There is yet more to a language than its words. Language is also a system, a set of rules for creating sentences and deriving other words. These rules were very explicit in Loglan, and they were the part of the language that had involved the most effort to develop. Can the rules of a language be owned? Probably not. You can patent a machine that uses a certain mathematical formula, but not the formula itself. You can own an implementation of an algorithm, but not the algorithm. There is, however, some blur in this area within the murky world of software patents, so given the right lawyer and the right judge, who knows?
There is one invented language that is essentially owned by a private company, though the terms of ownership have not been tested in court: Klingon is protected by a trademark held by Paramount Pictures. Without proper license, you cannot use the name “Klingon” to describe, say, a book of your own original Klingon poetry. But could you sell the same poems if you didn’t explicitly call them “Klingon” poems? It’s probably not worth it to you to find out, unless the sales of your poetry have somehow provided you with the resources to fight off a bottomless barrel of lawyers. As a practical matter, Paramount owns whatever aspects of the language they say they own. As a legal matter? Unless someone comes up with a very compelling reason to bring on the lawyers, we’ll never know.
In his original Scientific American article, Brown set himself apart from the mad language inventors, with their Utopian missions and blindly confident claims, by presenting himself as the cool, impartial scientist. Clearly, he was anything but cool and impartial.
In the final few pages of the final chapter of his final book on Loglan, the revised grammar he published in 1989, we get a brief, illuminating glimpse of his unguarded ambitions when he launches into a breathless description of what might happen if the experiments showed that Loglan did indeed have a “mind-expanding, thought-facilitating” effect:
Wouldn’t the entire experimental program, in fact, now be seen as a successful assessment of a proposed new educational experience, one that was available to everyone? It might even be seen as a treatment of a disease we didn’t know we had! LLL, the disease of “logical language limitation,” or UNM of “unnecessarily narrowed minds” … And wouldn’t Loglan itself then be seen as the gentle new cure for that ancient human malady? … An antidote for the bigotry with which even “civilized people” tend to view their neighbors in the global village? … This is what is very likely to happen given what the journalists will call a “positive” outcome of our Whorfian experiment … Backed up by such a result, Loglan would probably be seen as ideal in the role of that international auxiliary, for example: the first language to be taught to the world’s school children, the one slated to become everybody’s second tongue … our engineered new second-language would be seen as the mind-expander, the instrument of thought, reason, invention, and exposition … and perhaps also the medium of intercultural mediation, a culture-spanning bridge to a more tolerant and peaceful world.
You can almost see the film reel unrolling behind his starry eyes—the international news conferences, the front-page headlines, the Nobel Prize ceremony. His hopes for Loglan, and for himself, were much grander than he let on. Beneath the detached scientific demeanor lay the passionate soul of a language inventor.
“When he lost the case, Jim couldn’t believe it,” his widow, Evelyn Anderson, told me. “Both he and his lawyer thought they had it for sure. But within a few months he wasn’t talking about it anymore. He just moved on.” He put his energy into other projects—a paper on his theory of the origin of language, a book about his Utopian economic plan, called The Job Market of the Future. He continued to work with a small group of loyal Loglanists, one of whom told me he thought “the split did soften his attitude toward suggestions and criticism from those who stuck with him.”
Brown was seventy-one when he lost the case and had been working on Loglan for over thirty years. It hadn’t brought him money or fame, but it did yield some happiness points. “He considered it pure joy when he was working on it,” Ms. Anderson told me. “Right until the end he was working out something that he found totally fascinating, and he was not put off by the fact that it had not achieved what he had …” She paused for a moment, then continued. “He went to his death thinking it was the greatest thing that he had published.”
Though Brown would never publicly make peace with or accept Lojban, one of the friends who stuck with him in the split told me that “he acknowledged privately that he considered Lojban to be one of his intellectual children, albeit an illegitimate child, that he was still pleased to see succeeding.” Perhaps one day, he thought, after he was gone, the rift would be repaired. But even then, it would still have to be on his terms—they were written into his will. The institute could only accept rapprochement if Bob LeChevalier was no longer involved.
Brown died of a heart attack in 2000 while on a cruise off the coast of the southernmost tip of Argentina, and he was buried there. For about a week after that there was some discussion of reunification on the Lojban message boards—how the vocabularies might merge and so forth—but it faded away quickly. All the action was in Lojban anyway. And that’s where it stayed.
Meaning Quicksand
To all the language curmudgeons out there who insist that people ought to speak more logically, I say, be careful what you wish for. You go on about the “logical” mismatch between “everyone” and “their” in perfectly normal-sounding sentences like “Everyone clapped their hands.” You argue that phrases like “very unique” and “sufficiently enough” don’t make logical sense. You harp on “hopefully” and “literally” and “the reason is because,” all the while calling logic to your side to defend your righteous anger.
Before you judge me as some kind of “anything goes” language heathen, let me just say that I’m not against usage standards. I don’t violate them when I want to sound like an educated person, for the same reason I don’t wear a bikini to a funeral when I want to look like a respectful person. There are social conventions for the way we do lots of things, and it is to everyone’s benefit to be familiar with them. But logic ain’t got nothin' to do with it.
And oh, how grateful I am. Do you know how good we have it, how much easier our speaking lives are made by the fact that language and logic part ways? Consider the word “and.” Why, you barely have to know what you mean when you say it! When you say you “like ham and eggs,” do you have to specify whether you like each of those things as evaluated on its own merits separately or whether you like them served together as an entrée? No. You just lazily throw out your “and” and let context do the rest of the work for you. When you say you “woke up and ate breakfast,” do you mean that you woke up first and then ate breakfast? Or did you do the two things simultaneously? Or maybe your breakfast was asleep, so you woke it up and then ate it. Pshaw, you say. You know what I mean. Perhaps I do, says the Lojbanist. Perhaps I don’t.