Language as a worldview. Metaphors that shape our perception

And perhaps the central conclusion of this chapter is exactly that.

Language is not only a tool for describing reality.

It is one of the ways reality is lived by human beings.

Chapter 2. The Palette of Perception: The Semantics of Color and Space

“Well then, my friend, let’s finish our tea. We’re about to enter one of the most fascinating parts of our journey — a place where ordinary logic gives way to the true magic of perception.”

“Language is the eye through which we look at the world from within.”

— Paul Ricoeur”

We tend to trust our eyes without hesitation. It feels as though the physical world streams directly into our minds — objective, faithful, and unbiased. The azure clouds drifting across the sky, the rich emerald grass beneath our feet, the sharp turn of a country road to the left — all of these seem like fundamental constants of reality. We assume that any person with healthy vision, no matter where they were born, would see this scene more or less the same way.

Yet there is an intriguing paradox hidden here.

Although our eyes may receive the same physical world, perception does not end at the retina. As light, color, shape, and space travel through the astonishing complexity of human consciousness, they do not arrive on a blank mental screen. Instead, they pass through filters shaped by culture, experience, and perhaps language itself.

Language is not simply a box of colored pencils that we use to fill in the outlines of a world that already exists. It may be closer to a set of lenses — or a coordinate grid — through which we organize experience. It helps us notice certain distinctions while overlooking others. It allows us to divide a continuous stream of sensations into recognizable categories and give them names.

In this chapter, we will explore how Kas — the deep field of awareness that accompanies us throughout this book — assembles the familiar picture of reality from an endless spectrum of impressions. Why do different cultures divide colors in different ways? Why can space itself be described in ways that feel surprisingly foreign to us? And how might the words we use every day influence what becomes visible to our attention in the first place?

Linguistic Fact

In 1858, William Gladstone — the future Prime Minister of Great Britain — undertook a close analysis of Homer’s Iliad and Odyssey and noticed something unusual. The texts contain remarkably few references to what we would recognize as the color blue.

Homer’s sea is famously described as “wine-dark” (oinops), while the sky may appear bronze or iron-colored. At first, Gladstone proposed a striking explanation: perhaps the ancient Greeks perceived color differently from modern people.

Today, scholars approach that conclusion much more cautiously.

The issue was probably not one of eyesight, but of linguistic description and categorization. Ancient Greek may have organized color distinctions differently from modern European languages. Attention may have been directed more often toward qualities such as brightness, sheen, intensity, or texture than toward hue in the way we typically think about it today.

This historical episode became one of the earliest clues pointing toward an idea that will accompany us throughout this book: people may look at the same world, yet their languages can help them carve its continuous spectrum into meaningful categories in different ways.

2.1. The Color Continuum: Adjectives as Filters of Light

Imagine a rainbow.

Not a child’s drawing with neatly separated bands of color, but a real rainbow hanging in the sky after a summer rain. Try to find the exact point where red becomes orange. Or where green turns into blue.

It is almost impossible.

The color spectrum is not like a political map with clearly drawn borders. It is closer to an endless gradient, where one shade flows seamlessly into the next. Light waves change their wavelengths continuously, without abrupt jumps or natural dividing lines. Nature does not label portions of the spectrum with words such as red, yellow, or green.

The boundaries appear later — in the human mind.

And this is where language enters the story.

Color adjectives function as a kind of perceptual filter. They do not create colors, nor do they replace vision itself, but they help Kas divide a continuous stream of sensations into manageable categories of meaning. Where physics sees a gradual transition, language often draws an imaginary line and says, “One thing ends here; another begins.”

We become so accustomed to these boundaries that we begin to experience them as properties of the world itself.

An Experiment at the Border Between Worlds: Blue Versus Green

Imagine a scene from the fieldwork of a linguistic researcher.

A scientist arrives in a village of the Himba people in Namibia and shows local participants a card covered with colored squares. Among many shades of green sits a single bright blue square.

For a European observer, the task seems almost trivial. The blue square practically leaps off the page.

“There it is,” we think almost instantly.

Yet some Himba participants complete the task noticeably more slowly. In their traditional color-classification system, blue and certain shades of green belong to a broader shared category. By contrast, distinctions within the range that a European speaker might simply call green can be far more meaningful — and more readily perceived — for them.

Now imagine the reverse situation.

The card contains only green squares. To a European observer, they appear virtually identical. Yet one square differs slightly in shade. A Himba participant may detect that difference more quickly than someone raised within a European linguistic tradition.

It is important to understand what this does — and does not — mean.

The issue is not that people possess different kinds of eyes. Human beings perceive the same physical spectrum of light. However, some researchers argue, and a number of studies suggest, that linguistic categories may guide attention and influence how quickly certain distinctions are recognized.

In other words, language may not change vision itself so much as help direct consciousness toward the differences that deserve attention first.

Filtering Reality Through Linguistic Categories

A typical European model:

BLUE | GREEN

A traditional Himba model:

BURU | (a category encompassing part of what Europeans would call blue and part of what they would call green)

Of course, experiments like these do not imply that speakers of different languages inhabit different physical universes. What they do encourage us to consider is something subtler: language may help our attention carve familiar pathways through the same shared world.

The Curious Case of Russian Goluboy

An especially fascinating example lies much closer to home — within the Russian language itself.

For an English speaker, the color of the sky and the color of a pair of blue jeans belong to the same broad category: blue. The shades may differ, but they are generally understood as variations of a single color.

Russian took a different historical path.

At some point, it drew a particularly significant boundary through this region of the spectrum and anchored it with two separate words: siniy (dark blue) and goluboy (light blue).

For a Russian speaker, the distinction feels so natural that it can be difficult to imagine that many languages function perfectly well without it.

In the early twenty-first century, a team of researchers at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology investigated how speakers of different languages distinguish shades within the blue spectrum. In one experiment, participants were asked to quickly determine which colors matched one another.

The researchers observed an intriguing pattern. Russian-speaking participants often detected differences more rapidly when one shade fell into the category of siniy and the other into goluboy. English-speaking participants showed no comparable advantage.

By itself, this finding does not prove that language determines perception. However, it fits well with the broader idea that familiar linguistic categories may influence the speed with which visual information is processed.

The picture that emerges is a fascinating one.

Nature offers us a continuous spectrum.

The eye receives light.

The brain analyzes differences.

And language helps decide which of those differences become important enough to earn a name of their own.

That is why words sometimes resemble more than labels attached to a ready-made reality. They are more like lines on a map of perception. They do not create the territory, but they help us navigate within it.

Perhaps every language can be thought of as a unique collection of perceptual filters. The world outside the window remains the same, yet the beams of attention pass through different lenses — and as a result, different cultures may notice slightly different boundaries within the very same rainbow.

2.2 The Architecture of Space: Where Does the Self End?

Imagine standing on the bank of a river.

In front of you sits an old wooden boat. To your right grows a willow tree. To your left lies a large boulder.

Now turn around.

The boat is still exactly where it was. The willow has not moved an inch. The boulder has not disappeared.

And yet something strange has happened.

What was on your right is now on your left. What was on your left is now on your right.

The physical world has not changed.

The coordinate system has.

We are so accustomed to this little trick that we rarely notice it.

Space That Turns With Us

If color words help our Kas divide the world into shades, spatial language helps it assemble a map of reality.

Most European languages describe space through the position of the human body. We say:

“Put the spoon to the left of the plate.”

“Turn right.”

“Take a step back.”

“The house is in front of us.”

In each of these examples, the speaker serves as the point of reference.

The coordinate grid moves with the observer. Turn around, and the entire system instantly rearranges itself. Right becomes left. Front becomes back. The map of space rotates together with the body.

This way of navigating the world feels natural only because we grew up inside it.

But it is far from the only possibility.

A World That Does Not Depend on the Observer

In northeastern Australia lives a community of speakers of the language Guugu Yimithirr. Incidentally, the English word kangaroo is believed to have entered English through this language.

Linguists working with Guugu Yimithirr speakers noticed something remarkable. In everyday conversation, they frequently use absolute directions — north, south, east, and west — in situations where most Europeans would use words such as “left” or “right.”

Imagine an ordinary exchange.

A European might say:

“Move the cup a little to the right.”

A Guugu Yimithirr speaker would be more likely to describe the cup’s position using a direction tied to the cardinal points.

To someone raised in a European cultural tradition, this can sound almost impossible. How can a person constantly know where north is?

Yet for speakers of languages that rely on such systems, this awareness forms part of everyday life. Research suggests that they often display an impressive ability to orient themselves in space and to keep track of their position within the surrounding landscape.

Not because their brains are fundamentally different.

And not because they possess some mysterious internal compass.

One interpretation is that the continual need to use absolute spatial coordinates trains attention toward orientation and place. Language and daily practice work together as a single system.

Coordinates Move| Coordinates Stay Fixed

With the person| Within the landscape

At first glance, this may seem like a minor distinction.

What difference does it make whether you say “to the right” or “to the east”?

But the longer you look, the more it becomes clear that we are not dealing with different words alone.

We are dealing with different habits of attention.

In one case, the body serves as the center of the map.

In the other, the speaker must continuously relate themselves to the larger environment.

Some languages seem to ask:

“Where is the object in relation to me?”

Others more often ask:

“Where is the object in relation to space?”

Of course, no one automatically becomes wiser, more humble, or more environmentally conscious simply because they speak one language rather than another. It would be far too bold to draw such conclusions.

Yet language may gently encourage certain ways of engaging with the world.

When the coordinate system rotates with the observer, attention naturally gathers around the self.

When coordinates are anchored to the landscape, attention may remain focused on the surrounding world.

Where Does the Self End?

Try a small thought experiment.

Close your eyes and picture your room.

Where is the wardrobe?

To your left?

To your right?

In front of you?

Behind you?

Most likely, you immediately used your own body as the reference point.

Now try answering differently.

Where is the wardrobe relative to north and south?

Where is the desk relative to east?

Where is the door relative to west?

Suddenly, your familiar mental map begins to resist.

Our Kas is accustomed to building the world around the observer.

Yet there are languages in which people learn from childhood to place themselves within the map of the world.

And this is where the deeper lesson of the story emerges.

The space around us remains the same. The planet is the same. The sky, rivers, trees, and roads do not change when the language changes.

Something else changes.

Language helps determine what becomes the center of the coordinate system: the individual or the landscape.

And then the question “Where is the object?” slowly transforms into a much deeper one:

“Where am I in relation to the world?”

2.3 Landscape Thinking: Words Like Rocks, Words Like Dunes

Imagine two children.

One grows up amid the endless snows of the Arctic.

The other among the sands of the Sahara.

Neither knows anything about linguistics yet. Neither has read textbooks. Neither has heard of cognitive science.

And yet, every day, their eyes are solving different problems.

One learns to notice the structure of snow, the condition of ice, the direction of a blizzard, and the quality of the surface beneath their feet.

The other learns to track shifting winds, the shape of dunes, footprints in the sand, and the rare landmarks scattered across a seemingly endless desert.

The world asks questions.

Language gradually learns how to answer them.

When Snow Becomes More Than Snow

Perhaps no linguistic myth has proven more durable than the claim that Eskimo peoples have dozens — or even hundreds — of words for snow.

For decades, the story traveled through newspapers, documentaries, and popular science books. With every retelling, the number grew: ten words, fifty, one hundred, two hundred.

The reality turned out to be even more interesting than the myth.

Linguists studying Inuit and Yupik languages discovered that the issue is not simply a vast inventory of separate root words. Many of these languages are polysynthetic, meaning they can build long, complex word structures that combine multiple layers of meaning into a single expression.

But the most important conclusion lies elsewhere.

For Arctic peoples, snow is not an abstract white backdrop on a winter postcard.

It is part of the living environment.

Snow may be loose or compact. Freshly fallen or wind-packed. Safe to travel across or potentially dangerous. Suitable for building shelter or completely useless for that purpose.

Where a city dweller sees only “snow,” a hunter or traveler may notice a host of practical distinctions.

And this is not merely a matter of language.

Rather, language and way of life evolve together, helping people attend to those features of the environment that matter for survival and daily life.

When the Landscape Never Stands Still

Now let us travel thousands of kilometers south — to the Sahara.

At first glance, the desert seems monotonous.

Sand.

Sky.

Sun.

And more sand.

Yet for someone whose family has lived there for generations, the desert is full of information.

The shape of a dune may reveal prevailing wind patterns.

The texture of the sand can tell a story about recent weather.

Tracks on the ground may allow an experienced observer to reconstruct events from hours — or even days — earlier.

What appears to an outsider as emptiness becomes, for a skilled nomad, a detailed map.

It is therefore hardly surprising that the languages of desert peoples often contain rich vocabularies for describing sand, wind, terrain, and environmental conditions.

Of course, it would be an exaggeration to claim that the landscape itself directly dictates the grammar of a language. The history of any language is far too complex for such simple explanations.

Yet one pattern seems difficult to ignore: people tend to name in greatest detail the things that are constantly present in their lives and demand their attention.

The Arctic teaches people to distinguish snow.

The desert teaches people to distinguish sand.

The sea teaches people to distinguish water and wind.

The mountains teach people to distinguish slopes, passes, and routes of movement.

At this point, it is easy to draw the wrong conclusion.

As though language creates the world around us.

Of course, it does not.

Arctic snow existed long before anyone named it.

Sand dunes do not need nouns in order to change their shape.

But language helps our Kas solve a different problem.

It suggests which distinctions are worth noticing again and again.

Which features of the environment deserve a separate name.

Which details are worth storing in memory.

In a sense, words are like paths through a forest.

The more often we walk a particular trail, the more visible it becomes.

In much the same way, linguistic categories help attention carve familiar routes through the surrounding world.

A Thought Exercise: The Fracture in Perception

Try a small experiment.

Look out the window.

Choose any object: a tree, a cloud, a puddle, a flower bed, or a stretch of road.

Now describe it using a single word.

Most likely, your description will be quite general.

“Tree.” “Cloud.” “Grass.”

Now imagine that your work, your journey, or even your safety depends on the precision of that description.

Try to identify five additional characteristics.

Not simply “cloud,” but light, layered, fast-moving, sun-blocking, rain-bearing.

Not simply “grass,” but dry, young, trampled, damp, or freshly cut.

Suddenly, the world begins to split into countless details that seemed invisible only moments ago.

The object has not changed.

Your attention has.

And along with that shift in attention, new words begin to emerge.

This is where one of the most subtle boundaries between language and perception can be found.

We do not notice the world solely because words exist.

But words may help us notice more of what is there.

From Landscape to Thought

The longer we travel through the languages of the world, the clearer one idea becomes.

Language is not a mirror of reality.

But neither is it an arbitrary collection of labels.

It emerges at the intersection of human experience and the surrounding environment.

Within it remain traces of climate, migration routes, economic activity, and habits of attention.

Every word resembles a small imprint left by a piece of the world that once proved important enough to remember.

And gradually, language begins to resemble a map.

In some places on that map, there are more rocks.

In others, more dunes.

Elsewhere, more snow.

But ultimately, all of those lines lead us toward the same question:

If language preserves traces of the landscape, how much of the surrounding world lives quietly within us as well?

Exercise for Reflection

Try describing the room you are in right now without using the words “left,” “right,” “in front,” or “behind.”

Instead of saying:

“The armchair is to the left of the door, and the television hangs in front of me,”

try using the cardinal directions.

If you are unsure, open the compass on your smartphone.

Your description might become:

“The armchair stands against the western wall, and the television is mounted on the southern wall.”

Now shift your attention away from the objects themselves and toward your own experience.

Did the description require more concentration?

Did your sense of the room change?

Did you begin to feel that the room was connected to a larger map extending beyond its walls?

You may notice that your usual coordinate system has shifted slightly.

Or you may notice nothing unusual at all.

Yet it is precisely these small experiments that reveal how deeply language is woven into our most automatic ways of navigating the world.

Conclusions

We began this chapter with a simple question:

Do all people see the same world in the same way?

At first glance, the answer seems obvious. The sky remains the sky regardless of language. Space follows the same laws of physics everywhere. Colors do not change when they cross national borders.

And yet, as our journey unfolded, we discovered another layer between the physical world and human experience: language.

We saw how different languages draw boundaries through the color spectrum in different ways. How different cultures may organize space around the individual differently. How landscape, climate, and ways of life leave their traces in the words people use every day.

Of course, language does not recreate reality from scratch, nor does it turn speakers of different languages into inhabitants of separate universes. Yet there is growing reason to think that language may help guide attention, highlight meaningful distinctions, and shape familiar pathways of thought.