However, the further from the world of concrete objects Bliss gets, the more dubious this claim becomes. See if you can determine the meaning of the following combination:
Does it mean “depression,” sad because of negative thoughts? Or maybe something like “forced optimism,” when you feel unhappy and you mentally negate it? Or maybe it’s some kind of bad emotion that happens when you have run out of ideas? Giving up?
According to Bliss’s explanation, the meaning of the combination is “shame,” the feeling you get when you are “unhappy
because your mind 
thinks no
to what you have done.”
Well, sure. That’s one way to create a picturable image for “shame.” But it is not the only way. Another symbol-based language, aUI (the language of space), was developed by John Weilgart in the 1960s, at the same time Bliss was struggling to be heard. His word for “shame” was formed like this:
Weilgart’s image for “shame” is “toward-dark-feeling” because “a boy ashamed flees ‘into the dark’ to hide.” Both Bliss’s and Weilgart’s symbols for shame “look like” what they mean in some way, but there is nothing universal or self-explanatory about either one. The connection between form and meaning makes sense only after they have been explained (assuming a pretty broad reading of “makes sense”). There are many ways to symbolize an idea, and there are many ways to interpret the meaning of a symbol. Pictorial imagery, far from being a transparent, universal basis for communication, is a very, very unreliable way to get your message across.
Even the seventeenth-century language inventors understood this. Although they were developing “real” characters—symbols that would stand for ideas rather than words—they never considered making the characters look like the ideas they represented. Such an approach was considered primitive, unsuitable for abstract, logical thought. They had the example of Egyptian hieroglyphics, which had not yet been deciphered, to discourage them. Hieroglyphics were assumed to stand for the objects they looked like. All other meaning had to be inferred through complicated chains of association. A serpent with a tail in its mouth meant “year” because a year returns into itself. A viper represented a child who plots against its mother because vipers are born by eating their way out of their mothers' bellies. A viper with a stag, however, represented a man who moves fast but without thinking—like the stag would move when trying to get away. All this reading into things was exciting for a good number of mystical-minded types who were swept up in the Egyptology craze of the Renaissance, but not for men of science, like Wilkins. Hieroglyphics could only portray fuzzy religious, spiritual, and magical meaning; they were distinctly unsuited to the needs of a clear, rational language.
Of course, the seventeenth-century understanding of hieroglyphics was wrong. It wasn’t until the Rosetta stone was deciphered in 1822 that the nature of hieroglyphic writing was revealed. The figures did not represent vague, mystical concepts, but regular spoken words. The viper that showed up so often, and inspired all kinds of wrongheaded interpretations about the connotations of viperness, was nothing more than a symbol for the sound “f.”
The sound glyphs combine with meaning glyphs to indicate words. In the symbol for “to cry”—
—the first two symbols represent the sounds “r” and “m,” while the third symbol depicts an eye with lines coming down from it. Two pieces of partial information—the consonants in the word, and a pictorial approximation of its meaning—together indicate the full word, rem. There is no direct route from images to ideas here. Just a bunch of clues that converge on a word—not a concept, a word.
The Egyptian hieroglyphic system of writing died out, but what would have happened to it if it survived over many millennia? Probably this: The pronunciation of the spoken language would have changed, rendering the “sound” aspect of the glyphs harder to discern, and the imagery in the glyphs would have become more stylized and harder to recognize. The sound and meaning cues would have gotten weaker and less helpful. People would have had to resort more and more to just memorizing the glyphs. Imagine this scenario and what you end up with is Chinese writing.
Chinese writing does not operate on a pictographic principle, but Bliss, like a lot of people, became besotted with the idea that it did. He couldn’t really be blamed for this impression. The teacher he hired probably started him off with the most iconic characters, as most teachers do:
Then Bliss would have learned about the poetic ways in which characters combine to make compound characters:
In this simple introduction to Chinese writing, Bliss would have found the primary elements that inspired his own system—pictographic symbols that represented concepts, and a method for combining them to make other concepts.
But he would then start learning a lot of characters that didn’t look anything like what they meant, and a lot of compound characters that had no nice poetic explanation. So he would just have to memorize them, and the more characters he would learn, the harder they would be to remember. And so it makes sense that after a year of learning, he gave up.
But if he had been learning to speak Chinese as well as write it—if he hadn’t been so impressed that he could read out the characters in his own language—perhaps he would have gotten further. Pronouncing the characters in Chinese, rather than in his own language, would help him to see why the character for “clamp,” for example, is formed like this:
It takes this form not because it has some conceptual thing to do with horses but because it is pronounced mà—just as the word “horse” is (but with a different tone). The tree part of the character provides a vague semantic clue that is open to interpretation (clamps are used on wood?), but the horse part is a much more reliable pointer to “clamp” because it doesn’t take you on some roundabout journey of connotation to a concept. Instead, it sets you down on a nice straight path and gives you a little shove toward a word.
Unfortunately, the sound aspect of Chinese characters is not always so readily apparent. Thousands of years of language change coupled with a conservative writing tradition will do that. Look at English, after only a few hundred years of change, holding on to forms like “light” and “knee,” when the pronunciations that gave rise to those spellings are no longer used. The situation in Chinese writing is much worse.
Still, most characters, more than 90 percent, give you some clue about the pronunciation of the word. You can’t depend on those clues entirely, but it makes the task of learning and remembering thousands of characters a little bit easier. Chinese writing doesn’t represent spoken language in the way that alphabetic writing does, but it still represents spoken language—just in a much more complicated way.
But what of the observation, marveled at since Westerners began reporting from the Far East in the sixteenth century, that character writing is understood throughout Asia? How can it be that people who speak completely different, non–mutually intelligible languages understand each other in character writing? The truth is, they don’t. At least not in the way you would imagine from the ever popular “characters transcend language and go straight to concepts” account.