However, these subjective observations have to be confirmed by further linguistic investigations.

Perspective in medical correspondence

Source material Corpus 1 (C1) – – – – – –

Annals of Internal Medicine: 121, 12: 982–984; The Lancet: 344, October 22, 1994: 1151–1153; 1157; 1165–1166. 344, July 16, 1994: 203. 344, October 29, 1994: 1222–1224. British Medical Journal: 309, July 16, 1994: 191;197. 310, 7 January 1995: 60. Journal of the Royal Society of Medicine: 87, March 1994: 182–183. 87, April 1994: 246–247. 87, September 1994: 672. Journal of the American Medical Association: 272, 24, December 28, 1994, 1901. The New England Journal of Medicine: 332, 3, January 19, 1995, 190–191. 331, 2, 126–127.

Corpus 2 (C2) – – – –

Deutsches Ärzteblatt: 92, 1/2, January 9, 1995: A-12. WMW: 17, 1994: 428–429. Internist: 35, 1994: 672. Deutsche Medizinische Wochenschrift: 1994 28–29: 1018–1019. 36: 1220, 1221–1222. 37: 1259–1260. 38: 1297. 40: 1372. 41: 1412. 42: 1449. 43: 1487. 47: 1639–1641. 44: 1525. 45: 1565–1566. 46: 1603. 48: 1678–1679. 49: 1716–1717. 1995 3: 81.

References Avenarius, H. J. (1994). Vermittelte Kommunikation. Wiener Medizinische Wochenschrift, 141, 441–445. Brown, P. & Levinson, S. (1987). Politeness. Some Universals in Language Usage. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Busch-Lauer, I.-A. (1995). Reader response – Leserbriefe in Fachzeitschriften der Medizin. In I.-A. Busch-Lauer, S. Fiedler & M. Ruge (Eds.), Texte als Gegenstand linguistischer Forschung und Vermittlung. Festschrift fiir Rosemarie Gläser (pp. 91–108). Frankfurt a.M./Bern/New York: Lang. Canisius, P. & M. Gerlach (Eds.). (1987). Perspektivität in Sprache und Text. Bochum: Brockmeyer. Channer, K. S. (1994). Auditing the British Medical Journal. Journal of the Royal Society of Medicine, 87(11), 655–657.



 Ines-A. Busch-Lauer

Clyne, M. (1987). Cultural differences in the organisation of academic texts. English and German. Journal of Pragmatics, 11, 211–247. Galtung, J. (1983). Struktur, Kultur und intellektueller Stil. Ein vergleichender Essay über sachsonische, teutonische, gallische und nipponische Wissenschaft. Leviathan, 2, 303– 338. Gansel, Ch. (1997). Wechsel der Perspektive und veränderte Präferenzen in der Textsorte Stellenangebot. In Ch. Keßler & K.-E. Sommerfeldt (Eds.), Sprachsystem–Text–Stil. Festschrift für Georg Michel und Günther Starke zum 70. Geburtstag (pp. 89–109). Frankfurt a.M./Bern/New York: Lang. Gläser, R. (1990). Fachtextsorten im Englischen. Tübingen: Narr. Graefen, G. (1997). Der Wissenschaftliche Artikel: Textart und Textorganisation. Frankfurt a.M./Bern/New York: Lang. Graumann, C. F. (1993). Perspektivität in Kognition und Sprache. SPIEL, 12(4.2), 156–172. Graumann, C. F. & D. Sommer (1986). Perspektivität und Sprache: 1. Perspektivische Textproduktion, Bericht Nr. 8, Arbeiten der Forschungsgruppe, Sprechen und Sprachverstehen im sozialen Kontext. Heidelberg/Mannheim. Hartung, W. (1997). Perspektive und Stil. In Ch. Keßler & K.-E. Sommerfeldt (Eds.), Sprachsystem–Text–Stil. Festschrift für Georg Michel und Gunther Starke zum 70. Geburtstag (pp. 119–136). Frankfurt a.M./Bern/New York: Lang. Kaplan, R. B. (1966). Cultural Thought Patterns in Intercultural Education. Language Learning, 16, 1–20. Kersting, H. W. & Seusting, J. (1994). Der ärztliche Schriftverkehr. Wiener Medizinische Wochenschrift, 144, 435–437. Kretzenbacher, H. L. & Thurmair, M. (1994). “sicherlich von Interesse, wenngleich ...” Das Peer Review als bewertende Textsorte der Wissenschaftssprache. In H. L. Kretzenbacher & H. Weinrich (Eds.), Linguistik der Wissenschaftssprache (pp. 175–215). Berlin/New York: de Gruyter. Laurén, C. (1998). Shift of Perspective in Scientific Texts: A Study of Idiolect. In L. Lundquist, H. Picht & J. Qvistgaard (Eds.), Proceedings of the 11th European Symposium on Languages for Special Purposes. LSP Identity and Interface. Research, Knowledge and Society. Copenhagen, August 1997, Vol. 1 (pp. 495–472). Copenhagen: CBS. Laurén, C. & Nordman, M. (1996). Wissenschaftliche Technolekte. Frankfurt a.M./Bern/New York: Lang. Lindemann, B. (1987). Einige Fragen an eine Theorie der sprachlichen Perspektivierung. In P. Canisius (Ed.), Perspektivität in Sprache und Text (pp. 1–51). Bochum: Brockmeyer. Markkanen, R. & Schröder, H. (Eds.). (1997). Hedging and Discourse. Approaches to the Analysis of a Pragmatic Phenomenon in Academic Texts. Berlin/New York: de Gruyter. Sandig, B. (1996). Sprachliche Perspektivierung und perspektivierende Stile. Zeitschrift für Literaturwissenschaft und Linguistik, 26(102), 36–63. Sauer, Ch. (1996). Echoes from Abroad – Speeches for the Domestic Audience: Queen Beatrix’ Address to the Israeli Parliament. Current Issues in Language & Society, 3(3), 233–267. Swales, J. M. (1990). Genre Analysis. English in Academic and Research Settings. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.

Name index

A Abelson, R. P. 3, 5, 65 Anderson, R. C. 3, 19 Arnheim, R. 37 Avenarius, H. J. 195 B Baddeley, A. 5 Bakhtin, M. M. 16, 147, 148, 150, 163, 167 Bal, M. 11 Banfield, A. 147 Beatrix, Queen of the Netherlands 192 Bell, P. 28, 33 Bing, J. M. 6, 88 Bobrow, D. G. 5 Borges, J. L. 72 Bredel, U. 9, 10, 16–19, 147, 150 Bronzwaer, W. J. M. 88 Brown, G. 1, 6 Brown, P. 99, 193, 200 Bruce, B. 88 Busch-Lauer, I.-A. 17–19, 191, 198 C Canisius, P. 191 Cantril, H. 85, 86 Capps, D. 87 Carlson, T. B. 104 Chafe, W. 3, 65 Channer, K. S. 195 Clark, H. H. 1, 4, 87, 88, 104 Clayman, S. 8, 91, 109, 113, 114 Clyne, M. 199

Comrie, B. 167 Connell, I. 104 Cornelis, L. H. 10, 17–19, 171, 174, 176, 179, 180, 187 Coulmas, F. 167 Coulthard, M. 104 D Declerck, R. 167 Delli Carpini, M. X. 103 Denzin, N. K. 88 Deutschberger, P. 97 Dik, S. C. 172–174 Dittmar, J. 150 Dittmar, N. 150 E Eco, U. 54 Edwards, D. 6 Ehlich, K. 150, 151, 167 Elias, N. 33 Ensink, T. 1, 8, 9, 16–18, 63, 65, 88, 112, 113 Entman, R. 6, 88 Ertel, S. 172, 173, 185 F Fairclough, N. 1 Fauconnier, G. 5 Fillmore, C. 65, 99, 100 Fishman, M. 93 Frake, C. O. 3, 7, 65 G Galasinski, D. 104

 Name index

Galtung, J. 199 Gansel, Ch. 193 Garton, G. 109, 141 Gitlin, T. 6 Gläser, R. 191, 198 Goffman, E. 3, 4, 7–9, 16, 18, 63, 68–70, 72, 88, 91, 92, 94–97, 100, 101, 103, 109, 112–114, 142, 156 Graefen, G. 191 Graumann, C. F. 19, 191 Greatbatch, D. 109, 113–115, 117, 132 Gregory, R. L. 31, 88 Gruber, H. 104 H Halliday, M. A. K. 87 Hartung, W. 193 Hasan, R. 87 Haviland, S. E. 87 Heritage, J. 8, 109, 113, 114, 117, 123 Herman, V. 95 Hitler, A. 78–81, 83 Hodge, R. 187 Holly, W. 130, 133 Huddleston, R. 167 Hymes, D. 65 I Iedema, R.

L Labov, W. 154, 164 Lakoff, G. 3, 26, 60 Lakoff, R. 99 Langacker, R. 174 Laurén, C. 191 Lebar, M. T. 96 Lee, David A. 3, 63, 65, 66, 68 Leech, G. 147 Levelt, W. J. M. 10 Levinson, S. C. 8, 99–101, 142, 193, 200 Lévi-Strauss, C. 40, 41 Lindemann, B. 167, 191 Linell, P. 91 Livingstone, S. 133 Lombardo, L. X. 6, 88 Love, A. 104 Lull, R. 42, 43 Lunt, P. 133 Lyons, J. 100, 101

46, 56

J Jacobs, G. 9, 16–19, 91, 96, 103, 104 Jefferson, G. 143, 155 Jenninger, Ph. 78–83, 104 Johnson, M. 26, 37, 60 Jones, N. 143 Jones, P. 101 Jönsson, L. 91 Jucker, A. 109, 114 K Kaplan, R. B.

Keller, C. M. 88 Kintsch, W. 6 Kosicki, G. 6, 88 Kress, G. 24, 25, 32, 37, 60, 187 Kretzenbacher, H. L. 200 Kroger, R. O. 1 Kuipers, B. J. 5 Kuno, S. 172, 173, 176, 180, 182, 185

199

M MacWhinney, B. 184 Malinowski, B. 41 Malone, M. J. 97 Mandelson, P. 122, 123, 136, 138, 141, 143 Mann, W. C. 87, 148 Markkanen, R. 191 Michel, G. 161 Mikame, H. 10, 11 Minsky, M. 4 Morrison, A. 104 Morton, L. P. 105

Name index 

N Noordman, L. 87 Nordman, M. 191 Norman, D. A. 5

Stratton, G. M. 31 Suchman, L. A. 6 Swales, J. M. 191, 198 Sweetser, E. 3, 5

P Pan, Z. 6, 88 Piaget, J. 167 Pichert, J. W. 19 Plank, F. 149 Pollock, J. 37

T Taels, J. 95 Tannen, D. 3, 7, 8, 63, 65–68, 87, 110, 156, 157 Thompson, G. 148, 149, 156, 163, 168 Thompson, J. B. 91–93, 95, 103, 104 Thompson, S. A. 87 Thorndyke, P. 3 Thurmair, M. 200 Todorov, T. 129 Tomlin, Russell S. 172, 174 Tuchman, G. 6, 93

Q Quasthoff, U. 130, 152, 156 R Ramsey, S. 105 Rauh, G. 163 Redeker, G. 9, 10 Rehbein, J. 151, 154–157, 164, 167 Rothstein, A. 39 Rubin, D. 92 Rumelhart, D. E. 3, 64 S Sacks, H. 91 Sanders, J. 10, 104 Sanders, T. 87 Sandig, B. 9, 10, 17, 191, 192 Sauer, C. 1, 65, 88, 112, 113, 192 Scannell, P. 115 Schank, R. C. 5, 65 Schegloff, E. A. 142 Schiffrin, D. 7 Schröder, H. 191, 211 Schütze, F. 150, 165 Short, M. 147 Sigal, L. V. 96 Simpson, P. 9–11, 163 Sleurs, K. 103 Sommer, D. 191 Sperber, D. 1 Spooren, W. 87

U uit den Boogaart, P. C. Uspensky, B. 30

173

V van den Berg, H. 7 van Dijk, T. A. 6 van Leeuwen, T. 15, 17–19, 23–25, 32, 33, 60 van Oorschot, J. 182–185, 188 Van Waes, L. 96, 103 Vanheeswijck, G. 95 VanSlyke Turk, J. 92 Virilio, P. 58 Vygotsky, L. S. 167 W Waletzky, J. 154, 164 Wallat, C. 7, 63, 65–68 Weinstein, E. A. 97 Welles, O. 84, 85, 88 Whorf, B. L. 24 Williams, B. A. 103 Wilmut, R. 111, 115 Wilson, D. 1

 Name index

Wodak, R. 110 Wolf, D. 149, 165, 167 Wolfson, N. 152 Wood, L. A. 1 Wortham, S. E. F. 8

Y Yekovich, F. R. 3 Yule, G. 1, 6, 68

Subject index

A agent 171, 173–176, 178–184, 186–188, 192 agentive phrase 173 anthropology 3, 7, 65 artificial intelligence 3, 5, 65 attention, attraction of 27, 32, 54, 174, 175 B back 25, 46–51 see also front; dimensions of semiotic space, third dimension background 53, 54 see also back; foreground; front; dimensions of semiotic space, third dimension blending of speakers 163–165 blending of utterances 163, 165 bottom up model of reading 64 C camera movements 35 causer 175, 176 centre 25, 27, 29, 40–48, 51 see also margin; semiotic space ceremony 82–84 cognitive frame 63, 65 cognitive grammar 3 cognitive psychology 5, 65 cognitive science 23 coherence 5, 6, 58, 77, 87 common ground 1

composition 15, 18, 23–29, 31–33, 37, 38, 40–45, 48, 54–56, 58–60 conduit metaphor for communication 1 connection 29, 57, 58, 60 connective devices 28, 58 conversational inference 6 core 51–53 see also enclosure critical linguistics 187 cue 69, 74, 97, 117, 138 see also frame analysis

D decontextualised speech 157, 161, 162, 165 deictic projection 100 deictic simultaneity 100 deixis 10, 100, 101, 113, 191 demon 3 demonstration 83, 95, 96 dimensions of semiotic space horizontal dimension 30–36 third dimension 46–54 vertical dimension 37–39 direct speech 152, 156, 157, 160, 161, 167, 179 directness 149 disconnection 28, 57, 58 discourse analysis 1, 2, 5, 6, 8, 9, 14, 19, 109 discourse role 115, 117 dispreferred response 123 documentation 94, 95

 Subject index

E editorial policy 197, 200 empathy 172, 173, 175, 176, 180, 182, 185–187 enclosure 51–53 see also core ethnography of speaking 3, 7, 66 experiment 17, 19, 31, 172, 182–188 extended mediazation 104

F fabrications 68, 70 see also frame analysis face (front side) 48–51 see also support face (politeness) 193, 203, 205 financial interest 186, 187 footing 4, 8, 9, 16, 63, 68, 88n, 96, 97, 100, 109–116, 125, 128, 129, 132, 137, 138, 141, 142 foreground 53, 54 see also back; background; front; dimensions of semiotic space, third dimension format sketch 16, 109, 111, 112, 115–117, 129 frame 1–9, 11–18, 19n, 27, 58, 63–75, 78, 82–84, 86–88, 91–94, 96, 100, 101, 103, 110–115, 120–122, 124, 129, 133, 141 see also cognitive frame; interactive frame; knowledge frame; transformational frame frame analysis 8, 9, 18, 63, 68, 94, 101, 103 see also cue; fabrication; key; primary frame frame de-embedding 71, 72 frame embedding 8, 9, 18, 63, 69–73, 87 frame shift 63, 70, 71 framing 15, 18, 28, 29, 56–58

front 25, 46–50 see also back; dimensions of semiotic space, third dimension

G genre characteristics 194, 195 given 26, 30, 32–36, 43, 45, 46, 54, 57, 60 see also new; dimensions of semiotic space, horizontal dimension grammatical indicator 174 grammatical subject 172, 174, 178, 183–186 H heteroglossia 147, 167 hierarchy of identification see empathy horizontal dimension see dimensions of semiotic space hybrid construction 163, 164 see also polyphonic construction I icon painting 30 ideal 37–39, 43, 46, 52, 54 see also real; dimensions of semiotic space, vertical dimension identification see empathy indirect speech 148, 156 information value 15, 24–26, 29, 30, 46, 47, 49, 50 see also dimensions of semiotic space interactional sociolinguistics 3, 7 interactive frame 6–9, 16, 63, 68, 71, 86 interactive model of reading 64 interactive multimedia design 23

Subject index 

interpolyphonic constructions 16, 150, 156, 163, 166 see also polyphonic construction intrapolyphonic construction 150–152, 154, 156, 166 see also polyphonic construction K key 4, 7, 9, 15, 16, 18, 39, 45, 49, 55, 56, 63, 69, 88, 92–94, 95, 109, 111–113, 115, 116, 122, 125, 138, 140–142, 194 see also frame analysis; layering; prekeying; upkeying knowledge frame 4–9, 12, 17, 19, 67, 68, 70–72, 75 L laughter 155 layering 4, 88n, 141 see also keying letter-to-the-editor 17, 191, 194, 195–198, 201, 206, 207, 211, 212 lexical choice 10 linguistics 3, 5, 9, 23, 65, 97, 187 literary research 191 M manipulation 188 margin 29, 40–46, 51 see also centre; semiotic space media analysis 6 mediazation 16, 92–94, 104 medical journal 17, 194–196, 213 misunderstanding 73, 74 move analysis 198 multimodality 18, 23, 33 musical phrase 34 mystification 187, 188 N narrative 11, 88n, 147, 150–152, 154–158, 161–167

narrative interview 150, 156, 165, 166 new 26, 30, 32–36, 43, 45, 46, 54, 57, 60 see also given; dimensions of semiotic space, horizontal dimension news interview 109, 112, 113 newspaper layout 39, 46, 56 newspaper report 17, 92, 96, 105, 171, 176, 177, 183–185, 187 O overhearing audience 120

114, 115, 119,

P participation framework 109, 113, 114, 120, 125 passive (passive voice) 17, 18, 171–176, 178–184, 186–188, 192, 200, 201, 205, 209 past participle 175 patient 25, 173, 175, 178, 179, 186, 210 perspective 2, 9–11, 14–19, 82, 99–102, 166, 171–174, 176, 182–188, 191–197, 199–212 perspectivisation 191–194, 197, 199 perspectivisation shift 199, 210 point of view see perspective polarisation 30, 41, 43, 45, 46, 48–50 political rhetoric 97, 191, 192 polyphonic construction 147, 149–151, 165, 166 see also interpolyphonic construction; intrapolyphonic construction; hybrid construction polyphony 16, 17, 148 see also voices prekeying 16, 94, 96, 98, 99, 103, 104 press release 16, 92–105

 Subject index

primary frame 16, 68–70, 112 see also frame analysis public discourse 78, 88 Q quotation 9, 10, 13, 15, 16, 18, 83, 103, 162 quoted speech 157, 162, 165 R radio programme 73, 74, 86 reading 64 real 37–39, 43, 46, 54 see also ideal; dimensions of semiotic space, vertical dimension recipient design 117, 119 reported speech 113, 148 reversibility 95 S salience 15, 24, 27, 29, 44, 54–57, 59, 174 satire 16, 109, 115, 116, 120–122, 124, 126, 127, 129, 130, 140–143 scenic speech 157, 160, 162, 165 schema 3, 5 scientific discourse 194, 202, 208, 209, 211 screen acting 34 script 3, 5 SEARCH 193 segregation 95 self-reference 97, 101, 102, 104 semiotic space 15, 18, 25, 29, 37, 38, 40, 43, 44, 49, 54 see also dimensions of semiotic space semiotics 23, 48, 50 social psychology 9, 65, 191

sociology 3, 7, 65, 93 speech activity 3, 7 staged speech 157, 161, 165 starting point 65, 184 support 48–51 see also face, front side sympathy 171, 185, 187, 188 see also empathy T tabloid newspaper 35 television interview 33, 120 tellability 91 tense 97–102, 152 text perspective 17, 171, 172, 186, 187 third dimension see dimensions of semiotic space three-dimensional structure 46, 51 transformational frame 16, 63, 67–75, 78, 86–88 transition relevance place (TRP) 119 triptych 45, 46 two-dimensional semiotic space 29, 44 type of activity 3, 7, 66, 67 U upkeying 72 V vagueness 187, 188 vertical dimension see dimensions of semiotic space voice 10, 11, 17, 18, 171, 184, 209 see also passive voices 16, 147–152, 154, 156, 157, 160, 162–167 see also polyphony

In the PRAGMATICS AND BEYOND NEW SERIES the following titles have been published thus far or are scheduled for publication: 1. WALTER, Bettyruth: The Jury Summation as Speech Genre: An Ethnographic Study of What it Means to Those who Use it. Amsterdam/Philadelphia, 1988. 2. BARTON, Ellen: Nonsentential Constituents: A Theory of Grammatical Structure and Pragmatic Interpretation. Amsterdam/Philadelphia, 1990. 3. OLEKSY, Wieslaw (ed.): Contrastive Pragmatics. Amsterdam/Philadelphia, 1989. 4. RAFFLER-ENGEL, Walburga von (ed.): Doctor-Patient Interaction. Amsterdam/Philadelphia, 1989. 5. THELIN, Nils B. (ed.): Verbal Aspect in Discourse. Amsterdam/Philadelphia, 1990. 6. VERSCHUEREN, Jef (ed.): Selected Papers from the 1987 International Pragmatics Conference. Vol. I: Pragmatics at Issue. Vol. II: Levels of Linguistic Adaptation. Vol. III: The Pragmatics of Intercultural and International Communication (ed. with Jan Blommaert). Amsterdam/Philadelphia, 1991. 7. LINDENFELD, Jacqueline: Speech and Sociability at French Urban Market Places. Amsterdam/Philadelphia, 1990. 8. YOUNG, Lynne: Language as Behaviour, Language as Code: A Study of Academic English. Amsterdam/Philadelphia, 1990. 9. LUKE, Kang-Kwong: Utterance Particles in Cantonese Conversation. Amsterdam/Philadelphia, 1990. 10. MURRAY, Denise E.: Conversation for Action. The computer terminal as medium of communication. Amsterdam/Philadelphia, 1991. 11. LUONG, Hy V.: Discursive Practices and Linguistic Meanings. The Vietnamese system of person reference. Amsterdam/Philadelphia, 1990. 12. ABRAHAM, Werner (ed.): Discourse Particles. Descriptive and theoretical investigations on the logical, syntactic and pragmatic properties of discourse particles in German. Amsterdam/Philadelphia, 1991. 13. NUYTS, Jan, A. Machtelt BOLKESTEIN and Co VET (eds): Layers and Levels of Representation in Language Theory: A functional view. Amsterdam/Philadelphia, 1990. 14. SCHWARTZ, Ursula: Young Children’s Dyadic Pretend Play. Amsterdam/Philadelphia, 1991. 15. KOMTER, Martha: Conflict and Cooperation in Job Interviews. Amsterdam/Philadelphia, 1991. 16. MANN, William C. and Sandra A. THOMPSON (eds): Discourse Description: Diverse Linguistic Analyses of a Fund-Raising Text. Amsterdam/Philadelphia, 1992. 17. PIÉRAUT-LE BONNIEC, Gilberte and Marlene DOLITSKY (eds): Language Bases ... Discourse Bases. Amsterdam/Philadelphia, 1991. 18. JOHNSTONE, Barbara: Repetition in Arabic Discourse. Paradigms, syntagms and the ecology of language. Amsterdam/Philadelphia, 1991. 19. BAKER, Carolyn D. and Allan LUKE (eds): Towards a Critical Sociology of Reading Pedagogy. Papers of the XII World Congress on Reading. Amsterdam/Philadelphia, 1991. 20. NUYTS, Jan: Aspects of a Cognitive-Pragmatic Theory of Language. On cognition, functionalism, and grammar. Amsterdam/Philadelphia, 1992. 21. SEARLE, John R. et al.: (On) Searle on Conversation. Compiled and introduced by Herman Parret and Jef Verschueren. Amsterdam/Philadelphia, 1992.

22. AUER, Peter and Aldo Di LUZIO (eds): The Contextualization of Language. Amsterdam/Philadelphia, 1992. 23. FORTESCUE, Michael, Peter HARDER and Lars KRISTOFFERSEN (eds): Layered Structure and Reference in a Functional Perspective. Papers from the Functional Grammar Conference, Copenhagen, 1990. Amsterdam/Philadelphia, 1992. 24. MAYNARD, Senko K.: Discourse Modality: Subjectivity, Emotion and Voice in the Japanese Language. Amsterdam/Philadelphia, 1993. 25. COUPER-KUHLEN, Elizabeth: English Speech Rhythm. Form and function in everyday verbal interaction. Amsterdam/Philadelphia, 1993. 26. STYGALL, Gail: Trial Language. A study in differential discourse processing. Amsterdam/ Philadelphia, 1994. 27. SUTER, Hans Jürg: The Wedding Report: A Prototypical Approach to the Study of Traditional Text Types. Amsterdam/Philadelphia, 1993. 28. VAN DE WALLE, Lieve: Pragmatics and Classical Sanskrit. Amsterdam/Philadelphia, 1993. 29. BARSKY, Robert F.: Constructing a Productive Other: Discourse theory and the convention refugee hearing. Amsterdam/Philadelphia, 1994. 30. WORTHAM, Stanton E.F.: Acting Out Participant Examples in the Classroom. Amsterdam/Philadelphia, 1994. 31. WILDGEN, Wolfgang: Process, Image and Meaning. A realistic model of the meanings of sentences and narrative texts. Amsterdam/Philadelphia, 1994. 32. SHIBATANI, Masayoshi and Sandra A. THOMPSON (eds): Essays in Semantics and Pragmatics. Amsterdam/Philadelphia, 1995. 33. GOOSSENS, Louis, Paul PAUWELS, Brygida RUDZKA-OSTYN, Anne-Marie SIMONVANDENBERGEN and Johan VANPARYS: By Word of Mouth. Metaphor, metonymy and linguistic action in a cognitive perspective. Amsterdam/Philadelphia, 1995. 34. BARBE, Katharina: Irony in Context. Amsterdam/Philadelphia, 1995. 35. JUCKER, Andreas H. (ed.): Historical Pragmatics. Pragmatic developments in the history of English. Amsterdam/Philadelphia, 1995. 36. CHILTON, Paul, Mikhail V. ILYIN and Jacob MEY: Political Discourse in Transition in Eastern and Western Europe (1989-1991). Amsterdam/Philadelphia, 1998. 37. CARSTON, Robyn and Seiji UCHIDA (eds): Relevance Theory. Applications and implications. Amsterdam/Philadelphia, 1998. 38. FRETHEIM, Thorstein and Jeanette K. GUNDEL (eds): Reference and Referent Accessibility. Amsterdam/Philadelphia, 1996. 39. HERRING, Susan (ed.): Computer-Mediated Communication. Linguistic, social, and cross-cultural perspectives. Amsterdam/Philadelphia, 1996. 40. DIAMOND, Julie: Status and Power in Verbal Interaction. A study of discourse in a closeknit social network. Amsterdam/Philadelphia, 1996. 41. VENTOLA, Eija and Anna MAURANEN, (eds): Academic Writing. Intercultural and textual issues. Amsterdam/Philadelphia, 1996. 42. WODAK, Ruth and Helga KOTTHOFF (eds): Communicating Gender in Context. Amsterdam/Philadelphia, 1997. 43. JANSSEN, Theo A.J.M. and Wim van der WURFF (eds): Reported Speech. Forms and functions of the verb. Amsterdam/Philadelphia, 1996.

44. BARGIELA-CHIAPPINI, Francesca and Sandra J. HARRIS: Managing Language. The discourse of corporate meetings. Amsterdam/Philadelphia, 1997. 45. PALTRIDGE, Brian: Genre, Frames and Writing in Research Settings. Amsterdam/Philadelphia, 1997. 46. GEORGAKOPOULOU, Alexandra: Narrative Performances. A study of Modern Greek storytelling. Amsterdam/Philadelphia, 1997. 47. CHESTERMAN, Andrew: Contrastive Functional Analysis. Amsterdam/Philadelphia, 1998. 48. KAMIO, Akio: Territory of Information. Amsterdam/Philadelphia, 1997. 49. KURZON, Dennis: Discourse of Silence. Amsterdam/Philadelphia, 1998. 50. GRENOBLE, Lenore: Deixis and Information Packaging in Russian Discourse. Amsterdam/Philadelphia, 1998. 51. BOULIMA, Jamila: Negotiated Interaction in Target Language Classroom Discourse. Amsterdam/Philadelphia, 1999. 52. GILLIS, Steven and Annick DE HOUWER (eds): The Acquisition of Dutch. Amsterdam/ Philadelphia, 1998. 53. MOSEGAARD HANSEN, Maj-Britt: The Function of Discourse Particles. A study with special reference to spoken standard French. Amsterdam/Philadelphia, 1998. 54. HYLAND, Ken: Hedging in Scientific Research Articles. Amsterdam/Philadelphia, 1998. 55. ALLWOOD, Jens and Peter Gärdenfors (eds): Cognitive Semantics. Meaning and cognition. Amsterdam/Philadelphia, 1999. 56. TANAKA, Hiroko: Language, Culture and Social Interaction. Turn-taking in Japanese and Anglo-American English. Amsterdam/Philadelphia, 1999. 57 JUCKER, Andreas H. and Yael ZIV (eds): Discourse Markers. Descriptions and theory. Amsterdam/Philadelphia, 1998. 58. ROUCHOTA, Villy and Andreas H. JUCKER (eds): Current Issues in Relevance Theory. Amsterdam/Philadelphia, 1998. 59. KAMIO, Akio and Ken-ichi TAKAMI (eds): Function and Structure. In honor of Susumu Kuno. 1999. 60. JACOBS, Geert: Preformulating the News. An analysis of the metapragmatics of press releases. 1999. 61. MILLS, Margaret H. (ed.): Slavic Gender Linguistics. 1999. 62. TZANNE, Angeliki: Talking at Cross-Purposes. The dynamics of miscommunication. 2000. 63. BUBLITZ, Wolfram, Uta LENK and Eija VENTOLA (eds.): Coherence in Spoken and Written Discourse. How to create it and how to describe it.Selected papers from the International Workshop on Coherence, Augsburg, 24-27 April 1997. 1999. 64. SVENNEVIG, Jan: Getting Acquainted in Conversation. A study of initial interactions. 1999. 65. COOREN, François: The Organizing Dimension of Communication. 2000. 66. JUCKER, Andreas H., Gerd FRITZ and Franz LEBSANFT (eds.): Historical Dialogue Analysis. 1999. 67. TAAVITSAINEN, Irma, Gunnel MELCHERS and Päivi PAHTA (eds.): Dimensions of Writing in Nonstandard English. 1999. 68. ARNOVICK, Leslie: Diachronic Pragmatics. Seven case studies in English illocutionary development. 1999.

69. NOH, Eun-Ju: The Semantics and Pragmatics of Metarepresentation in English. A relevance-theoretic account. 2000. 70. SORJONEN, Marja-Leena: Responding in Conversation. A study of response particles in Finnish. 2001. 71. GÓMEZ-GONZÁLEZ, María Ángeles: The Theme-Topic Interface. Evidence from English. 2001. 72. MARMARIDOU, Sophia S.A.: Pragmatic Meaning and Cognition. 2000. 73. HESTER, Stephen and David FRANCIS (eds.): Local Educational Order. Ethnomethodological studies of knowledge in action. 2000. 74. TROSBORG, Anna (ed.): Analysing Professional Genres. 2000. 75. PILKINGTON, Adrian: Poetic Effects. A relevance theory perspective. 2000. 76. MATSUI, Tomoko: Bridging and Relevance. 2000. 77. VANDERVEKEN, Daniel and Susumu KUBO (eds.): Essays in Speech Act Theory. 2002. 78. SELL, Roger D. : Literature as Communication. The foundations of mediating criticism. 2000. 79. ANDERSEN, Gisle and Thorstein FRETHEIM (eds.): Pragmatic Markers and Propositional Attitude. 2000. 80. UNGERER, Friedrich (ed.): English Media Texts – Past and Present. Language and textual structure. 2000. 81. DI LUZIO, Aldo, Susanne GÜNTHNER and Franca ORLETTI (eds.): Culture in Communication. Analyses of intercultural situations. 2001. 82. KHALIL, Esam N.: Grounding in English and Arabic News Discourse. 2000. 83. MÁRQUEZ REITER, Rosina: Linguistic Politeness in Britain and Uruguay. A contrastive study of requests and apologies. 2000. 84. ANDERSEN, Gisle: Pragmatic Markers and Sociolinguistic Variation. A relevance-theoretic approach to the language of adolescents. 2001. 85. COLLINS, Daniel E.: Reanimated Voices. Speech reporting in a historical-pragmatic perspective. 2001. 86. IFANTIDOU, Elly: Evidentials and Relevance. 2001. 87. MUSHIN, Ilana: Evidentiality and Epistemological Stance. Narrative retelling. 2001. 88. BAYRAKTAROG
LU, ArFn and Maria SIFIANOU (eds.): Linguistic Politeness Across Boundaries. The case of Greek and Turkish. 2001. 89. ITAKURA, Hiroko: Conversational Dominance and Gender. A study of Japanese speakers in first and second language contexts. 2001. 90. KENESEI, István and Robert M. HARNISH (eds.): Perspectives on Semantics, Pragmatics, and Discourse. A Festschrift for Ferenc Kiefer. 2001. 91. GROSS, Joan: Speaking in Other Voices. An ethnography of Walloon puppet theaters. 2001. 92. GARDNER, Rod: When Listeners Talk. Response tokens and listener stance. 2001. 93. BARON, Bettina and Helga KOTTHOFF (eds.): Gender in Interaction. Perspectives on femininity and masculinity in ethnography and discourse. 2002 94. McILVENNY, Paul (ed.): Talking Gender and Sexuality. 2002. 95. FITZMAURICE, Susan M.: The Familiar Letter in Early Modern English. A pragmatic approach. 2002. 96. HAVERKATE, Henk: The Syntax, Semantics and Pragmatics of Spanish Mood. 2002.

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