In the Land of INVENTED LANGUAGES (30 page)

Bob wasn't so sure
anyone
owned the rights to the language, or what that would mean in practical terms, and his own research into copyright law indicated that if he tested Brown's claims legally, they wouldn't hold up. He didn't want to have to test them, he explained in a series of letters, but he wouldn't sign any agreement. Through the first few months of 1987 the conflict escalated, with Brown demanding that Bob resign from the project (“Sorry it hasn't worked out for you, Bud”) and Bob refusing (“If I can't find a way to work around our dispute, I will take up the gauntlet you have thrown down, Don Q. But I'm not a windmill and neither are you”). Though Bob had initially agreed that some type of legal protection for Loglan was necessary in order to give the language a chance to stabilize (he just thought the members
who were working on it should be given more freedom with it), as the argument grew more heated, he transformed into a sort of Loglan public-domain crusader. In his view, the only way to advance the language was to give it to the users and let them run with it. His position slowly crystallized into a mission: he would bring this creation to life, even if it meant going against the will of the creator himself.

In March, Bob proposed to Nora in Loglan and she accepted. In April, when Bob ordered some Loglan materials for the class he was teaching, Brown sent his check back. Orders would only be filled for those who signed an “Aficionado Agreement” with a “non-disclosure” clause. When Bob explained to his students what had happened, one of them asked whether they could get around the copyright problem by just making up their own words and substituting them into Loglan sentences. Could they? It was worth a try.

On Memorial Day weekend Bob drove to Philadelphia to help Nora pack up her things and move her into his house in Fairfax, where two of his Loglan-interested friends were visiting. The four of them spent the rest of the weekend laying out a system for creating the new vocabulary, and Bob and Nora then spent their first summer together generating great heaps of paper in their “relexification” of Loglan, which they called Loglan-88. In August they hosted the second Logfest, where the attendees voted on whether it was worth splitting up this already small community in order to have the freedom to do what they wanted. They decided it was, 18–0.

Still, the split was not complete. Bob considered himself to be working on Loglan—Brown's language—and he still held out hope for the possibility of reconciliation. In October, Bob and Nora married. On their honeymoon in Colonial Williamsburg, in
a demonstration of their commitment both to Loglan and to each other, they sustained a two-hour Loglan conversation. Most of it was spent trying to establish that each had understood what the other one said, as good a foundation for a marriage as any.

Upon their return, Bob redoubled his efforts toward his mission. He announced Loglan-88 at a science fiction convention, collected new recruits, and started putting out his own newsletter. A few weeks into 1988, “Jim had fifty Aficionados, and I had a mailing list of three hundred.” In March, he received a letter from Jim, notifying him that he was in violation of Loglan's trademark (to be registered shortly) and that, should he not cease such violation, he risked being sued “for the recovery of profits, damages and costs, with, as you may know, the possibility of treble damages and attorney's fees.”

With that letter, the gauntlet had been irretrievably thrown. Loglan-88 was officially renamed Lojban (from the new words
logji
, “logic,” and
bangu
, “language”), and the Lojbanists incorporated their own, competing (nonprofit) organization, the Logical Language Group (LLG). A year later, the LLG challenged the Loglan trademark. After almost two years of motions and counter-motions, the Trademark Trial and Appeal Board ruled that the trademark should be canceled. A few months later, Brown filed an appeal, and the case went to trial before the federal circuit court. Bob hadn't seen Brown for six years, and hadn't had any direct communication with him for five, when they finally came together in a courtroom in 1992. But no words would be exchanged, not even a glance. “I'd never been snubbed so completely,” Bob told me. “He refused to look at me, like I didn't exist.” Brown lost the appeal.

Can a person own a language? The law is still not really clear on that. The Loglan case did not settle the matter; it said only
that the word “Loglan” could not be trademarked because at the time the trademark was filed (over thirty years after Brown had coined the word) it was already in general use as a “common descriptive term.” (The Loglan case would later be cited in a judgment against Harley-Davidson when the motorcycle company claimed that another company's use of “hog” to mean “motorcycle” was trademark infringement.) The Lojbanists were free to use the word “Loglan” to describe their project (though they continued to call it Lojban).

There is much more to a language, of course, than its name. At the beginning of the dispute (but not in court), Brown claimed he owned the rights to the
vocabulary
of Loglan. Did he? Brown did have copyrights on his books, including the dictionary. But copyright does not extend to each individual word in a copyrighted work, only to the particular configuration of the words. Would it have been possible for him to copyright each Loglan word sepa-rately? Perhaps, but he didn't; to do so would have been too costly and time-consuming (and useless, since the Lojbanists had already made their own words). In any case, such a strategy for language ownership has never been attempted, and it is not clear what the law would have to say about it if challenged in court.

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:

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

T
o 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.

There are many ways to say “and” in Lojban. If you use the word
.e
in the following sentence (the stands for a slight pause):