Here’s a cleaned-up and more structured version of the transcript, preserving Chomsky’s conceptual flow while making it more readable:
Let’s begin with the relation of reference. It’s a technical notion, used by philosophers and logicians in a particular way. If you look at the tradition of logical philosophy—especially in the modern period—you’ll find it in thinkers like Peirce, Frege, Tarski, Carnap, and Quine.
There’s a well-defined concept here, expressed in works like Quine’s Word and Object. The basic idea is that there’s a relation between a sign—in Peirce’s sense, perhaps a word in a specific language—and some extra-mental entity. For example, the word river, which was studied as early as classical Greece, refers to something "out there," something beyond the mind. That’s the classical relation of reference.
In the sciences, this relation is treated as a normative goal. The aim is to construct systems where signs or concepts actually correspond to things in the extra-mental world. So if you’re working in chemistry and using a term like quark, you’re assuming that quarks exist outside of your mind. The same goes for atoms, stars, and even outdated notions like caloric or phlogiston. The scientific ideal is to develop terms that refer to real things.
But natural language and human life are not formal sciences. So whether ordinary language actually includes a relation of reference is an empirical question.
The term referent comes from this framework—it’s the thing referred to. In Quine’s Word and Object, the word is the sign, and the object is the referent. For example, the word quark is a sign, and the referent is the hypothetical entity it names.
Does natural language work this way?
The classical tradition largely argued that it does not—and I think they were right. Take Aristotle. He gives the example of the word house and asks: what is a house? In his metaphysics, a house is a combination of matter and form. The matter might be bricks and timber—what a physicist could detect. But the form—the design, intended function, the architect’s plan—is a mental construction. It’s not in the object in a physically inspectable way.
You could have something that looks exactly like a house, but it could be a library, a stable, or even a decorative object for your shelf. The visual properties don’t determine what it is—function and intention play a major role. And our concept of house includes quite subtle features. For instance, if I paint the house brown, I’m painting the exterior. But if I paint the room brown, I’m painting the interior—even if it’s a one-room schoolhouse. That tells you something about how we conceptualize these things.
Aristotle was speaking metaphysically here. But in his semantic theory—his theory of signs—he also argued that we have internal signs, which are universal. These are abstract mental representations shared by all people. The external word merely carries the properties of the internal sign. So even the word house isn’t just a sign pointing to a thing; it’s embedded in a conceptual framework with both form and meaning.
These ideas were reinterpreted in the 17th century during what we might call a cognitive revolution. The concepts were reframed in cognitive terms, and I think that’s the right lens to view them through.
The upshot is this: house is not a sign that refers to anything in the physical world. There’s no discrete entity that a physicist can point to and say, “This is a house.” The same goes for river, a concept explored before Aristotle by the Presocratics—Heraclitus, in particular.
Heraclitus asked: how can you cross the same river twice? He might have added: how can you be the same person both times? After all, you’ve changed, and so has the river. So what does it mean to say it’s the same river or the same person?
These aren’t trivial questions. They show that our understanding of sameness and identity is conceptually rich and complex.
For example, I live in Arizona. On my way to work, I cross the Rillito River. I’ve never seen water in it. But long-time residents say that during the monsoon, it flows. Still, it’s the Rillito River—even when it’s dry—because of a mental construction. If the town smoothed it over, painted lines on it, and used it for traffic, it would be a highway. But the object wouldn’t have changed in any significant way. Conversely, we could radically change its course or split it into tributaries, and it would still be the Rillito River.
So river—like house—is a concept with complex mental properties. It can undergo radical changes and remain the same river, or tiny changes and cease to be a river at all. And that’s true of almost every word in our vocabulary—even the simplest ones.
The conclusion, then, is that natural language doesn’t operate through a reference relation. And this wouldn’t have bothered thinkers like Frege, Tarski, or Carnap. They had no interest in natural language anyway—they focused on formal systems, which don’t exhibit these messy properties.
Quine is more ambiguous. In Word and Object, the first half deals with natural language and psychology; the second half turns to what he calls regimented language—essentially the formal systems envisioned by Tarski and Carnap. These are engineered to behave more predictably than natural language.
But as an empirical matter, it seems that human languages just don’t have the Peircean structure of sign, referent, and interpretation. So strictly speaking, natural language doesn’t have semantics in the technical sense.
Semantics, as defined in this tradition, is the study of reference and truth—the latter depending on the former. But these don’t appear to be properties of natural language.
[Curt Jaimungal]: Is this true of all of natural language, or just most of it?
[Chomsky]: Well, here we face a terminological decision. Do we count scientific discourse as part of natural language? There’s the kind of language children acquire effortlessly, without instruction—by age two or three, they’ve mastered enormous complexity with little experience. That’s part of our biological design.
Then there are other kinds of concepts—like quark or atom—which are taught and learned through instruction. If you want to call those part of natural language, fine. But that’s just a question of terminology—not one of substance.
Would you like a condensed version too, or is this good for your purposes?
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ChatGPT said:
Sure. Nelson Goodman's The Structure of Appearance (1951) is a dense but pivotal work in 20th-century analytic philosophy, particularly in the philosophy of perception, language, and logic. It's best approached as an attempt to build a formal system that shows how the world of experience—what we see, feel, hear, etc.—can be constructed or analyzed from a basic set of elements he calls qualia.
Here’s a breakdown to help make sense of it:
🌌 1. The Goal: Constructing the World of Experience
Goodman is trying to describe how we organize and construct our world from immediate experience—without assuming too much beforehand. Think of it like building a reality out of Lego blocks of sensation.
He wants to avoid relying on physical objects, mental representations, or metaphysical assumptions, and instead start from scratch: with the qualia we actually experience.
🧱 2. The Building Blocks: Qualia
Qualia (plural of quale) are the basic units of experience: things like a particular color, a sound, or a spatial location. For Goodman, they are individual and repeatable features of sensory experience.
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A particular shade of red, a certain tone, or a specific temperature are examples.
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He treats them not as mental events but neutral elements used to "build" experience.
So, instead of saying “I see a red apple,” you’d say something like: “This experience contains such-and-such color quale, shape quale, location quale, etc.”
🧭 3. Topology of Qualia: Ordering and Categories
Goodman groups qualia into different categories—like color, place, time, etc.—and then tries to define relations among them:
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How do qualia relate to each other?
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How do we determine that two experiences contain the same quale?
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Can we order them spatially, temporally, or by similarity?
This is where his work gets very technical. He introduces concepts from logical positivism and formal logic to model these relations.
🔄 4. Construal, Not Discovery
Goodman doesn't think we discover the structure of the world—we construct it. And there are multiple ways to construct it.
This is part of a larger view he develops in later works (like Ways of Worldmaking): there is no single correct way to describe or structure the world. Different systems—science, art, perception—all carve up the world differently, and that’s okay.
🧠 5. Anticipating Later Concerns
Goodman's project anticipates several key debates:
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The nature of reference and whether language truly corresponds to the world (cf. Quine, Carnap).
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The constructed nature of worlds—influential in later post-structuralist and constructivist thinking.
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A precursor to discussions of model-dependent realism and perceptual pluralism.
🧵 In Short:
Goodman is asking:
“How can we construct the world from what we actually experience, without importing assumptions about physical objects or metaphysical substances?”
He answers:
By analyzing the world into qualia, defining categories and relations among them, and building up systems (worlds) from this raw experiential material.