They Have No Language

There was only one rule: don't open the door. That was what I was told when I first joined the project team in the high arctic. They had found a door, deep underground, at the base of an ancient city, and had excavated and explored in all directions around it, but had not yet dared open it, and by rule, none could. I asked the expedition leader about it on my second day. He went silent for a moment, bowed his head, then looked me straight in the eyes and said. "At its base our world, at least our understanding of it is restricted to what we can describe with language. The rules of grammar define what we can do with language and thus those rules define what the world is for us." He paused for a moment, and I interjected. "Okay Professor Wittgenstein, I get it. Next you are going to tell me about language games and the private language argument. What does that have to do with the door and the rule about not opening it?" He stared at me silently, no laugh nor even a smile at my remark. "The things which live behind that door have no language, they have no grammar, thus they have no world, not really, at least not a world we could understand. If they were to find their way into our world all would be lost. We inhabit a world comprised of rules, including the one about the door." I thought for a moment then asked "What about on their side? What's to stop them from opening it from their side? Do they have the same rule?" The leader's face grew even grimmer and darker as he replied "Remember what I said. They have no language. What do you think?"