Inner Speech, Inchoate Thought, and the Limits of Language

Stopping Your Inner Monologue – What’s That Like?

Try this experiment—stop your internal monologue. In other words, don’t talk to yourself. Try to halt your inner speech. Maybe you can do it, or maybe you can’t. You might find it easy, or you might find it difficult. I find it difficult but not impossible. Perhaps some meditators can do it effortlessly—I’m not sure. Personally, I struggle because, after stopping it briefly, for a few seconds, I catch myself thinking, don’t speak, don’t talk, no words—and those are still words. Funny, isn’t it? Why attempt this? Well, I do it as a way to reflect, to examine my internal states. I also used to do it when I was emotionally distressed—trying to confront my ruminations, face my problems, and restore some emotional balance. And, to some degree, it worked.

A few weeks ago, I was with my wife, daughter, and son-in-law. My daughter mentioned that she experienced a lot of inner speech—in other words, she frequently talked to herself. That didn’t seem too concerning to me since I do the same. But she also said there was experimental evidence suggesting that some people don’t talk to themselves—or at least that’s how I understood her point. Then her husband added that he doesn’t talk to himself. That’s what he said, more or less.

I walked away feeling very puzzled, thinking it was impossible. That just couldn’t be. I ruminate, reflect, and rely on words. It’s not that I can’t think visually or musically—I can—but words are my main medium. They shape all my planning, writing, and pretty much any activity you can imagine. And to be clear, we’re not talking about actual speaking; we’re talking about inner monologue. If it’s a dialogue, that’s possible too. It might even be concerning, especially if it involves multiple voices. It’s not the same as hallucination, though I suppose it’s not entirely unrelated.

In any case, I reflected on this and discussed it with others, including an artist I know. He was astonished at the idea that anyone could create art without relying on an internal dialogue.

Then I began reviewing the research, using ChatGPT to gather more information. I examined Hurlburt's work—a psychologist who has conducted studies on inner speech, though not without some controversy.

Russell T. Hurlburt is a psychology professor at the University of Nevada, Las Vegas. He is best known for creating the Descriptive Experience Sampling (DES) method, which investigates inner experiences such as inner speech.

The more I reflected on it, the more I realized that I actually can stop inner speech for brief periods. Furthermore, there are moments before I speak when there is no inner speech at all. It’s not sensation, perception, emotion, or verbal thought. Instead, it’s a state of awareness—words feel just out of reach, as if they’re on the tip of my tongue, or I need time to collect my thoughts. English even has expressions to describe this experience, yet it doesn’t seem widely recognized as a distinct, felt state—a pre-verbal state. It’s interesting how little attention this gets. I’ve come to think that Hurlburt’s research might be more credible than I first assumed. That said, I haven’t read his papers directly yet, though I keep telling myself I should.

I now refer to that state as the pre-verbal, non-perceptual state—or simply the inchoate state. It’s a felt state, though I don’t have a better term for it. “Inchoate” seems fitting, as it roughly means formless or without clear structure. The only other terms I’ve found for it come from phenomenologists who write in languages like French and German, often using highly obscure, invented terminology. So, for now, “inchoate” seems sufficient.

When I was studying experimental psychology in the early 1970s, the behaviorist paradigm—championed by Skinner, Watson, and their followers—was undergoing a slow and prolonged decline. While some remained committed to it, most people were beginning to recognize its limitations. It took time, but eventually, researchers started to produce work acknowledging that inner states were both important and deserving of scientific investigation. Charles Tart, for instance, wrote a book on states of consciousness, and others pursued similar lines of inquiry. Gradually, it became more acceptable to discuss inner states, not just in philosophy but also within psychology.

At the time, I didn’t focus much on language. I wasn’t involved in cognitive psychology—I was in developmental psychology. I became aware of Chomsky’s work on language and glanced at a few studies on infants’ recognition of phonemes, did some essays. I picked up a little knowledge, though not much. But as for inner speech, I didn’t think about it at all. I just took it for granted and never gave it a moment’s thought.

Although I studied quite a bit of psychology, even at the graduate level—earning what some jokingly call an M.A.A.B.D. (Master of Arts, All But Dissertation)—I never actually completed the master’s degree. Still, I managed to do well enough without finishing it.

Over the years, I’ve maintained an interest in both psychology and philosophy. Without necessarily diving too deeply into the details, I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about these topics—especially in more recent years.

I’m familiar with Helen Keller’s story, the works and claims of Temple Grandin, accounts of feral children, the concept of aphasia caused by strokes, and the distinction between productive and receptive language. I’ve also considered infant babbling and their prelinguistic abilities. I pondered what it is like to be a cat (isn’t that just batty?)

There are people who are completely a-linguistic—those who, due to congenital deafness, never learned to read, write, understand speech, or use sign language. I’ve also spent considerable time reflecting on the inner lives of others, including babies, animals, my cat, and the neighborhood wildlife. These remain profound mysteries. I’ve long been interested in the philosophy of mind and the nature of consciousness, yet I’ve never reached any definitive understanding of these questions. But then again, I’m hardly alone in that, am I?

I’ve looked into accounts of feral children, but I don’t find any of them credible. To me, they seem like a mix of misunderstanding, delusion, and even fraud. As a result, they haven’t been very helpful in advancing my understanding.

I looked at Helen Keller's story in terms of what it's like not to have language and to be deaf, and I realized that she actually was exposed to language, so I didn't think that was really useful in thinking about the issue of a-linguistic people.

I read a couple of Temple Grandin’s books, where she described having unique visualization abilities. I don’t doubt her claims, but she wasn’t a-linguistic. Although her language development was delayed in some respects, she was exposed to language and ultimately developed it. Because of that, I didn’t find her case to be a useful example for understanding truly a-linguistic individuals.

I examined cases of people with aphasia caused by strokes or other neurological damage, but these didn’t seem relevant to the question of a-linguistic speech or internal, inchoate thought. Such individuals had previously acquired language and might have lost the ability to process certain aspects of it. However, their experiences didn’t provide any meaningful insights into the inchoate state.

Having trained in developmental psychology, I did a small amount of work on infants' recognition of phonemes and read a bit of Chomsky on internal grammars and the debates surrounding them. So I wasn’t completely unfamiliar with theories about speech. However, I hadn’t explored other aspects of speech acquisition in much depth—and, to be honest, I’ve probably forgotten most of what I once read about it anyway.

At some point, I learned about the distinction between productive and receptive language—though, if I’d ever fully understood it before, I’d since forgotten. Recently, after watching videos of babies babbling and babies who don’t yet use language because they’re too young to have learned it, I started thinking about this again. I don’t know how much infants recognize in terms of words, but they can’t produce them. Meanwhile, babies who babble do produce sounds that resemble words, though it’s pure gibberish—amusing, but also thought-provoking. For me, it leans more toward thought-provoking, though I do have a lot of affection for infants, which is probably why I was drawn to developmental psychology in the first place.

In any case, it seems clear to me that infants think, they feel emotions, and they move, yet they lack productive language and likely have little or no receptive language. At some point, they probably have no receptive language at all. So they serve as examples of beings who exist in a world without speech. But is their experience inchoate and formless, as I sometimes feel, or is it something entirely different? We can’t know—and we never will. The most we might be able to do with highly advanced science is detect neurological correlates, but beyond that, inner life is only accessible to ourselves.

The takeaway from reflecting on infants is that it’s entirely possible to have thought without words.

I’ve also considered people who grew up without language because they’re deaf. After doing some research, I discovered that there are individuals who have been deaf since birth but were never taught to read, write, or learn sign language. Interestingly, many of them developed their own systems of communication, often referred to as “home signing.”

These individuals clearly think and feel, yet they cannot internally verbalize in any known language. Whether they internally verbalize using some form of invented language is another question—one that remains unknown and likely unknowable. Still, their existence demonstrates that it’s possible to have cognition, including linguistic-like structures, without formal language.

Now let’s turn to my cat—technically my son’s cat, though since he doesn’t live at home, my wife and I take care of it. It’s an interesting creature. My theory about cats is that they’re functionally psychopaths—not that it’s entirely fair to cats.

I often watch my cat observing the world and wonder—what’s going on in that little noggin? Something, surely. But what? Is it imagination? Perception? Or is it thought in an inchoate form—neither imagination nor perception? Yet again, we’re faced with an unknown and unknowable question, since we’re talking about a cat’s inner life. Even assuming it has an inner life is a leap—but it’s an assumption I’m more than willing to make.

I make the same assumption about my friends and family, too—though, admittedly, there are a few I’m less certain about. But in general, I’m convinced that people have inner lives.

Reflecting on my cat naturally leads me to think about other fascinating creatures—the squirrels, birds, deer, and various urban animals that cross my path. I tend to believe they have inner lives, even without language.

The bottom line is that it’s clearly possible to have an inner life without language, though we can never directly know it apart from our own experience. For those of us who rely heavily on language, it’s especially difficult to grasp the idea that thought can occur without it.

Yet, when we closely examine our own inner lives, we find examples—particularly in moments when we’re trying to formulate thoughts but haven’t yet put them into words. That pre-verbal, inchoate state demonstrates thought without language.

The claim that some people experience very little inner speech intrigues me, though I also find it somewhat unlikely in most cases. People who want to learn and use language tend to do so frequently because language allows for much more than visualization alone. Not to diminish visualization—I think it’s a valuable ability—but it does have its limitations compared to language.

Bibliography

These references cover foundational works and studies mentioned or alluded to in the essay related to language, thought, and inner experiences.

Chomsky, N. (1965). Aspects of the theory of syntax. MIT Press.

Grandin, T. (1995). Thinking in pictures: And other reports from my life with autism. Doubleday.

Hurlburt, R. T. (1990). Sampling normal and schizophrenic inner experience. Springer.

Hurlburt, R. T. (2011). Investigating pristine inner experience: Moments of truth. Cambridge University Press.

Keller, H. (1903). The story of my life. Doubleday, Page & Company.

Nagel, T. (1974). What is it like to be a bat? The Philosophical Review, 83(4), 435–450.

Skinner, B. F. (1957). Verbal behavior. Appleton-Century-Crofts.

Tart, C. (1975). States of consciousness. E.P. Dutton.

Watson, J. B. (1913). Psychology as the behaviorist views it. Psychological Review, 20(2), 158–177. https://doi.org/10.1037/h0074428