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Fundamentals of Good Writing
Fundamentals of Good Writing
By Robert Penn Warren
ALL THE KINGS MEN
CIRCUS IN THE ATTIC
AT HEAVEN'S GATE
NIGHT RIDER
JOHN BROWN: THE MAKING OF A MARTYR
SELECTED POEMS, 1923-1934
By Cleanth Brooks
THE WELL WROUGHT URN
MODERN POETRY AND THE TRADITION
Fundamentals
of
Good Writing
A HANDBOOK OF MODERN RHETORIC
Cleanth Brooks
Robert Perm Warren
Harcourt, Brace and Company • New York
COPYRIGHT, 1949, I95O, BY
HARCOURT, BRACE AND COMPANY, INC.
All rights reserved, including
the right to reproduce this book
or portions thereof in any form.
TO DAVID M. CLAY
CONTENTS
Introduction
THE MAIN CONSIDERATIONS 1
THE MOTIVATION OF THE WRITER 3
THE NATURE OF THE READER 5
THE RELATIONSHIP BETWEEN READER AND WRITER 5
THE FUSION OF MEDIUM, SUBJECT AND OCCASION 6
YOUR BACKGROUND FOR SUCCESSFUL WRITING 7
1. SOME GENERAL PROBLEMS
FINDING A TRUE SUBJECT 11
UNITY 13
COHERENCE 15
EMPHASIS 19
THE MAIN DIVISIONS OF A DISCOURSE 23
PROPORTIONING THE MAIN DIVISIONS 25
1HE OUTLINE 26
2. THE KINDS OF DISCOURSE
THE MAIN INTENTION 29
THE FOUR KINDS OF DISCOURSE 30
MIXTURE OF THE KINDS OF DISCOURSE 30
OBJECTIVE AND SUBJECTIVE DISCOURSE 31
x CONTENTS
3. EXPOSITION
INTEREST 38
THE METHODS OF EXPOSITION 41
IDENTIFICATION 41
EXPOSITORY DESCRIPTION: TECHNICAL DESCRIPTION 42
THE RELATION BETWEEN THE TECHNICAL-SUGGESTIVE DISTINCTION
AND THE OBJECTIVE-SUBJECTIVE DISTINCTION 53
THE USES OF TECHNICAL AND SUGGESTIVE DESCRIPTION 55
EXPOSITORY NARRATION 57
ILLUSTRATION 57
COMPARISON AND CONTRAST 61
CLASSIFICATION AND DIVISION 67
DEFINITION 83
EXTENDED DEFINITION 91
ANALYSIS: THE TWO KINDS 98
ANALYSIS AND STRUCTURE 99
ANALYSIS: RELATION AMONG PARTS 100
ANALYSIS AND EXPOSITORY DESCRIPTION 101
EXPOSITORY METHODS AND THEIR USES 119
SUMMARY 120
4. ARGUMENT
THE APPEAL OF ARGUMENT 125
ARGUMENT AND CONFLICT 125
ARGUMENT AND THE UNDERSTANDING 127
WHAT ARGUMENT IS ABOUT 128
THE PROPOSITION: TWO KINDS 131
THE STATEMENT OF THE PROPOSITION 131
HISTORY OF THE QUESTION 134
ISSUES 135
PROPOSITIONS OF FACT 146
EVIDENCE 148
CONTENTS xi
KINDS OF EVIDENCE: FACT AND OPINION 148
REASONING 154
INDUCTION: GENERALIZATION 155
DEDUCTION 159
FALLACIES 167
FALLACIES AND REFUTATION 170
THE IMPLIED SYLLOGISM 170
EXTENDED ARGUMENT: THE BRIEF 172
ORDER OF THE BRIEF AND ORDER OF THE ARGUMENT 183
PERSUASION 183
SUMMARY 189
5. DESCRIPTION
RELATION OF SUGGESTIVE DESCRIPTION TO OTHER KINDS
OF DISCOURSE 195
THE DOMINANT IMPRESSION 200
PATTERN AND TEXTURE IN DESCRIPTION 200
TEXTURE: SELECTION IN DESCRIPTION 211
DESCRIPTION OF FEELINGS AND STATES OF MIND 220
FIGURATIVE LANGUAGE IN THE DESCRIPTION OF FEELINGS
AND STATES OF MIND 223
CHOICE OF WORDS IN THE TEXTURE OF DESCRIPTION 226
SUMMARY 229
6. NARRATION
MOVEMENT 237
TIME 238
MEANING 239
NARRATIVE AND NARRATION 240
NARRATION AND THE OTHER KINDS OF DISCOURSE 242
PATTERN IN NARRATION 250
EXAMPLES OF NARRATIVE PATTERN 255
PROPORTION 262
xii CONTENTS
TEXTURE AND SELECTION 264
POINT OF VIEW 267
SCALE 273
DIALOGUE 275
CHARACTERIZATION 281
SUMMARY 285
7. THE PARAGRAPH
THE PARAGRAPH AS A CONVENIENCE TO THE READER 290
THE PARAGRAPH AS A UNIT OF THOUGHT 291
THE STRUCTURE OF THE PARAGRAPH 292
SOME TYPICAL STRUCTURAL PRINCIPLES 294
LINKING PARAGRAPHS TOGETHER 299
USE OF THE PARAGRAPH TO INDICATE DIALOGUE 302
SUMMARY 302
8. THE SENTENCE
RHETORIC AND GRAMMAR 304
THE FIXED WORD ORDER OF THE NORMAL SENTENCE 307
POSITION OF THE MODIFIERS 311
GENERAL PRINCIPLES OF SENTENCE STRUCTURE 318
SENTENCE LENGTH AND SENTENCE VARIATION 323
SUMMARY 327
9. STYLE
GENERAL DEFINITION OF STYLE 329
THREE ASPECTS OF LITERARY STYLE 330
STYLE AS AN INTERPLAY OF ELEMENTS 331
THE PLAN OF THE FOLLOWING CHAPTERS ON STYLE 332
10. DICTION
DENOTATION AND CONNOTATION 335
LANGUAGE GROWTH BY EXTENSION OF MEANING 342
CONTENTS xiii
THE COMPANY A WORD KEEPS: COLLOQUIAL, INFORMAL,
AND FORMAL 348
HOW CONNOTATIONS CONTROL MEANINGS 349
WORN-OUT WORDS AND CLICHES 353
SUMMARY 359
11. METAPHOR
METAPHOR DEFINED 361
IMPORTANCE OF METAPHOR IN EVERYDAY LANGUAGE 362
THE FUNCTION OF METAPHOR 371
METAPHOR AS ESSENTIAL STATEMENT 374
WHAT MAKES A "GOOD" METAPHOR? 378
METAPHOR AND SYMBOL 385
METAPHOR AND THE CREATIVE IMAGINATION 386
SUMMARY 388
12. SITUATION AND TONE
TONE AS THE EXPRESSION OF ATTITUDE 390
THE IMPORTANCE OF TONE 391
WHAT DETERMINES TONE? 392
TONE AS A QUALIFICATION OF MEANING 397
SOME PRACTICAL DON'TS 401
SOME PRACTICAL APPLICATIONS 402
TONE: FAMILIAR AND FORMAL 411
COMPLEXITY OF TONE: WHEN, AND WHY, IT IS NECESSARY 416
SUMMARY 422
13. THE FINAL INTEGRATION
RHYTHM 425
RHYTHM AS A DEVICE OF EXPRESSION 428
STYLE AS HARMONIOUS INTEGRATION 432
THE INSEPARABILITY OF FORM AND CONTENT 435
xiv CONTENTS
STYLE AS AN EXPRESSION OF PERSONALITY 438
STYLE CULTIVATED BY READING 455
SUMMARY 457
A MORE CONCRETE SUMMARY 459
14. READING: WHAT DOES IT MEAN TO A WRITER? 461
APPENDIXES 473
Appendix 1. CAUSAL ANALYSIS 475
Appendix 2. THE SYLLOGISM 481
Appendix 3. THE OUTLINE, SUMMARY, AND PRECIS; NOTES;
RESEARCH PAPER; AND BOOK REPORT 486
INDEX 519
Fundamentals of Good Writing
INTRODUCTION
THERE is no easy way to learn to write. There is no certain for-
mula, no short cut, no bag of tricks. It is not a matter of memorizing
rules or of acquiring a few skills. To write well is not easy for the
simple reason that to write well you must think straight. And
thinking straight is never easy.
Straight thinking is the basis of all good writing. It does not
matter whether you are planning to write fiction, poetry, news
reports, magazine articles, essays, or sermons. What is common to
all kinds of good writing is more important than what distinguishes
one kind from another. This is a fundamental point, and this book
is an attempt to deal with the fundamentals of writing.
THE MAIN CONSIDERATIONS
What is it that we must think straight about if we are to write
well? Unfortunately there is no simple answer to this. A writer, as
Robert Louis Stevenson says in his "Essay on Style," is like a juggler
who must keep several balls in the air at once.
What are the several balls? What are the considerations that a
writer must simultaneously think straight about? This book is an
attempt to answer that question; but even when this book is finished
the answer will not be a complete one. For the present, however,
we may try to reduce the considerations to three general types.
We may define them in reference to various aspects of the act of
writing:
2 INTRODUCTION
1. The medium
2. The subject
3. The occasion
These terms, as we are using them, require some explanation.
THE MEDIUM
A writer writes in a language, the substance, as it were, through
which he exerts his force, the medium through which he communi-
cates his ideas and feelings. This language operates in terms of
certain principles and usages which a writer must observe if he is
to exercise his full force or even, in some instances, to be under-
stood at all. For example, grammar is an aspect of the medium
itself. Rhythm is another aspect, and it may exercise a very pow-
erful effect on the reader, even if he is not aware of it. Another
aspect is diction— the qualities of the individual words even beyond
their bare dictionary definitions.
These topics, and others related to them, will be discussed in
the course of this book, but for the present it is important only
that we understand them as representing aspects of the medium,
of language itself.
THE SUBJECT
A writer writes about something. The something may be his own
feelings, his love or his hate, or again it may be the theory of aero-
dynamics. But in either instance he has a subject— and one that can
be distinguished from all other possible subjects.
The nature of the subject will, in some respects, dictate the
nature of the treatment. For instance, if a writer is interested in
explaining a process of some kind, the running of an experiment
in physics or the building of a log cabin, he will have to organize
his material with some reference to the chronological order of the
process. If he is trying to explain why he loves or hates someone,
he will probably be concerned with the analysis of traits of charac-
ter which have no necessary reference to chronology; therefore, his
ordering of the material may well be in terms of degrees of impor-
tance and not in terms of time sequence.
Furthermore, the subject may dictate differences in diction. For
instance, if the writer is trying to explain the process of an experi-
THE MAIN CONSIDERATIONS 3
ment in physics, his diction will be dry and technical, clear and
factual; but if he is trying to define the grief experienced at the
Heath of a friend, his diction may well be chosen to convey emo-
tional effects.
Or the type of rhythm may vary according to the subject. The
explanation of the experiment in physics will probably involve a
rather flat rhythm, or at least an unobtrusive rhythm, but the at-
tempt to define the grief at the death of the friend will probably
depend to a considerable degree for its success on the rhythm
employed, for the rhythm of language, even in prose, is of enormous
importance in the communication of feelings.
THE OCCASION
Third, a writer writes out of a special situation, the occasion.
We may say that this situation involves three basic elements: the
motivation of the writer; the nature of the reader; and the relation-
ship between writer and reader.
THE MOTIVATION OF THE WRITER
As for motivation, two general types may be distinguished: ex-
pression and communication. The writer may be primarily con-
cerned to affirm his own feelings, to clarify his own mind, to define
for himself his own sense of the world. When he writes from some
such motivation, the urge to expression may be said to be dominant,
and he has, on such an occasion, more in common with a man
singing in the bath, with the child uttering the spontaneous cry of
pain, or with the cat purring on the rug than he has with the judge
handing down a decision from the bench, a teacher explaining a
point of grammar from the platform, or a woman giving her daugh-
ter a recipe for pie. For the judge, the teacher, and the cook are
not primarily concerned to express but to communicate something.
It may be said, however, that, in the ultimate sense, we never
have a case of pure expression or pure communication. Even the
cry of pain, which seems to be pure expression, may be said to
presuppose a hearer; the hurt child redoubles its screams when it
sees the mother approaching. And the poet who has written his
poem' without a conscious thought of the reader, who has been
4 INTRODUCTION
concerned with the effort of getting his own feelings and ideas into
form, hurries to the post office to mail his finished poem to a maga-
zine through which it can reach a number of readers.
Conversely, even the most objective presentation of an idea or
analysis of a situation may involve an expressive element. To take
an extreme instance, we may say that a man may take pleasure
in the accuracy and tidiness of his working out of a mathematical
demonstration and feel that those qualities "express" him.
If it is true that we can never find an example of pure expression
or of pure communication, if we have to regard expression and
communication as, shall we say, the poles of the process of writing
or speaking, we can still see that a great deal of variation in the
relative proportions of communication and expression may exist.
ACCENT ON EXPRESSION
When the writer is primarily concerned with expression, he does
not pay attention to his audience; if, under such circumstances, he
thinks of the audience, it is only to assume that there will be people
enough like himself to have an interest in his work. Yet even then,
even when the writer is primarily concerned with expression, his
private and individual intentions will have to be represented in a
medium that has public and general standards. When the writer
accepts language as his medium of expression, he also accepts the
standards of communication.
ACCENT ON COMMUNICATION
When the writer is primarily concerned with communication
rather than expression, he must, however, give special attention to
the audience which he wishes to reach. He must consider the read-
er's interests and attitudes. Even if the writer wishes to give the
reader a new interest, he must work in terms of the interests that
already exist. When the writer does not, in some way, appeal to the
already existing interests, the reader will not even bother to finish
the book or article. Or if the writer wishes to make the reader change
his attitude on some issue, he must work in terms of already exist-
ing attitudes. Unless the writer can discover that he and the reader
have some attitudes in common, he can have no hope of convincing
the reader about the matter on which they disagree.
THE NATURE OF THE READER 5
THE NATURE OF THE READER
Just as the writer must concern himself with the reader's interests
and attitudes, so he must concern himself with the reader's training
and capacities. Every piece of writing is addressed to a more or
less limited audience. It is perfectly logical that a piece of writing
addressed to the specialist will not be understood by the layman.
Articles in professional medical journals or law journals employ
a language and a treatment largely incomprehensible to the ordi-
nary reader. But the same thing holds true, though less obviously,
in regard to all differences of education or capacity. Because of
differences in education, the housewife is not likely to understand
the article on international finance that may be perfectly clear to
the banker or businessman who is her husband. Or one housewife,
because of innate intelligence and sensitivity, can understand and
enjoy a certain novel, while another woman in the same block, who
has been educated at the same school, is merely confused and
annoyed by the book.
It is true that there are types of writing which have a relatively
broad appeal— the novels of Dickens or the plays of Shakespeare—
but we must remember that even their appeal is only relatively
broad, and that there are a great number of people who infinitely
prefer the sports page of the daily paper or the financial section
or the comic strip to Dickens or Shakespeare. And remembering
this, the writer must concern himself with the level of education
and intelligence of the special group which he wishes to address.
THE RELATIONSHIP BETWEEN READER AND
WRITER
Just as the writer must consider his own motivation and the
nature of his intended reader as components of the "occasion," so
must he consider the relationship between himself and that reader.
For instance, does he feel that he must speak down to his reader?
If he does speak down, shall he take the tone of a man laying down
the law from some position of authority— like a judge on a bench—
or shall he take a tone of good-natured condescension? Or if he
does not wish to speak down to his reader but regards the reader
6 INTRODUCTION
as on the same level with himself, shall he take a tone of friendly
discussion or of serious, life-and-death argument?
The possible variations on this score are almost numberless, too,
and the writer, if he is to be most effective, must take them into
consideration. Is he, for instance, addressing a reader who is hostile
and suspicious? If so, he must try to discover the approach which
will mollify the hostility and allay the suspicions. Or if his reader
is assumed to be friendly but unserious, how shall he adapt him-
self to that situation? Is he writing to a student who is anxious to
learn or to a casual reader who must be lured into the subject under
discussion? Obviously the writer must, if he wishes to succeed with
his reader, study the relationship existing between himself and
his intended reader and adapt his tone to that aspect of the occasion.
TONE
The writer's relationship to his reader and to his subject may be
summed up in the word tone (see Chapter 12). Just as the tone of
voice indicates what the speaker's attitude is to his subject and
his listener, so certain qualities of a piece of writing may indicate
the attitude of the writer. Rhythms may be harsh and abrupt or
lingering and subtle. Diction may be homely and direct or elaborate
and suggestive. Sentence structure may be simple and downright
or complicated by modifying and qualifying elements. Appeal may
be made through logic or through persuasion. These and many other
factors are related to the writer's conception of the relation between
himself and the reader.
THE FUSION OF MEDIUM, SUBJECT AND
OCCASION
Under the headings of (1) medium, (2) subject, and (3) occasion,
we have briefly discussed some of the basic considerations which
the writer must keep in mind— the balls which the juggler of Steven-
son's essay must keep simultaneously in the air. The word simulta-
neously is important here, for though we have necessarily had to
discuss our topics in order, we are not to assume that the order is
one of either importance or of time sequence. Can one say that a
knowledge of the subject under discussion is more or less important
than a knowledge of the principles and usages of the language in
THE FUSION OF MEDIUM, SUBJECT AND OCCASION 7
which the subject is to be discussed? Or that a knowledge of the
principles and usages of the language is more or less important
than the sense of the nature of the occasion?
In the process of writing there is no one consideration to which
the writer must give his attention first. His mind, in so far as he is
a conscious craftsman, will play among the various considerations
in the attempt to produce a piece of writing which will fulfill at the
same time the demands of the medium, the subject, and the occa-
sion. In this book we shall take up various topics individually, and
you may find it helpful when you are revising a piece of writing to
consider one question at a time, But the final piece of writing is al-
ways a fusion.
YOUR BACKGROUND FOR SUCCESSFUL
WRITING
The foregoing remarks, with their emphasis on the complicated
demands that a good piece of writing must fulfill, have perhaps
made the business of writing seem enormously difficult. And it is
true that the simplest piece of writing, when well done, is the fruit
of a great deal of effort. But you are not, with this book, starting
your career as a writer from scratch. You already have behind you
many years of effort which can be made to apply on the writing
you now do. You are already the beneficiary of a long training.
LANGUAGE AND EXPERIENCE
In the first place, you command a working knowledge of the
English language. You began the process of learning that language
when you were an infant, and the process has been a continuous
one ever since. Books have helped you and they can be made to
help you even more. They can broaden your vocabulary, and can
give you a sense of the subtleties and shadings of words. But already
—books aside— you are the master of very considerable resources in
your native tongue.
A CAPACITY FOR STRAIGHT THINKING
In the second place, your experience has given you a great range
of subjects, and a capacity for thinking logically about them. As for
the subjects, almost any event of your day, any sport or craft which
8 INTRODUCTION
you understand, any skill or technique which you possess, any scene
which you have witnessed, any book or article which you have read,
any person whom you know— all these are potential subjects. And
any one of them can become interesting in so far as it is actually
important to you and in so far as you can think straight about it.
As for logical thinking, demands for the exercise of this faculty
are made on you every day. You are constantly under the necessity
of adjusting means to ends, of correcting errors in your calculations,
of planning in terms of cause and effect, of estimating possibilities.
To manage your simplest affairs you must have some capacity for
straight thinking. When you come to the business of writing, you
need merely to apply this capacity to the subject in hand— to see
what is important about it for your interests and purposes, to stick
to your point, to make one sentence follow from the previous sen-
tence and lead to the next, to make one paragraph follow from
the previous paragraph and lead to the next, to make one idea
follow from another, to state the relations between things in terms
of time, space, or causality, to emphasize the important item and
subordinate the unimportant, to proportion your discourse so that
it will have an introduction, a development, and a conclusion. All
of these problems of analysis and organization are problems which
you may have to confront when you start any piece of writing,
but you confront them with the aid of all the straight thinking
that you have ever done.
A BROAD SOCIAL EXPERIENCE
In the third place, all of your experiences with other people in
the past have provided a training that will help you adjust your-
self to your intended reader. Your social experience, from your
early childhood, has given you a training in tact, in grasping the
truth about a human relationship, in adjusting your manner to the
mood or prejudice of another person in order to convince, persuade,
entertain, or instruct him. Every child is aware that, when he wants
something from his mother or father, there is a right way to go
about asking for it and a wrong way. And he knows that what is
the right way for asking the mother may very well be the wrong
way for asking the father. No doubt, the child never puts it to
himself in these terms, but he acts on the truth behind these terms
when he actually deals with mother or father. He develops early
YOUR BACKGROUND FOR SUCCESSFUL WRITING 9
a sense of the occasion and a sensitivity to what we shall call prob-
lems of tone.
The discussion in this section comes to this : All of your experience
in the past can be said, without too much wrenching of fact, to be
a training for the writing which you wish to do. Your problem is,
in part, to learn to use the resources which you already possess.
For unless you learn to use those resources, you will not be able to
acquire new resources.
CHAPTER
Some General
Problems
WHERE should the study of writing begin? With considerations
of the medium? Of the subject? Of the occasion? It is impossible
to say that one of these is more important than the others, and it
is impossible to say that one should logically precede the others.
It might be argued that, since the word is the smallest unit in
composition, we should begin with the study of diction and move
by easy stages through the study of the sentence and the para-
graph to the study of the general problem of organization, with
attention finally given to questions of the occasion.
But we could reply that when we choose words we choose them
in relation to other words, in relation to some general subject and
our general intention concerning that subject, and in relation to
our attitude toward the reader. In the same way we could say that
the study of the sentence, important as it is, should not necessarily
precede the study of problems of more general organization. For
it is the pattern of the sentences, not the individual sentence, which
gives the thrust of our thought and defines the progression of our
ideas. We are first, and finally, concerned with the nature of our
complete utterance, our over-all idea, our main intention. And per-
haps we should, therefore, be first concerned with general problems
of organization.
FINDING A TRUE SUBJECT
Your first problem will always be to define for yourself what
your central idea is. Your second problem will always be to
12 SOME GENERAL PROBLEMS
develop that idea clearly and forcefully. In other words, you must
think before you write. And you must think as you write. For
writing is both the expression of thought and an instrument of
thought.
What constitutes a subject? As we have already observed, any-
thing can be a subject— your autobiography, George Washington,
a house, war, religion, boats, a picnic, chemical research. This
answer is true as far as it goes. But if we put down the subject
"George Washington" and then simply assemble various facts, ideas,
and speculations about him, we find that we do not have a true
subject. It is too vague, too inclusive; and the writer feels like a
man trying to grab a handful of fog. The subject must be limited
and fixed if it is to be manageable.
To limit and fix a subject we must think of it with reference to a
basic interest— an interest dictated by an occasion assigned to us,
or discovered for ourselves. The subject is not in and of itself a
subject— George Washington, a house, war, religion, and so forth—
but is so created by some mind. Even an idea as such is not a
subject, say the idea of goodness or the idea of infinity. To become
a true subject, a mind must work on that idea, define it, take some
attitude toward it.
The true subject is a topic brought to focus. If we take, for
instance, the topic "George Washington," we can think of various
possible interests which might give us true subjects: "George Wash-
ington as the Type of the Colonial Planter," "The Development of
Leadership in George Washington/' "What the Frontier Taught
George Washington," "George Washington as a Statesman," "The
Influence of George Washington on American Political Thought,"
"Myths about George Washington," "The Courtships of George
Washington," "George Washington as a Strategist." But this would
be only the beginning of a list of true subjects. Whatever about
George Washington might interest anybody would be a possible
subject. So the true subject is something about a subject.
It may be objected that a large work on George Washington, say
a biography, might contain many of the items listed above. That
is true. But even in a large work there would be some fundamental
line of interest and interpretation to which the other interests would
be related and subordinated.
FINDING A TRUE SUBJECT 13
Before you undertake any piece of composition, you should try
to frame the real subject, the central concern. You do not write
about a house. You write about its appearance, the kind of life it
suggests, its style of architecture, or your associations with it. You
do not write about chemical research. You write about the method
of chemical research, the achievements of chemical research, or the
opportunities for chemical research. You do not write about good-
ness. You write about the different views of goodness which have
been held by different societies or religions at different times, about
the Christian idea of goodness, about goodness as exemplified by
people you know or know about, or about the definition of good-
ness which you personally accept. You must search your own
thoughts and feelings to find your true subject.
UNITY
Once the writer has his true subject, he must not lose sight of
it as he pursues various related ideas. A good piece of writing
has UNITY. The fundamental interest, which is his subject, must
permeate the whole composition. The composition must be one
thing, and not a hodgepodge.
Unity is not arbitrary, something imposed from the outside. It is
simply the indication that the writer's own mind can work sys-
tematically and can therefore arrive at a meaning. To put it another
way, the unity of the composition is an indication that his mind
has unity— that he is not scatterbrained.
Let us look at a composition which is not well unified.
WHY I WISH TO BE AN ENGINEER
(1) I suppose that one reason I want to be an engineer and have made
my college plans in that direction is that my father is an engineer. He was
a student here at the State University back in 1909-1914. He began his
college career with the intention of being a doctor, but he soon changed
his mind. He finished his course in 1914, and worked as a draftsman for
two years in Chicago in an engineering firm. But World War I got him
into the army, and he wound up a major in the Engineering Corps. It was
a valuable experience for him in more ways than one, for he says it
taught him how to deal with men of all kinds and to get work done under
14 SOME GENERAL PROBLEMS
pressure. Also it meant that he was to get a taste for action and adventure.
After the war, he went to Mexico and worked on building a railroad in
the mountains. He had many difficult construction problems to solve. I
was born in Mexico, and I was raised in a family where they talked engi-
neering all the time, for my mother was interested in my father's work.
(2) There is a great future for an engineer in this country. It makes me
tired to hear people talk of the lack of opportunity in that line. It is true
that during the Depression many engineers were out of work, but that
applied to many occupations and professions. Besides, many of the engi-
neers out of work were not well trained to begin with. If you are really
well trained and are willing to put out your best efforts you can almost
always get along. There is a great future for engineering here, for we are
on the verge of a great technological revolution which will mean the
rebuilding of much of the industrial plant and the development of new
transport facilities. Besides, land reclamation and the expansion of public
works are long-range programs. This country is an engineer's paradise,
for we are the most mechanical-minded people in the world. They say
that that is the great talent of America, and I see nothing to be ashamed
of in that. Engineers make the world easier to live in for everybody.
Think of things like the great bridges and dams, the highways and air-
ports. What would we do without them?
(3) I like the life of action, and that is another reason I plan to be an
engineer. My father had a very interesting life in Mexico. After five years
there he went to Argentina. He had learned the language in Mexico, and
had made a name for himself there. So he got a good offer in Argentina.
He sent my mother and me back to the U. S. until I grew up a little, but
he came to see us at the end of the first year and took us back to Argen-
tina with him. We lived there four years. Then he went to India, and
supervised the building of some bridges there. But he did not take us
to India with him. He understood that the climate was too bad. And he
was right, because he almost died there of dysentery. He never left
America again, but his talk about his adventures gave me a desire for
an active life, and he has never discouraged me.
(4) I make my best marks in mathematics. Mathematics is the basis
of engineering, and I think that a man should follow his best talent. I
like other things, too, history for instance, and I read a good many novels
and stories. But I cannot see myself making a profession of any of these
things. Business would be too confining for me. I have an uncle who is
a lawyer, and it seems to me that he never gets out of his office except
to come home at night.
Taking everything together, I think that engineering is the right
profession for me.
UNITY 15
The writer here has a subject, which is expressed in the title.
And if we examine the theme carefully we can dig out the reasons
for his choice of a career: family background, the opportunity to
make a good living, the appetite for action, and the aptitude for
mathematics. These four reasons should give him the outline for
his theme.
But he is constantly bringing in material which does not bear
directly on the subject or which is developed without reference to
the main line of interest. For instance, he is so much impressed
with his father's life that he devotes far too much attention to it:
most of the first and third paragraphs. For present purposes we
only need to know the barest facts about the father's career. The
last part of the second paragraph, too, is not relevant. The writer
may have two points here— that an engineer feels himself char-
acteristically American and that the engineer has the sense of being
a useful member of society. But he does not state these points, and
they are lost in his general remarks. If we get them at all, we get
them by implication only. In the fourth paragraph, too, we find
some irrelevant material— the reference to the writer's interest in
history and fiction, and the remark about his uncle's occupation.
COHERENCE
An effective discourse must have unity. And it must also have
COHERENCE. That is, the elements of the discourse must stick to-
gether. This seems to be another way of saying that a discourse
must have unity, and in one sense that is true. The distinction may
be stated thus: When we speak of unity we are referring primarily
to the nature of the materials as related to the subject, and when
we speak of coherence we are referring primarily to the way the
materials are organized to give a continuous development of the
subject. A discourse which lacks coherence will, in the larger sense,
seem to lack unity, for even if the materials individually relate to
the subject, we will not be able to see how they relate to each other.
We can consider coherence in two respects: (1) as involving over-
all organization of the discourse, and (2) as involving local transi-
tions within the discourse.
16 SOME GENERAL PROBLEMS
COHERENCE THROUGH OVER-ALL ORGANIZATION
There is no one principle by which the materials of a discourse
are to be organized. Obviously, a principle of organization good for
describing a woman's face would not be good for telling the story
of a baseball game or a battle, for explaining the causes of the
Russian Revolution, or for arguing against the abolition of Greek
letter fraternities. Different intentions involve different principles
of organization. We shall study the basic intentions and some of
their characteristic methods when we come to the chapters on de-
scription, narrative, exposition, and argument, but for the present
we can content ourselves with the common-sense principle: One
thing should lead to another.
The following piece of writing is coherent.
THE PERSON I ADMIRE MOST
(1) I suppose that my uncle Conroy is the person I admire most in
the world. This statement would probably seem strange to a person who
happened to visit in our house and see the old man who sits at a corner
of the hearth, hunched over, shabbily dressed, and not saying much. He
looks like the complete failure, and by ordinary standards he is. He has
no money. He has no children. He is old and sick. But he has made his
own kind of success, and I think he is happy.
(2) At one time in his life he was a success by ordinary standards. He
was the son of a poor Methodist minister (my mother's father), but he
ran away from home in Illinois to Oklahoma back in the days when
things were beginning to boom out there. He had a fine house in Okla-
homa City and a ranch. He was a hail-fellow-well-met, and men and
women liked him. He was a sportsman, kept good horses, and took long
hunting trips to Mexico and Canada. Then one day, on his own ranch,
his horse stumbled in a gopher hole and threw him. He was badly hurt
and was in the hospital for many months. While he was still in the
hospital the Depression came on. If he had been well and able to take
care of his affairs, he might have saved some of his money from the
crash. But as it was he lost everything. So he came back to Illinois, and
my mother and father took him in.
(3) It must have been an awful come-down for a man like that to be
living on charity. But the worst was yet to happen, for he developed
arthritis in a very painful form. I remember the first year or so, even
though I was a very small child. He even tried to commit suicide with
COHERENCE 17
gas from the stove. But my mother saved him, and after that he began
to change.
(4) The first thing was that he began to take an interest in us chil-
dren. He would read to us and talk to us. He helped us with our lessons.
That relieved mother a great deal and made her life easier. My father
was an insurance man and had a lot of paper work to do. It got so that
my uncle took an interest in that, and before long he was helping my
father by doing reports and writing letters. He helped my father tide
over the bad time of the Depression. Then when my mother was ill
for a long time, he learned to do some of the housework, as much as his
strength would permit, and even dressed the two smaller children.
(5) What he did was important, but more important was the way he
did things. He was so natural about it. You never got the impression he
was making any effort or sacrifice. We all got so we didn't notice what
he did, and I am sure that that was what he wanted.
(6) As I look back now, or when I go home and see Uncle Conroy,
the biggest achievement, however, seems to be the kind of example he
gave us all. He was often in pain, but he was always cheerful. If he
felt too bad he simply hid away from the family for a while in his room
—what he called his "mope-room." He even made a joke out of that.
And he didn't act like a man who had failed. He acted like a man who
had found what he could do and was a success at it. And I think that he
is a success. We all admire success, and that is why I admire my uncle
Conroy.
We can see how each section of this theme fits into the general
pattern. The main business of the writer is to tell why he admires
his uncle, but he does not immediately set up the reasons. First, by
way of introduction, he gives a brief sketch of the man as he now
appears—the man who is to be interpreted. The appearance of fail-
ure in contrast to the reality of success gives dramatic interest, and
excites the reader's curiosity. In the second paragraph he tells of the
uncle's days of outward success. This topic does not get into the
theme merely because the uncle, as a matter of fact, had such
success. Many things that happened to him are certainly omitted
here. Instead, it gets in because the taste of worldly success makes
the uncle's achievement and shift of values more impressive. The
third paragraph presents the despair of the uncle— a normal re-
sponse to bankruptcy and illness. This topic has a place in the gen-
eral organization, for it states the thing that the uncle must fight
against. The fourth, fifth, and sixth paragraphs define the nature of
18 SOME GENERAL PROBLEMS
the uncle's achievement. The order here is one of ascending impor-
tance, toward a climax—the special practical things he did, the atti-
tude he took toward the doing, the long-range effect of his example
on others. (There is one small defect in the organization here.
The reference to the uncle's cheerfulness in the sixth paragraph
probably should go back into the fifth paragraph, for it really
belongs under the heading of the uncle's attitude.) The sixth para-
graph not only states the uncle's most important achievement, but
serves as a kind of summary of the preceding material.
COHERENCE THROUGH LOCAL TRANSITIONS
Thus far we have been talking about what is involved in the
over-all organization of a piece of writing. But the question of local
transitions within the discourse is also extremely important. How
do we get from one section to another, one paragraph to another,
one sentence to another?
Obviously there must be an intrinsic continuity: what one section,
paragraph, or sentence presents must bear some relation to the
whole subject and to what has just preceded. But even when there
is this intrinsic continuity, we may have to help the reader by using
certain devices of connection and transition, by giving him links or
signposts.
We can begin a section, paragraph, or sentence with some ref-
erence to what has gone before. The repetition or rephrasing of
something in the preceding unit will provide a link. For example,
let us look at the link which ties together these two paragraphs:
, . . All of these factors result in a condition of social unrest and eco-
nomic uncertainty, which seems to presage the end of our civilization.
Social unrest and economic uncertainty, however, are not always an
unhealthy condition. Actually, that condition may be the prelude, not to
ruin, but to great revolutionary gains. . . .
The repetition of the phrase "social unrest and economic uncer-
tainty" at the beginning of the second paragraph provides the link
between the two. But pronouns and other words of reference (like
such, similar, and so forth) may serve the same purpose.
. . . All of these factors result in a condition of social unrest and eco-
nomic uncertainty, which seems to presage the end of our civilization,
This situation, however, need not fill us with alarm. . . .
COHERENCE 19
or:
Such a situation, however, is not unhealthy. . . .
Furthermore, there are words whose function is to indicate spe-
cific relations: conjunctions, conjunctive adverbs, and some adverbs.
These words say what they mean. And, or, nor establish a co-
ordinate connection. But, however, nevertheless establish a contrast.
So, therefore, consequently establish a result. Moreover and further-
more indicate additions or elaborations. Notice how the word how-
ever is used in the example above.
Another way to establish continuity is found in a large group of
more or less conventional phrases. Such phrases are self-explanatory:
"in addition," "as has been said/' "that is to say," "that is," "by con-
sequence," "for example," "for instance," "as a result," "on the con-
trary."
None of these lists is complete. They are merely suggestive. But
they may serve to indicate the function of such words and phrases
so that the writer can by his reading build up his own resources.
We must not use such transitional words and phrases unless they
are necessary. They are not ornaments, and they impede the reader
rather than help him if the sense is clear without them.
EMPHASIS
A piece of writing may be unified and coherent and still not be
effective if it does not observe the principle of EMPHASIS. When this
principle is properly observed the intended scale of importance of
elements in the discourse is clear to the reader. All cats are black
in the dark, but all things should not look alike in the light of a
reasonable writer's interest in his subject. To change our metaphor,
there is a foreground and a background of interest, and the writer
should be careful to place each item in its proper location. Like
unity and coherence, emphasis is a principle of organization.
How do we emphasize an element in a piece of writing?
EMPHASIS BY FLAT STATEMENT
The first and most obvious way is for the writer to state quite
flatly his own view on the importance of a matter. If we turn back
20 SOME GENERAL PROBLEMS
to the theme "The Person I Admire Most/' we find that paragraphs
4, 5, and 6 represent a scale of importance.
(4) The first thing was that he began to take an interest in us chil-
dren. . . .
(5) What he did was important, but more important was the way he
did things. . . .
(6) As I look back now, or when I go home and see Uncle Conroy,
the biggest achievement, however, seems to be the kind of example he
gave us all. . . .
In depending on his own statement for emphasis the writer should
remember that the actual content must justify the statement. Before
he makes the statement, he must think through the subject and be
sure that he really believes in his own statement.
EMPHASIS BY POSITION
A second way is by position. "First or last" is a fairly sound rule
for emphasis by position. This rule corresponds to two general
methods for treating a subject. The main idea can be presented
and then discussed or proved, or discussion or proof can lead up
to the main idea. Ordinarily the second method is better, and the
end is the most emphatic position, for the last impression on a
reader is what counts most. But some rather conventionalized forms
of writing, like news stories, put the most important material first.
In any case, the middle is the least emphatic position.
EMPHASIS BY PROPORTION
Proportion in itself is a means of emphasis. The most important
topic in a discussion reasonably receives the fullest treatment. This
principle, however, is more flexible than the preceding. In some
writings the last and most important topic may have been so well
prepared for by the foregoing discussion that it does not require
elaborate treatment. The writer must decide each case on its own
merits and be sure that he is not indulging in elaboration merely
for the sake of elaboration.
EMPHASIS BY STYLE
Even when there is no emphasis by proportion or position, the
way of saying a thing may make it emphatic and memorable,
EMPHASIS 2)
So we have emphasis by style. Sharpness or vividness of phrasing,
an illuminating comparison, an air of seriousness, a rhythm that
sticks in the ear— any of these things or several of them in com-
bination may give emphasis.
It is hard to say exactly what constitutes sharpness of phrasing,
though we certainly recognize the dull phrase.
Suppose Patrick Henry had said: "Liberty is a very important
thing for a man to have. It means that he can pursue his own
designs and develop his own fortunes and seek his own happiness
so long as he does not interfere with the rights of other people.
Therefore liberty is a very important thing. I had rather have
liberty than anything else, for it is the basis of everything else. I had
rather die than lose liberty."
His audience would have yawned in his face. But what he actu-
ally said was, "I know not what course others may take; but as for
me, give me liberty or give me death!" and the words have come
a long way from the room in colonial Virginia where they were
spoken. The dramatic quality of the statement, the swelling balance
of the rhythm, the economy of language— these things make the
statement memorable, when the mere idea, stated otherwise, would
have been forgotten.
Or suppose that John Randolph had said about a fellow-politician:
"Henry Clay seems to be a very brilliant man, but his apparent
brilliance is really just superficial cleverness. He is vain and strut-
ting. He is also very corrupt." Nobody would remember the remark.
But he actually said, "So brilliant, yet so corrupt, which, like a
rotten mackerel by moonlight, shines and stinks." The comparison
sums up all he meant, vividly and unforgettably, and we have one
of the most savage insults in the language.
Or suppose Lincoln had said at the end of his Second Inaugural
Address: "We want to finish this war and have a fair peace. We do
not want a vindictive peace but one that will restore the country
to unity. We believe that we are right and are determined to win
and have a fair peace. And after the war we must not forget to
take care of the veterans and the dependents of those who were
killed or wounded in the struggle." The sentiments would have
done him credit, perhaps, but the sentiments would probably have
vanished with the words spoken. What he actually said was:
22 SOME GENERAL PROBLEMS
With malice toward none, with charity for all, with firmness in the
right as God gives us to see the right, let us strive on to finish the work
we are in, to bind up the nation's wounds, to care for him who shall
have borne the battle and for his widow and his orphan, to do all which
may achieve and cherish a just and lasting peace among ourselves and
with all nations.
Here again it is style which makes the difference— the precision
and economy of statement, the concreteness and simplicity of ex-
pression, the full, sonorous, sustained rhythm.
Not many writers or speakers have the gift exhibited in these
examples, but the principle exemplified here should apply to any-
thing we write; the well-said thing is the memorable thing. No
matter how important an idea is, it is lost if the words are blunder-
ing. And almost anyone can, by practice and attention, gain enough
skill to write honestly and cleanly.
MINOR DEVICES OF EMPHASIS
Flat statement, order of importance, proportion, and style are
major means of emphasis, but there are certain minor ones. For
instance, repetition of an idea can give it prominence. The danger
here is that the repetition may become merely mechanical and
therefore dull. To be effective, repetition must be combined with
some variety and some progression in the treatment of the subject.
Or there is the device of the short, isolated paragraph. The thing
set off by itself strikes the eye. But not all short paragraphs are in
themselves emphatic. The content and phrasing of the short para-
graph must in itself appear worthy of the special presentation.
FAULTY DEVICES OF EMPHASIS
There are certain devices of emphasis which often occur but
which are frequently worse than useless. Irresponsible exaggera-
tion always repels the reader. Catchwords and hackneyed phrases
like "awfully," "terribly," "tremendously/* "the most wonderful
thing I ever saw," "you never saw anything like it," "I can't begin
to tell you," make a claim on the reader's attention that he is
rarely prepared to grant. Random underlining and italicizing, or
the use of capitals and exclamation points usually defeat their own
purpose. Writers use these devices when they aren't sure that what
they have to say will stand on its own merits. To insist that what
EMPHASIS 23
you have to say is important does not prove the point. And the
writer's business is to prove that point.
In applying any of these means of emphasis the writer must first
of all be sure that the thing emphasized is worth emphasizing.
Common sense must help him here. Nothing else can.
THE MAIN DIVISIONS OF A DISCOURSE
There are three main divisions into which any rounded discourse
will fall: INTRODUCTION, BODY or DISCUSSION, and CONCLUSION. What
should each accomplish, and what should be their relations to each
other?
THE INTRODUCTION
The introduction must really introduce. At some stage it must
let the reader know the business in hand. Occasionally the title can
be explicit enough to give the reader a good idea of that business,
but usually the introduction must limit and fix the subject. It must
state the precise question with which the discussion is to be con-
cerned.
Sometimes the introduction can properly concern itself with the
background of the subject. If the subject, for example, is a new
process in industrial chemistry, and the audience is composed of
general readers, it may be necessary to inform them about the func-
tion of such a process and about the nature of the old process
before they can understand the significance of the new one. If you
are explaining why a certain novel is good, you may properly intro-
duce your remarks by saying what qualities you prize in fiction.
Or if you are explaining the greatness of Galileo, you may not be
able to make your point unless you describe the condition of science
before he accomplished his work. But here, as when limiting and
fixing the subject itself, you must have some idea of the audience.
How much preparation is needed to make them get your point?
An introduction may tell the reader what method of investiga-
tion has provided the material for the discussion or what method
of discussion you intend to pursue. This element in an introduction
is ordinarily confined to more or less technical discussions. For
instance, a physicist might describe the nature of his method of
investigation before he analyzes his findings. Or an economist might
24 SOME GENERAL PROBLEMS
tell what evidence he had assessed. As for the forecast of the
method of discussion, this is only desirable when the method itself
is of some importance. If, for instance, you are writing in defense
of J. E. B. Stuart's cavalry operations at the time of the Battle of
Gettysburg, your introduction might very well include a statement
of your method. You might say that the points to be determined
are: (1) Was Stuart acting under orders? (2) Was he acting against
orders? (3) Was he acting at discretion? (4) If he was acting at
discretion, what information was available to him? (5) On the
grounds of information available to him, were his operations con-
sistent with reason and military science? Then you might say that
you propose to investigate these questions and rest your case upon
the answers. Such an introduction is sometimes very useful when
the material to be treated is complicated and the reader's interest
might easily be distracted by some incidental matter. It serves as a
blueprint or a signpost.
One other job may be performed by an introduction. It may be
used to catch the reader's interest and lure him into the subject.
When an audience is already interested in the subject, this is super-
fluous. But when you are writing for the general reader, this part
of the work of the introduction may be very important. If you
check through feature articles in newspapers or magazines, you
will find that the introduction usually makes some bid for the
reader's attention. It explains why the subject should interest the
reader, how it touches his life, if only indirectly, or it presents some
incident of dramatic interest, some suggestive anecdote, or some
provocative question.
Of these four general functions of an introduction, the first is the
only essential one: The introduction must always lead the reader
to the subject and must show him clearly what it is. The other
functions are to be performed only when the occasion demands.
THE MAIN BODY OF THE WRITING
It is difficult to make any significant generalizations concern-
ing the main body of a piece of writing. Different subjects and
interests call for different methods, and several of our subsequent
chapters will be devoted to such questions. But this much may be
insisted on now: The body of the discussion should not betray the
THE MAIN DIVISIONS OF A DISCOURSE 25
promise of the introduction. It should really develop the introduc-
tion. If the body does betray the introduction but seems good in
itself, then you must go back and rewrite the introduction. The
two things must be geared together.
THE CONCLUSION
The conclusion gives you your last chance at your reader. If you
fail there, you have probably failed throughout your work.
Occasionally, a formal conclusion is not necessary, especially in
short pieces where the reader can easily carry the whole business
in his head. But when there is no conclusion, it is usually a good
idea to make the last part of the main body of the theme the most
important part, the climax, so that your strongest point will be
freshest for the reader when he leaves you. As we have already
said, the end is the most emphatic position.
In more elaborate pieces of writing some formal conclusion is
necessary to give the reader a perspective on the whole discussion.
It may involve a summary of things the body of the discussion has
established, but it should do more than summarize. It must also
show how those things fit together to support your position or the
effect you desire. It may be that you want to explain something, to
convince the reader of the truth of something, to persuade him to a
course of action, to make him think for himself about something.
Whatever your dominant purpose may be, the conclusion should
bring it into clear focus, The worst effect of all is for the reader, as
he puts down your pages, to have only a hazy notion of what you
meant to say. He should, rather, have a clear idea.
PROPORTIONING THE MAIN DIVISIONS
In talking about emphasis we mentioned the problem of propor-
tion. But in that connection it was a matter of local concern. What
of proportion in relation to the big main divisions?
Our answer cannot take the form of a mathematical ratio— the
body five times longer than the introduction, or something of the
sort, and six times longer than the conclusion. But we must remem-
ber that the introduction is just an introduction, a preparation for
the main business, and that the main business is to be transacted
26 SOME GENERAL PROBLEMS
in the body of the piece. If the introduction is long and cumber-
some, and the body brief, then the reader gets the impression that
the mountain has labored and brought forth a mouse. Likewise,
if there is a formal conclusion, that conclusion should seem to be the
blow that sinks the nail head in the wood. In short, it should "con-
clude" the theme— not start fresh considerations. If the conclusion is
long and cumbersome, then the reader has another unfortunate
impression. It is preposterous, too, for the mouse to labor and try
to bring forth the mountain. Or to apply another saying, the tail
should not wag the dog. As a kind of rule of thumb, we may venture
that the body should be at least several times longer than the
introduction or conclusion.
To think otthe matter mechanically, however, is not the way to
get at it. If the writer has a subject worthy of discussion, and if he
understands the proper function of the introduction and conclusion,
the problem of proportion is apt to take care of itself.
THE OUTLINE
A person writing into a subject blind may come out, by luck or
instinct, with a well-organized and well-proportioned composition.
But ordinarily the safe procedure is to think through the subject
beforehand and set up a plan, an outline, of the projected discourse.
There are various types of outlines ranging from the formal sen-
tence outline down to a scratch outline composed of jottings as they
come to mind in the first survey of the subject. For the moment,
however, we shall concern ourselves with a simple topic outline.
In our analysis of the theme "The Person I Admire Most" (p. 16),
we have already indicated what such a preliminary outline might
be. Let us now set it up.
Statement of the subject: Why I admire my uncle Conroy
Introduction:
I. My uncle as he now appears— apparent failure and real success
Body:
II. The background of my uncle's achievement
A. His worldly success and ruin (paragraph 2)
B. His illness and despair (paragraph 3)
THE OUTLINE 27
III. The nature of my uncle's achievement
A. His practical achievements (paragraph 4)
1. Help with the children
2. Help with my father's business
3. Help with my mother's illness
B. His achievement in self-control (paragraph 5)
1. Naturalness of his actions
2. Cheerfulness in the face of pain
(Now in paragraph 6; should be in paragraph 5)
C. His greatest achievement, an example to others—the summary
of his other achievements (paragraph 6)
Conclusion:
IV. My uncle as a type of success and my admiration for him (para-
graph 6)
The writer of the theme probably should have made topic IV
into a separate paragraph, a conclusion giving a statement of the
author's definition of success and the application to his uncle's case.
Nevertheless, he has written a theme which is fundamentally sys-
tematic, which builds continuously toward its point. The outline
defines the stages in that progression.
A preliminary outline is a help in the actual writing of a theme,
but it should not be followed slavishly. In the process of writing,
new thoughts may come and new material may be suggested. The
writer should always be ready to take advantage of these. He may
have to stop the writing and go back to do a new outline, or he
may be able to incorporate the new thoughts or new material in
the actual body of the theme. In any event, it is a good idea to go
back after the writing is completed and check against the original
outline or, if necessary, make a new outline. When the bare bones
are laid out, the writer can criticize the organization of his work.
It is always a question, too, how fully the outline can predict
the scale of a piece of writing. If the author of "The Person I Admire
Most" made an outline, he might not have been able to predict
exactly how much space each topic would take. For instance, topic
III-A might have developed into three paragraphs instead of one,
or topics II-A and II-B might have been managed in one paragraph
instead of two. Such problems usually have to be settled in the
course of actual composition when the writer discovers the scale
28 SO ME GENERAL PROBLEMS
on which he is working. But the matter of scale and proportion in
itself is something which we shall come to a little later.
The outline we have constructed for "The Person I Admire Most"
is relatively simple. It should be adequate for the preliminary study
of such a subject. But a writer who has trouble in organizing his
material may do well to consult the Appendix on the Outline in
this book ( p. 486 ) . A little practice in making sentence outlines may
increase his power to deal with a body of material. But there is
no virtue in outlining for its own sake. It is a means to an end, a
help to straight thinking and well-organized writing. It is not an
end in itself.
CHAPTER
The Kinds
of Discourse
THE MAIN INTENTION
WHEN a writer sets out to write he has some main intention, some
central purpose. Let us look at this matter as an aspect of com-
munication, and not as an aspect of expression. That is, let us
suppose that the writer wishes to communicate something to a
reader, to work some effect on him.
First, his main intention may be to explain something, to make
clear to the reader some idea, to analyze a character or a situation,
to define a term, to give directions. He may wish, in other words,
to inform him.
Second, he may wish to make the reader change his mind, his
attitude, his point of view, his feelings. He may appeal to the read-
er's powers of logic in a perfectly objective and impersonal fashion,
or he may appeal to his emotions, but in either case the intention
is to work a change in him.
Third, he may wish to make the reader see or hear something as
vividly as the writer himself has seen or heard it, to make him get
the feel of the thing, the quality of a direct experience. The thing
in question may be a natural scene, a city street, a cat or a race
horse, a person's face, the odor of a room, a piece of music.
Fourth, he may wish to tell the reader about an event— what
happened and how it happened. The event may be grand or trivial,
a battle or a ball game, a presidential campaign or a picnic, but
whatever it is, the writer will be anxious to give the sequence in
time and perhaps to give some notion of how one thing led to
30 THE KINDS OF DISCOURSE
another. And above all his chief concern will be to give an imme-
diate impression of the event, to give the sense of witnessing it.
THE FOUR KINDS OF DISCOURSE
We can see, with only a moment of reflection, that these four
types of intention correspond to the four basic kinds of discourse:
EXPOSITION, ARGUMENT, DESCRIPTION, and NARRATION. Exposition
embodies the wish to inform the reader, argument the wish to make
the reader change his mind or attitude, description the wish to
make the reader perceive something, narration the wish to make
the reader grasp the movement of an event.
What is important here is to understand that these traditional
kinds of discourse are not arbitrary divisions of the subject of writ-
ing, but that each corresponds to a main intention, a fundamental
wish on the part of the writer. Each fulfills one of his needs. And
it is important, too, to see that this main intention, this fundamental
wish, relates both to the nature of the subject and the nature of
the occasion. That is, one begins a piece of writing by asking him-
self what kind of treatment is natural to the subject and what kind
of effect he wants to work on the reader.
MIXTURE OF THE KINDS OF DISCOURSE
Thinking back over various articles and books you have read,
you may remark that none of these kinds of discourse often appears
in a pure form. For instance, a novel will describe as well as narrate,
it will give sections of exposition, it may even present argument.
A magazine article on international affairs may very well employ
narrative, as in an illustrative anecdote, or description, as in pre-
senting the statesmen on whose decisions the settlement of affairs
depends. Both exposition and argument may be intertwined in a
most complicated fashion: the writer must make clear to the reader
the state of affairs, and that calls for exposition, and he will prob-
ably have in mind some convictions which he wants to see put into
action by his reader, and that calls for argument. Even class re-
ports, which tend to be almost pure exposition, may involve nar-
rative. For instance, a report on a chemistry experiment may involve
the presentation of an event— the setting up of the apparatus, the
MIXTURE OF THE KINDS OF DISCOURSE 31
sequence of occurrences. In fact, the form of exposition which deals
with such a process is sometimes called expository narration because
it is necessarily bound to a sequence in time.
All of this does not mean that in a good and effective piece of
writing the mixture of the kinds of discourse is irresponsible. There
will always be a main intention, a fundamental wish. The class
report will always be, by the nature of the case, an example of ex-
position. The novel, no matter how much exposition, description,
and argument it contains, will always be an example of narration.
Other instances may not be so clear-cut, but in any instance, a good
writer knows for what purpose he is using a given type of discourse.
He will use it to support his main intention.
Though most writing involves a mixture of the kinds of discourse,
we can best study them in isolation, one by one. This study will
mean the systematic analysis of relatively pure examples in order
to observe the various types of organization appropriate to any one
kind. It is only after one understands the kinds of discourse in a
pure form that one can make them work together to give unity to
a larger discourse.
OBJECTIVE AND SUBJECTIVE DISCOURSE
Before we discuss at length the four kinds of discourse that we
have distinguished, we may make some other distinctions that will
be useful to us.
First, we shall distinguish the SUBJECTIVE and the OBJECTIVE use
of language. Compare these two statements : "The girl had beautiful
hair," and "The girl had black hair." The first statement is "subjec-
tive." It represents a perceiving subject's impression of, and inter-
pretation of, a fact. The second statement is, by comparison, quite
objective. It presents a fact objectively— that is, without personal
interpretation and judgment. The fact presented is true, whether we
think black hair is beautiful or not beautiful, or whether this head of
black hair impresses us as beautiful or ugly. Subjective is inner and
private; objective is outer and public. We tend to have quite dif-
ferent standards of beauty; we tend to have rather general standards
of what is black.
But the statement that the girl has black hair is not wholly objec-
tive. The girl's hair may be a dark brown and the person who claims
32 THE KINDS OF DISCOURSE
that it is black may not have as keen a discrimination of colors as
another. By comparison the statement "The girl weighs 116 pounds"
is more nearly objective. For unless the scales are wrong or the
person who reads them has made an error, that statement depends
upon a universal standard. The Bureau of Weights and Measures
at Washington furnishes us with a very precise standard of what
a pound is.
To sum up, the subjective represents the response of a subject
who perceives, a response that reveals all the individuality of
standard and bias and preconception and emotional coloring that
attach to personal judgment. The objective represents an appeal to
general standards with the elimination of personal bias and impres-
sion.
SCIENTIFIC INTENTION
Here are some further examples of objective and subjective
statements. We may write, "The water was 31 per cent saturated
with filterable solids," or we may write, "The water was stained a
muddy brown." We may write, "The man was 5 ft. 3% in. tall,"
or we may write, "He was a runty little fellow." We may write,
"The animal caught was a mature male of the species Rattus nor-
vegicus weighing 1 Ib. 3]/«> oz.," or we may write, "We caught a fat
brown rat."
Now all these statements report facts, not merely the first mem-
bers of each pair of statements. How then do the first members of
each pair differ from the second members of the pair? They differ
in making use of a defined and agreed-upon set of classifications
and measurements. That is why we call them objective. The word
rat may suggest something loathsome, furtive, and destructive.
Rattus norvegicus does not. Muddy water may call up happy mem-
ories of the old swimming pool or unpleasant associations of dirt.
The author interested in cold and scientific fact finds these associa-
tions, whether pleasant or unpleasant, quite irrelevant to his pur-
pose; moreover, how muddy is muddy? On the other hand, 31 per
cent saturation provides an accuracy with which he is very much
concerned. What is a runt? What is a runty man? That will depend
upon the point of view; moreover, it implies a judgment, a disparag-
ing judgment. The measurement 5 ft. 3% in. is an accurate state-
ment and it gives us the fact quite apart from whether we think
OBJECTIVE AND SUBJECTIVE DISCOURSE 33
that it represents a satisfactory or an unsatisfactory height for a
man.
Scientific statement, of course, represents our nearest approach
to complete objectivity. Scientific statements make use of some
agreed-upon scheme of reference: an accepted classification of
mammals, or Mendelyeev's Periodic Table, or the metric system of
weights and measures, and so on. A very important consequence
follows from this fact: scientific statements make reference to ab-
stractions. To illustrate, Rattus norvegicus is not any particular
member of the brown rat family. It is the family itself: that com-
pound of characteristics which defines the particular species called
the brown rat. Rattus norvegicus is an ideal rat. The personal equa-
tion has been eliminated. Any competent biologist can say whether
the specimen in question belongs to the family or not.
We can say, then, that when the writer's main purpose is scien-
tific his language tends to be technical and objective. It is technical
in that it consists of special terms used strictly with reference to
an agreed-upon scheme. It is objective in that the emotional color-
ing of a particular observer has been eliminated. A strictly scientific
purpose obviously demands an emotionally neutral vocabulary of
this sort.
ARTISTIC INTENTION
The strictly scientific intention, however, represents an extreme.
Very little of our writing turns out to be purely scientific. Moreover,
important as the scientific intention is, it is not the sole intention
of the writer. Let us consider the other intention, and to make the
contrast as sharp as possible, let us take this other intention in its
most extreme form. We might call it an "artistic" intention, though
in using the term "artistic" we do not mean to limit it to the higher
and more serious forms of literature. As we shall use it here, "artistic
intention" includes the purpose that directs the telling of a good
joke or the description of an exciting boxing match, or the writing
of a warm letter to an intimate friend, and many other kinds of
discourse which we use in our everyday life. The writer with this
intention insists that AVC "see" the object, feel the experience, re-
spond imaginatively to the whole scene portrayed. He uses terms
which are particular and concrete and which invite the reader's
reaction. Moreover, such a writer tends to deal with objects in their
34 THE KINDS OF DISCOURSE
immediacy and concreteness. He does not abstract certain qualities
and characteristics as the scientist does; he tends to fuse and com-
bine them. It is easy to see why.
A moment's reflection will show us that our actual experience
of a thing comes to us with more fullness and richness than any
single adjective, tied to the single sense, will indicate. We look at
an apple and see the patch of red, and say, "The apple is red." But
we are also prepared to say that it is, for example, "glossy" and
"juicy-looking/* Even though we have not touched this particular
apple or tasted it, other senses than sight become involved in our
experience of the apple. Our past experiences with apples are oper-
ating at the moment in our experience of the present apple. We see
the apple and sense the special complex of qualities which mean
"appleness"— the color, the texture of the skin, the fragrance, the
juiciness. So when we come to describe something, in ordinary
speech, we may not merely assemble adjectives with the intention
of making them indicate the qualities to be perceived by a single
sense. Our ordinary use of language indicates something of the
complication of the perception. When, for example, we say "glossy"
of the apple, we are, in a way, fusing two senses, sight and touch.
Or when we look at the frozen lake and say, "The ice is glassy,"
we evoke, with the word glassy, a whole complex of qualities which
are fused in the single word— slickness, hardness, transparency, and
brightness.
The kind of richness and fullness about which we have been talk-
ing may involve also the element of interpretation. When we say, as
above, "The ice is glassy," we attribute certain qualities to the ice,,
though, of course, our statement implies a person who perceives.
But when we say, "The music is soothing," the reference to a per-
son who perceives is much more positively and intimately involved
in the statement. For here the music is described only in terms of
its effect upon a hearer. The soothing effect may take place because
the music is soft, or has a certain type of melody and rhythm, or
for some other reason, but the statement as given does not even
mention those qualities; it mentions only the effect on a hearer. In
other words, here the subjective reference of the description is ex-
tremely important, for it is through the subjective reference, the
effect on a hearer, that the person who reads the description be-
comes aware of the nature of the music in question.
OBJECTIVE AND SUBJECTIVE DISCOURSE 35
Subjectivity, in the light of the artistic intention, becomes a virtue,
not a vice. We want terms which suggest qualities, not bare tech-
nical terms which bar all but one meaning. The thing to be avoided
is technical dryness, since the reader is to respond powerfully to
the experience set forth.
What is the relation between the scientific-artistic distinction and
the distinction of the four kinds of discourse?
In an offhand way we tend to think that exposition and argument
employ language that is objective, logical, scientific, and that de-
scription and narration employ language that is subjective, emo-
tional, artistic. Within limits, this is true, but only within limits.
Exposition giving us information about an automobile motor would
use objective, logical, scientific language, but exposition setting
forth the motives of a human act might very well have to resort
to the other kind of language. Or even if the main intention of
argument is to convince by appealing to the logical faculties, we
may have to resort to persuasion, to emotional appeals, to get a
hearing for our argument, to present it with the right tone. Descrip-
tion may as well concern itself with the floor plan of a house as
with a beautiful woman or the effect of a sonata. Narration may
give us the stages of a laboratory experiment or the experience of
a courtship or a prize fight.
We may regard the four kinds of discourse as representing dif-
ferent basic intentions, but any one of these intentions may use
either or both of the two kinds of appeals (objective, logical, sci-
entific or subjective, emotional, artistic).
In making the distinction between the two kinds of appeals we
have deliberately used extreme examples. The extreme examples
may make the difference come clear and sharp. In actual practice,
however, our basic intention is not often purely scientific or purely
artistic. And we must warn ourselves against a misleading over-
simplification: we must not assume that all thinking can be con-
ducted in a terminology that is technical and objective, and that
all emotional language is vague and confused. To take extremes
again, the poet may use language as precisely in his kind of dis-
course as the physicist in his.
Furthermore, though we have contrasted objective language with
subjective language, and technical terms with suggestive and imag-
36 THE KINDS OF DISCOURSE
inative terms, we go badly astray if we assume that, since the scien-
tific intention makes use of objective and technical language, the
artistic intention makes use merely of suggestive and subjective
language. Far from it. Even a novel may include description which
is rather studiedly objective and a poem, on occasion, may make
use of highly technical language.
Perhaps the best way to see the relation of these terms to the
writer's intention is to return to our account of the nature of scien-
tific language. It achieves its objectivity, as we have seen (p. 33),
by using accepted terms and schemes of reference, and we have
observed that these are arrived at by a process of abstraction. The
individual's response is cut away from the term so as to leave it fixed
and unchanging. But only abstractions (that is, generalized qualities
and ideas) are fixed and unchanging. We get, not any individual
rat, half-grown, mangy, dead in the trap, scuttling through the walls
of a house, or the pet rat named "Jirn>" but rather Rattus norvegicus,
that is, ratness— an abstract rat.
In other words, technical and objective terms represent a reduced
language, core-meanings from which personal interpretation and
implied meanings and suggestions have been removed. It is a spe-
cialized language which is developed by abstracting— cutting away
—from the richer and more complex language of our ordinary expe-
rience all but the general qualities and characteristics.
Instead, therefore, of arranging our terms in neat oppositions
thus:
SCIENTIFIC ARTISTIC
objective subjective
technical suggestive
we must see them arranged in this way:
Scientific
OBJECTIVE AND SUBJECTIVE DISCOURSE 37
The segment of the circle represents a specialized intention with
its appropriate devices. The circle as a whole represents our general
intention of which the segment is a part. This may explain why in
realizing the more general intention, we may use, not only a lan-
guage which goes beyond the specialized techniques of the pure
scientific intention, but also on occasion the specialized language
as well.
Finally, we need to remind ourselves once more that in the dis-
cussion thus far we have dealt with extremes: that objective, for
example, is not an absolute term but a relative term. Beautiful is
more subjective than white, but white is more subjective than "the
color without hue at one extreme end of the scale of grays, opposite
to black." So with the other terms which we have used, such as
subjective, technical, and so on. They are relative terms, not abso-
lute. In actual practice we rarely make an appeal that is purely
scientific or purely artistic, just as the four kinds of presentation
rarely exist pure and unmixed. But it is necessary to make the dis-
tinction sharply, for in the chapters that follow we shall need to
refer to the "objective" and "technical" as contrasted in direction
with the "subjective" and the "suggestive."
CHAPTER
Exposition
EXPOSITION is the kind of discourse which explains or clarifies
a subject. That is, as (the word exposition quite literally means, it
sets forth a subject/ Its appeal is to the understanding. Description
and narration may lead to understanding, but they lead to it by
presenting the qualities and movement of their subject. Exposition,
however, leads to understanding by explaining something about its
subject.' Argument involves understanding in that it aims to con-
vince of the truth or desirability of something, but its aim is to
convince, not merely to explain. •
Exposition is the most common kind of writing, for it is applicable
to anything which challenges the understanding— the definition of
a word, the way to a street address, the structure of a plant, the
mechanism of a watch, the meaning of a historical event the motive
of an act, the significance of a philosophical system.
INTEREST
A piece of exposition may be regarded as the answer to a ques-
tion about a subject. If the question has actually been asked us—
"How do I get to the Court House?" or "What were the causes of
the American Revolution?"— it is easy to frame an answer that does
not waver from the point. But if we set out to write a piece of
exposition without the benefit of a real, leading question, simply
because we feel that a subject is interesting or important, we are
very apt to give a confused account of the subject. We should
always try to decide what INTEREST we want to appeal to.
INTEREST 39
An informal list may suggest the kind of interests to which ex-
position appeals:
What is it?
What does it mean?
How is it put together?
How does it work?
Why is it the way it is?
How did it come to be this way?
When did it occur or exist?
What is it worth?
What is its importance?
How well does it fulfill its intended function?
We can ask other questions, of course, about a thing, whatever that
thing may be, but these are among the most usual.
Naturally, not all of these questions would be appropriate for
the same subject. If we are trying to explain the nature of a triangle,
we would scarcely ask when it occurred, for the nature of a triangle
—what makes a figure a triangle and not something else— has no
reference to time at all. Or if we are discussing the French Revolu-
tion, we would scarcely ask how well it fulfilled its intended func-
tion, for the Revolution was a complex event answering to no single
intention. It would be appropriate, however, to ask about its causes
or its importance.
Already, in an earlier chapter (p. 12), we have discussed the
problem of locating the real subject in a general topic, the concern
that will give unity to a composition. The problem here is the same,
but narrowed to apply to the methods of exposition. The interest
we wish to appeal to determines the line we will follow in our
discussion and will give that discussion its proper unity. We may,
for instance, want to define a word, either to instruct our reader or
to clarify our own thinking. We may want to describe a subject—to
tell what its qualities are and relate those qualities to those of
another subject. We may want to account for a subject— tell how it
came to exist. We may want to evaluate or criticize a subject. Any
one of these endeavors would provide us with a unified discussion.
A writer, however, may appeal to more than one interest in the
same composition, and in any extended discussion he is almost
certain to appeal to more than one interest. But in doing so he must
40 EXPOSITION
be careful to keep them distinct. He must not mix up the answer to
one question with the answer to another. He must see the interests
as representing different stages in his single over-all treatment.
Furthermore, if he does appeal to more than one interest, he must
be sure that some relation is established among them, and that there
is a logical progression from one to another. In other words, there
must be clear division among the parts, and significant relation
among the parts.
Let us take an example. A writer wishes to write a review of
Dickens's Oliver Twist. He knows that it is a novel, and he has a
pretty good notion of what a novel is and can assume that his reader,
too, has such a notion. But what kind of a novel is it? He decides
that it is a novel of social protest. He is not so sure that his reader
knows exactly what a novel of social protest is. So he sets out to
define the term "novel of social protest," and decides that it is a
novel in which the author's primary interest is to show the injustice
in society. So far he has classified the novel and given a definition
of the class into which it falls.
Next he may summarize the story, present the characters, and
comment on Dickens's attitude expressed in them. Now he is an-
swering the question, "How is it put together?" He is explaining
the organization of the book.
Next, he may tell how Dickens drew on previous novels for sug-
gestions in method, and on his own life and observation for mate-
rial. Now he is answering the question, "Why is it the way it is?"
He is giving an account of how the novel came to be.
He may conclude by saying that the novel is good because the
plot keeps the reader in suspense and because the reader sympa-
thizes with little Oliver. And he may add that the novel served ^
useful purpose by helping to bring about social reform. In the first
statement he would be evaluating the novel purely as a novel— how
well it fulfills certain requirements of fiction. In the second he would
be evaluating the novel as a social force. In other words, he would
be considering two different meanings of the question, "What is it
worth?"
This would not be the only line of discussion possible for a review
of Oliver Twist, but it will illustrate how a writer may appeal to
more than one interest and still be systematic.
THE METHODS OF EXPOSITION 41
THE METHODS OF EXPOSITION
\We shall^ljriowVake up the ^study, of /the most usual methods of
exposition^the ways we go about answering questions that demand
exposition^ This is not to say that there is a method to correspond
to each question on our list. Some methods may be used in answer-
ing more than one question, and the answer to a single question
may sometimes be made by more than one method or by a combina-
tion of methods. It is useful, however, to remember that the methods
are ways of answering questions, of appealing to interests.
The same discourse— for example, an editorial, an essay, a theme,
a chapter in a text book— may use more than one expository method.
Often we do not find a method in its pure state. But here, where
we are trying to understand the nature of each method, we shall
be concerned with relatively pure examples.
IDENTIFICATION
IDENTIFICATION is one of the simplest methods of exposition. It is
one of the ways of answering the question, "What is it?" In one way,
it is a kind of pointing by means of language. "Who is Mrs. Bertrand
Smith?" somebody asks, and the answer is, "Oh, she is the blond
woman in the black dress, sitting to the right of the white-haired
old man." The reply has worked like pointing a finger. But perhaps
Mrs. Smith is not there to be pointed at so easily. So the answer
may be, "She is the woman who won the city golf tournament last
year and then married the son of old Jason Smith, the banker." In
either case the answer places the subject, Mrs. Smith, in such a
context that she can be identified/)
We constantly use such casual forms of identification. But we
are using the same method if we begin an article on the Carmel
Mission by writing: "The Carmel Mission stands just outside the
village of Monterey, California. It was founded by Padre Junipero
Serra who had come up from San Diego in the year 1770." We have
tried to locate the subject.
The same principle may apply if the thing we are trying to iden-
tify, unlike Mrs. Smith or the Carmel Mission, has no concrete
existence— if, for instance, it is Scholastic philosophy. To identify it
42 EXPOSITION
we might begin: "Scholastic philosophy is that system of thought
developed in the late Middle Ages in Western Europe by the
Catholic Church. The most famous philosopher associated with this
system is Saint Thomas Aquinas." Here, again, we are in the process
ofjocating.
( If identification becomes elaborate it tends to absorb other exposi-
tory methods; it begins, for example, to use analysis, comparison,
or contrast; and the simple intention of identification may be lost
in other and perhaps more interesting intentions in the discussion.
Even so, we can distinguish this intention, and see that it has a
method appropriate to itself, the method of locating, or placing, of
making recognition possible^)
EXPOSITORY DESCRIPTION: TECHNICAL
DESCRIPTION
/-"*
^As identification may absorb other expository methods, so exposi-
tion itself may absorb other kinds of discourse and use them for its
purpose. Description, for instance, is frequently used for an exposi-
tory purpose. In fact, the kind of description usually associated with
exposition is so different from ordinary description that it has a
special name, EXPOSITORY DESCRIPTION or TECHNICAL DESCRIPTION^
\We can distinguish between technical description and ordinary
description by considering the different types of occasion from
which they arise. First, there is the occasion that demands informa-
tion about the thing described. Second, there is the occasion that
demands an immediate impression of the thing described. The first
kind is expository, or technical, in so far as it aims to enlarge the
understanding. But the second type—the type we ordinarily think
of when we use the word description— aims to suggest the qualities
of the object as though it were immediately perceived. It aims to
give an experience of the object through the imagination. We shall
call this type SUGGESTIVE DESCRIPTION.)
A full discussion of suggestive description will be reserved for a
later chapter,1 but for the present it is necessary to contrast it with
technical description that we may better understand the use of
description for exposition. Let us begin with some examples.
1 See Chapter 5, pp. 195-199, below.
EXPOSITORY DESCRIPTION: TECHNICAL DESCRIPTION 43
TECHNICAL:
FOR QUICK SALE
Wellington Boulevard
Attractive Cape Cod cottage, Ige. liv. rm., 13x25, knotty pine, stone
fireplace; din. rm., sunny, 12 x 14; small den or libr., fireplace; kitchen,
modern, elec. stove, Ige. gas refrig., dishwasher, all practically new;
med.-size, concrete basement, gas furn., ht. watr.; 2 bedrms., 14 x 16,
15 x 18; 2 baths, Ige. and small; roof white oak shingle. Lot well planted,
landscaped, brook, 2 acres; heated garage, 2 cars; small greenhouse.
Built by owner, 1936. Excellent condition. Take reasonable offer. Call:
BE-1632.
SUGGESTIVE:
Dear Mother:
We have found a place at last, and we love it, Jack just as much as I.
I must tell you about it, so you can have some notion before you come
to see us here. Well, you don't see it from the highway, for there is a
high hedge across the front of the property with just a little gap that
lets you into the lane, a winding lane among a grove of white oaks, like
a lane going down to a pasture on somebody's farm. That's the whole
impression— just like a farm, a million miles away from town. When you
pass the oaks you see a dip down to a brook, lined with willows, and a
stone bridge, and just beyond the bridge the house on a slight rise that
the brook curves around. The house is white and trim, two stories, but
rather low, just seeming to crop out of the ground, with a couple of
enormous oaks behind to give a background for it. You have the feeling
that once you cross that bridge and enter that door you'll be safe and
sound and the world will never come to bother you.
When you do enter, you know that your feeling is right. There is a
long room with a big fireplace, and windows to the east for the morning
sun. It is a perfect room for the furniture which Grandmother left me,
just the sort of room she would have loved, peaceful and old-fashioned.
The instant you come in, you think of a fire crackling on the hearth,
and a kettle humming to heat water for tea, and you see the copper
glinting on the andirons. . . .
The motives behind the two pieces of description are very dif-
ferent. The seller of the house wants to give information about the
house. The buyer of the house, writing to her mother, wants to give
the feel, the atmosphere, of the house.
44 EXPOSITION
The advertisement is an instance of technical description. Except
in so far as we know the general type of Cape Cod cottage, we
have no basis for visualizing the actual house. The writer of the
advertisement has not been concerned that we should get an im-
pression of his house; the only attempt in this direction is his use
of the word sunny about the dining room. But if the writer has not
been concerned to give us the picture and atmosphere of his house,
he has been greatly concerned to give us a systematic and complete
body of information about the house considered from a technical
point of view as a shelter and a machine for living.
We should find the same motive behind a naturalist's description
of a species of bird, a mechanic's description of the ignition system
of an automobile, or a physiologist's description of the structure of
the human brain. In none of these examples would there be any
attempt to make us perceive the thing described except in so far
as that attempt would enlarge our understanding.
In the excerpt from the letter above, however, the situation is
reversed. The writer is concerned to make an appeal to her reader's
senses, to establish the impression of the place, its quietness and
isolation, its old-fashioned charm. The details she has selected for
comment all contribute to this impression. (The suggestive descrip-
tion does not, as does the technical, give a systematic and relatively
complete body of information concerning the objectji Instead, it
simply presents the details that support the sensory ana emotional
effect the writer wishes to communicate. The technical description
tends to be enumerative; the suggestive description tends to be se-
lective and impressionistic^)
(There is ; another and (very important distinction between the
technical and the suggestive description. In the strictly technical
description there is no place for interpretation by the writer. It is
concerned only with the facts about the object, facts that can be
observed by anyone. For example, when the writer of the advertise-
ment of the Cape Cod cottage lists six rooms, or says that the living
room is of knotty pine, he is stating a fact, something objective and
beyond dispute. He is being strictly technical. But when he says
that the cottage is "attractive" he is not being strictly technical. He
is interpreting the situation according to his own idea of what con-
stitutes attractiveness; Likewise when the buyer writes her letter and
says that the house is peaceful and charming, she is interpreting.
EXPOSITORY DESCRIPTION: TECHNICAL DESCRIPTION 45
To another person with different tastes the place might not seem
peaceful but depressing.
i This is not to say that the suggestive description does not use
facts. It must use facts if it is to give any sense of the reality of the
thing described. But it uses its facts as related to some impression
it wishes to communicate. The facts are interpreteol.)
Let us take another pair of examples, examples in which the dif-
ference is not so immediately obvious but is equally as important.
TECHNICAL;
The West Indies stand in a warm sea, and the trade winds, warmed
and moistened by this sea, blow across all of them. These are the two
great primary geographic facts about this group of islands whose area
is but little larger than that of Great Britain.
These trade winds, always warm, but nevertheless refreshing sea
breezes, blow mostly from the east or the northeast. Thus one side of
every island is windward, and the other side is leeward. The third great
geographical fact about these islands is that most of them are mountain-
ous, giving to the windward sides much more rain than the leeward sides
receive. This makes great differences in climate within short distances,
a thing quite unknown in the eastern half of the United States, where
our slowly whirling cyclonic winds blow in quick succession from all
directions upon every spot of territory. Thus both sides of the Appa-
lachian Mountains are nearly alike in their rainfall, forest growth, and
productive possibilities. On the contrary, the West Indian mountains
have different worlds on their different slopes. The eastern or windward
side, cloud-bathed and eternally showered upon, is damp and dripping.
There are jungles with velvety green ferns, and forests with huge trees.
The rainbow is a prominent feature of the tropic landscape. On the wind-
ward side one receives a striking impression of lush vegetation. On the
leeward side of the very same ridge and only a few miles distant there
is another kind of world, the world of scanty rainfall, with all its devastat-
ing consequences to vegetation. A fourth great geographic fact is the
division of these islands into two great arcs, an outer arc of limestone
and an inner arc of volcanic islands. The limestone areas are low. The
volcanic areas are from moderately high to very high. Some islands have
both the limestone and the volcanic features.— j. RUSSELL SMITH and
M. OGDEN PHILLIPS: North America, Chap. 40.2
- From North America by J. Russell Smith and M. Ogden Phillips, copyright,
1940, by Harcourt, Brace and Company.
46 EXPOSITION
SUGGESTIVE:
Take five-and-twenty heaps of cinders dumped here and there in an
outside city lot; imagine some of them magnified into mountains, and
the vacant lot the sea; and you will have a fit idea of the general aspect
of the Encantadas, or Enchanted Isles. A group rather of extinct vol-
canoes than of isles; looking much as the world at large might, after a
penal conflagration.
It is to be doubted whether any spot on earth can, in desolation,
furnish a parallel to this group. Abandoned cemeteries of long ago, old
cities by piecemeal tumbling to their ruin, these are melancholy enough;
but like all else which has once been associated with humanity they still
awaken in us some thoughts of sympathy, however sad. Hence, even
the Dead Sea, along with whatever other emotions it may at times
inspire, does not fail to touch in the pilgrim some of his less unpleasur-
able feelings. . . .
But the special curse, as one may call it, of the Encantadas, that which
exalts them in desolation above Idumea and the Pole, is that to them
change never comes; neither the change of seasons nor of sorrows. Cut
by the Equator, they know not autumn and they know not spring; while
already reduced to the lees of fire, ruin itself can work little more upon
them. The showers refresh the deserts, but in these isles, rain never falls.
Like split Syrian gourds, left withering in the sun, they are cracked by
an everlasting drought beneath a torrid sky. "Have mercy upon me,"
the wailing spirit of the Encantadas seems to cry, "and send Lazarus
that he may dip the tip of his finger in water and cool my tongue, for
I am tormented in this flame." . . .
In many places the coast is rock-bound, or more properly, clinker-
bound; tumbled masses of blackish or greenish stuff like the dross of
an iron-furnace, forming dark clefts and caves here and there, into which
a ceaseless sea pours a fury of foam; overhanging them with a swirl of
grey, haggard mist, amidst which sail screaming flights of unearthly
birds heightening the dismal din. However calm the sea without, there
is no rest for these swells and those rocks, they lash and are lashed, even
when the outer ocean is most at peace with itself. On the oppressive,
clouded days such as are peculiar to this part of the watery Equator,
the dark vitrified masses, many of which raise themselves among white
whirlpools and breakers in detached and perilous places off the shore,
present a most Plutonian sight. In no world but a fallen one could such
lands exist.-HERMAN MELVILLE: "The Encantadas, or Enchanted Isles,"
The Piazza Tales.
EXPOSITORY DESCRIPTION: TECHNICAL DESCRIPTION 47
The first of these passages is from a geography of North America.
Though it is not as brutally synoptic as the advertisement for the
sale of the Cape Cod cottage, it has essentially the same kind of
organization; it is an enumeration of facts pertinent to the special
technical interest involved. Four "great geographic" facts are listed,
and the consequences in terms of climate, vegetation, and appear-
ance are indicated. There are occasional, and feeble, attempts to
make the reader see the islands, as for instance in the phrases
"cloud-bathed," and "velvety- green ferns," but the tendency is
toward generalized information, toward abstraction. For instance,
instead of giving us the sight of the rainbow in terms of images
which would stir our imaginations, the writers simply say, "The
rainbow is a prominent feature of the tropic landscape." Or instead
of picturing for us the arid slopes of the leeward side of the moun-
tains, they simply offer the phrase, "all its devastating consequences
to vegetation."
The second passage, like the first, is the description of a group
of tropic islands. But Melville, the author, is not concerned to give
us a list of the great geographic facts and their consequences. His
description involves some of these facts, but the passage is not
organized about an enumeration of them. It is organized in such
a way as to return the reader continually to the sense of loneliness,
ruin, and desolation which characterizes the islands.
The passage begins with the comparison to heaps of cinders in
a dumping ground, with that association of the used-up, the fin-
ished, the valueless, the dreary. The first paragraph ends with the
phrase "penal conflagration," which implies ideas not merely of
ruin and waste but also of sin and punishment— sin and punishment
on a universal scale. The next paragraph is based on the ideas of
the unhuman desolation, the blankness. The third is based on the
idea of changelessness, the terrible monotony; but this monotony
is presented as a "special curse," and is finally defined by the cry
of Dives in Hell. In other words, in both the curse and the Biblical
reference, we find an echo of the notion of sin and punishment, a
continuation of the idea in the first paragraph. In the last paragraph
appears again the image of the wasteland of cinders in the phrases
"clinker-bound" and "like the dross of an iron-furnace." And also
in the constant tumult of the sea, in the phrase "lash and are lashed,"
48 EXPOSITION
appears the idea of punishment and suffering, which becomes ex-
plicit in the last sentence, "In no world but a fallen one could such
lands exist."
In other words, the whole passage is based on two things, the
image of the cinder heap and the idea of sin and punishment, which
combine to give the notion of a world after the Judgment, the final
desolation. And it is this notion that provides the organizing prin-
ciple for the description. It is the key to the interpretation that
Melville gives to his facts.
Since the purpose of technical description is to give information
about its object, the kind of description called GENERALIZED DESCRIP-
TION is one form it sometimes assumes. Generalized description
presents the characteristics of a type rather than of a particular
individual. If we set out to write a theme about the collie as a type,
giving the points and qualities of the breed, we are using general-
ized description. If, on the other hand, we set out to write a theme
about Old Buck, our favorite dog, we are using suggestive descrip-
tion, for we want to make clear to the reader what qualities the
particular dog has.
The following description of the North American Indian, from
an old work on the subject, is obviously an example of generalized
description.
The general appearance of a North American Indian can be given in
few words. . . . They are about of the average height which man attains
when his form is not cramped by premature or excessive labor, but their
erect posture and slender figure give them the appearance of a tall race.
Their limbs are well formed, but calculated rather for agility than
strength, in which they rarely equal the more vigorous of European
nations. They generally have small feet.
The most distinguishing peculiarities of the race are, the reddish or
copper color of the skin; the prominence of the cheek-bone; and the
color and quality of the hair. This is not absolutely straight, but some-
what wavy, and has not inaptly been compared to the mane of the horse
—less from its coarseness than from its glossy hue and the manner in
which it hangs. Their eyes are universally dark. The women are rather
short, with broader faces, and a greater tendency to obesity than the
men, but many of them possess a symmetrical figure, with an agreeable
and attractive countenance.— CHARLES DE WOLF BROWNELL: The Indian
Races of North and South America, Chap. 1.
EXPOSITORY DESCRIPTION: TECHNICAL DESCRIPTION 49
The following description, however, is obviously particular and
suggestive.
He had the spare, alert and jaunty figure that one often finds in army
men, an almost professional military quality that somehow seemed to
set his figure upon a horse as if he had grown there or had spent a
lifetime in the cavalry. His face also had the same lean, bitter, profes-
sional military quality; his speech, although good-natured and very
friendly, was clipped, incisive, jerky, and sporadic, his lean weather-
beaten face was deeply, sharply scarred and sunken in the flanks, and
he wore a small cropped mustache, and displayed long frontal teeth
when he smiled— a spare, gaunt, toothy, yet attractive smile.
His left arm was withered, shrunken, almost useless; part of his hand
and two fingers had been torn away by the blast or explosion which had
destroyed his arm; but it was not this mutilation of the flesh that gave
one the sense of a life that had been ruined, lost, and broken irretriev-
ably. In fact, one quickly forgot his physical injury; his figure looked
so spare, lean, jaunty, well-conditioned in its energetic fitness that one
never thought of him as a cripple, nor pitied him for any disability. No:
the ruin that one felt in him was never of the flesh, but of the spirit.
Something seemed to have been exploded from his life— it was not the
nerve-centers of his arms, but of his soul, that had been destroyed. There
was in the man somewhere a terrible dead vacancy and emptiness, and
that spare, lean figure that he carried so well seemed only to surround
this vacancy like a kind of shell.— THOMAS WOLFE: Of Time and the River,
Chap. 70.3
Let us summarize the distinction between technical description
and suggestive description. (The technical gives information about
the object. The suggestive gives an immediate impression of the
object. The technical tells us something about the object; the sug-
gestive gives us the object in our imagination, almost as though it
were before us. The technical tends to be abstract; the suggestive
tends to be concrete. The technical tends to completeness in listing
qualities of the object (with reference to the special interest that
motivates the description); the suggestive tends to selectivity (with
reference to the main impression desired). The technical employs
a schematic organization defined by the special interest involved
in the description (the listing of rooms, etc., in the first example, the
* From Of Time and the River by Thomas Wolfe, copyright, 1935, by Ckarles
Scribner's Sons.
50 EXPOSITION
listing of the four great geographical facts, etc., in the second). The
suggestive employs an organization defined by the main impression
and response desired (peacefulness and charm in the letter, burned-
out desolation in the essay by Melville). In addition, technical de-
scription may be generalized and not particular.
We can list the distinctions:
TECHNICAL SUGGESTIVE
information impression
about the object the object
abstract concrete
completeness selectivity
schematic organization impressionistic organization
no interpretation interpretation
(general) particular /
s
OBJECTIVE AND SUBJECTIVE DESCRIPTION
(Another distinction 'may be useful in our thinking^ about descrip-
tion, the distinction we have already made (p. 31 ) between OBJEC-
TIVE and SUBJECTIVE. I
When we say, "The apple is red," we point to a quality which
the apple possesses. There is no reference here to any observer of
the apple. This is a simple case of objective description. It is con-
cerned only with the object being described.
But when we say, "The music is soothing," we refer to the effect
of the music upon a listener. The soothing effect may occur because
the music is soft, and has a certain kind of melody and rhythm,
but our statement as given does not mention those qualities ob-
jectively. It only mentions the effect on the person who experiences
the music, on the "subject" as he is called. The statement, then, is
a simple example of subjective description./
Let us take some examples somewhat more complicated than our
statements about the apple and the music.
(1) If anyone wants to exemplify the meaning of the word "fish," he
cannot choose a better animal than a herring. The body, tapering to
each end, is covered with thin, flexible scales, which are very easily
rubbed off. The taper head, with its underhung jaw, is smooth and
scaleless on the top; the large eye is partly covered by two folds of
transparent skin, like eyelids— only immovable and with the slit between
EXPOSITORY DESCRIPTION: TECHNICAL DESCRIPTION 51
them vertical instead of horizontal; the cleft behind the gill-cover is very
wide, and, when the cover is raised, the large red gills which lie under-
neath it are freely exposed. The rounded back bears the single mod-
erately long dorsal fin about its middle.— THOMAS HENRY HUXLEY: "The
Herring."
In this passage we find a clear instance of description without
reference to any observer. Information is given about the object
with no interpretation: the facts are the facts.
Let us turn to an example, however, in which an observer is
specified, a passage in which Gulliver, a man of normal size who
has been captured by the tiny Lilliputians, describes the house
assigned to him.
(2) At the place where the carriage stopped, there stood an ancient
temple, esteemed to be the largest in the whole kingdom, which having
been polluted some years before by an unnatural murder, was, accord-
ing to the zeal of those people, looked upon as profane, and therefore
had been applied to common uses, and all the ornaments and furniture
carried away. In this edifice it was determined I should lodge. The great
gate fronting to the north was about four foot high, and almost two
foot wide, through which I could easily creep. On each side of the gate
was a small window not above six inches from the ground: into that
on the left side, the King's smiths conveyed fourscore and eleven chains,
like those that hang to a lady's watch in Europe, and almost as large,
which were locked to my left leg with six and thirty padlocks. Over
against this temple, on t'other side of the great highway, at twenty foot
distance, there was a turret at least five foot high. Here the Emperor
ascended with many principal lords of his court, to have an opportunity
of viewing me, as I was told, for I could not see them.— JONATHAN SWIFT:
Gulliver's Travels, Chap. 1.
An observer is introduced into this scene, but the observer is a
mere observer, a kind of device for registering the facts, and no
reference is made to the effect of the scene upon him. The facts
are presented objectively in themselves and the items mentioned
(such as measurement, shape, color) are items about which objec-
tive agreement would be relatively easy. So we see that the mere
presence of an observer does not mean that a description may not
be objective. The description is apparently subjective but is really
objective.
52 EXPOSITION
Our next example also gives an observer:
(3) I know not how it was— but, with the first glimpse of the building,
a sense of insufferable gloom pervaded my spirit. I say insufferable; for
the feeling was unrelieved by any of that half-pleasurable, because poetic,
sentiment, with which the mind usually receives even the sternest natural
images of the desolate or terrible. I looked upon the scene before me—
upon the mere house, and the simple landscape features of the domain,
upon the bleak walls, upon the vacant eye-like windows, upon a few
rank sedges, and upon a few white trunks of decayed trees— with an
utter depression of soul which I can compare to no earthly sensation
more properly than to the after-dream of the reveler upon opium: the
bitter lapse into every-day life, the hideous dropping off of the veil.—
EDGAR ALLAN FOE: "The Fall of the House of Usher."
The observer here, unlike Gulliver, is not a mere observer. What
is important here is his reaction, his gloom, his depression. We get
an impression of the scene, it is true, but the reaction is more impor-
tant than the scene itself. We have only a small amount of factual
information about the scene; there are the vacant windows in the
building, there is the growth of sedge, there are the few decayed
trees gone white. Everything else in the passage is devoted, directly
or indirectly, to indicating a response to the scene. Not only is this
true of the parts of the passage in which the narrator definitely
states his personal reactions. It is also true of words like "bleak"
and "eye-like" which pretend to describe the object but in reality
indicate a response to the object. For example, the phrase "vacant
eye-like windows" is really giving the morbid comparison of the
house to a fleshless skull— is really implying that the house is a
house of death.
What are we to make, however, of description in which no ob-
server appears, but which indicates a very definite response for the
reader? With this question in mind let us look at the following
passage:
(4) The waters are out in Lincolnshire. An arch of the bridge in the
park has been sapped and sopped away. The adjacent low-lying ground,
for half a mile in breadth, is a stagnant river, with melancholy trees for
islands in it, and a surface punctured all over, all day long, with falling
rain. My Lady Dedlock's "place" has been extremely dreary. The
weather, for many a day and night, has been so wet that the trees seem
wet through, and the soft loppings and prunings of the woodsman's axe
EXPOSITORY DESCRIPTION: TECHNICAL DESCRIPTION 53
can make no crack or crackle as they fall. The deer, looking soaked, leave
quagmires where they pass. The shot of a rifle loses its sharpness in the
moist air, and its smoke moves in a tardy little cloud towards the green
rise, coppice-topped, that makes a background for the falling rain. The
view from my Lady Dedlock's own windows is alternately a lead-
coloured view, and a view in Indian ink. The vases on the stone terrace
in the foreground catch the rain all day; and the heavy drops fall, drip,
drip, drip, upon the broad flagged pavement, called, from old time, the
Ghost's Walk, all night. On Sundays, the little church in the park is
mouldy; the oaken pulpit breaks out into a cold sweat; and there is a
general smell and taste as of the ancient Dedlocks in their graves.—
CHARLES DICKENS: Bleak House, Vol. I, Chap. 2.
As we have said, no observer is officially introduced into this
scene, but a certain response to it is strongly indicated, a certain
mood is developed. All details are presented to reinforce the im-
pression of dampness, depression, and gloom. The river is "stag-
nant," the blows of the ax make only "soft loppings," the report
of the rifle "loses its sharpness in the moist air," the heavy drops
"drip, drip, drip," the church is "mouldy," the pulpit "breaks out into
a cold sweat," there is the general taste and smell of a tomb. Notice
how the phrase "breaks out in a cold sweat," though applied to the
damp wood of the pulpit actually serves to remind us of a situation
that would make a human being do the same thing, and leads us
up to the taste and smell of the Dedlocks in their graves. We can
see that, though Dickens has apparently maintained an objective
method (he has put no observer in the scene), the effect of the pas-
sage is actually much closer to that from Poe than to the objective
passage by Huxley with which we started.
THE RELATION BETWEEN THE TECHNICAL-
SUGGESTIVE DISTINCTION AND THE
OBJECTIVE-SUBJECTIVE DISTINCTION
\What is the relation between the technical-suggestive distinction
and the objective-subjective distinction? We can best answer this
question by remembering "that technical description does not inter-
pret its material and the suggestive description does7\Then we can
set up a scheme to answer our question:
54 EXPOSITION
TECHNICAL SUGGESTIVE
Without an observer
(1) Without observer and with (4) Without observer, apparently
strictly objective method. (Huxley: objective in method, but with in-
"The Herring") terpretation of material. (Dickens:
Bleak House)
With an observer
(2) With observer, apparently sub- (3) With observer and with strictly
jective in method, but with no ref- subjective method. (Poe: "The Fall
erence to the observer's responses of the House of Usher")
and with no interpretation. (Swift:
Gullivers Travels)
We cannot let this scheme stand, however, without some modify-
ing comment.
First, technical description of the strictest kind, such as the de-
scription of a device in a handbook of mechanics ordinarily uses
type 1.
Second, even when suggestive description puts the greatest em-
phasis on the interpretation of material, on the response of a speci-
fied observer or of the reader, it must still give an impression of
the object itself. It is not a mere presentation of responses. In the
description of the House of Usher, for instance, we do have a pic-
ture of the landscape. The point is that such physical items are used
as will support the interpretation.
Third, even in a composition where the over-all intention is sug-
gestive, elements of technical description may appear. For example,
the writer may want to give some general information about an
object or a class of objects. In his novel Moby Dick, Herman Mel-
ville is not primarily interested in writing a technical study of whal-
ing and whaling ships, but we find in it such a description as the
following, in which he is not trying to give us a vivid impression
but to make us understand technically the characteristic structure
of the tryworks of a whaler. So he uses a description which is objec-
tive and is essentially of type 1.
Besides her hoisted boats, an American whaler is outwardly distin-
guished by her try- works. She presents the curious anomaly of the most
solid v&asonry joining with oak and hemp in constituting the completed
TECHNICAL-SUGGESTIVE AND OB J EC T I V E- S U B J ECT I V E 55
ship. It is as if from the open field a brick-kiln were transported to her
planks.
The try-works are planted between the foremast and mainmast, the
most roomy part of the deck. The timbers beneath are of a peculiar
strength, fitted to sustain the weight of an almost solid mass of brick
and mortar, some ten feet by eight square, and five in height. The
foundation does not penetrate the deck, but the masonry is firmly secured
to the surface by ponderous knees of iron bracing it on all sides, and
screwing it down to the timbers. On the flanks it is cased with wood,
and at top completely covered by a large, sloping, battened hatchway.
Removing this hatch we expose the great try-pots, two in number, and
each of several barrels' capacity. When not in use, they are kept remark-
ably clean. Sometimes they are polished with soapstone and sand, till
they shine within like silver punch-bowls.— HERMAN MELVILLE: Moby
Dick, Chap. 46.
Another use of technical description in a composition where the
over-all intention is suggestive may appear when the writer wants
the reader to take a cool, detached, almost scientific attitude toward
what is being presented. For example, Gulliver's Travels is a fan-
tastic narrative, a set of absolutely impossible events, but the fact
that Swift adopts an unemotional attitude, that he makes his de-
scription technical, tends to lead the reader to accept the fantasy.
The reader, of course, knows that the events are not true, that no
such creatures as the Lilliputians ever existed, but he is willing to
accept the illusion.
With these reservations, our scheme of the relation of the tech-
nical-suggestive distinction to the objective-subjective distinction
may be useful. What we must remember is that such distinctions
and relations are not always mathematically clear-cut, that the mind
may carry more than one interest at a time. And this idea may lead
us to a more general consideration of the uses of technical and sug-
gestive description.
THE USES OF TECHNICAL AND SUGGESTIVE
DESCRIPTION
We cannot say that either type of description is better than the
other. Each has its uses, and at one time we find need for one and
at another time the need for the other. In one department of our
56 EXPOSITION
living we are concerned with information about the world; in an-
other department, with the direct experience of the world; and the
two types of description may be said to correspond to those two
kinds of interest, to two kinds of motivation. JThe advertisement of
the Cape Cod cottage is concerned with information about the
object, the letter of the buyer, with her direct experience of the
cottage and her feelings about it.
We have already referred to this distinction (p. 42), but we may
return to it here in considering the distinction between the two
kinds of description and remember that (scientists appeal to our
interest in information about the world and in explanation of the
world, and that artists (of all kinds, painters, poets, novelists, musi-
cians, and so forth) appeal to our interest in direct experience of
the world. This means that we find technical description character-
istically in scientific writing and suggestive description charac-
teristically in the work of literary artists, poets or essayists or fiction
writers. For instance, the geographers, describing the West Indies,
are writing as scientists, and Melville, describing the Encantadas,
is writing as an artist)
Most of us are neither scientists nor artists and never shall be, but
we all have a little of the scientist and a little of the artist in us. We
want to know about the world and we want to extend our experi-
ence of the world. At the same time, these two kinds of interest
lead us, in so far as we become well-developed human beings, to
the use of the two kinds of description. In so far as we are scientists
we find a use for technical description, and in so far as we are
artists we find a use for suggestive description.
All of (this does not mean that we find technical description only
in scientific works or suggestive description only in artistic works.
Technical description may occur in a letter, an essay, a guidebook,
a history, an advertisement— wherever and whenever the impulse
appears to give information about the qualities of an object. By the
same token, suggestive description may occur in any piece of writ-
ing which embodies the impulse for immediacy and vividness. Some-
times, as we have said, both types may appear in the same work,
whether its prevailing temper is scientific or artistic. J
EXPOSITORY NARRATION 57
EXPOSITORY NARRATION
Asrwe can make a distinction between expository description and
ordinary description we can make one between EXPOSITORY NARRA-
TION and ordinary narration. Ordinary narration, as we shall see
when we come to discuss it as a basic kind of discourse, is con-
cerned with presenting an action. It aims to give the sense of the
event as experienced, and it involves an appeal to the imagination.
But narration may be employed merely to give information, to
enlarge the understanding. If we give directions as to how to build
a boat or make a cake, we are treating a sequence of events in time,
and we are forced to use a form of narration. If we tell how radar
works, we are again using a kind of narration. An instructor in
military history lecturing on the First Battle of the Marne in World
War I is concerned to make his class understand the stages of the
event and the problems of tactics, but is not necessarily concerned
to bring the event into the imagination of his audience. So he, too,
is using expository narration.
Expository narration, like expository description, may take a gen-
eralized form. The lecturer on the First Battle of the Marne is not
using generalized narration, for he is dealing with an individual
event, but if he were to give instructions as to the proper method
of executing a certain maneuver, he would be using generalized
narration, for he would be concerned with a type of event, not with
a particular event. So if we undertake to tell how a bill becomes
a law or to give an account of fraternity rushing day, we should
be using generalized narration. We would be concerned with a
type of event, j
*/
ILLUSTRATION
Generalized description, as we have seen, is concerned with the
qualities of a type, class, or group. (ILLUSTRATION^ISO (aims to ex-
plain a type, class, or group, but it does so by presenting an exam-
ple. It explains the general by presenting the particular)
Here is an example (and by our own phrase, "here is an example,"
we announce that we are here about to use the method of illustra-
58 EXPOSITION
tion) of the explanation of a class by presenting one member of it,
a "Handsome Sailor":
In the time before steamships, or then more frequently than now, a
stroller along the docks of any considerable seaport would occasionally
have his attention arrested by a group of bronzed marines, man-of-war's
men or merchant sailors in holiday attire ashore on liberty. In certain
instances they would flank, or, like a bodyguard, quite surround some
superior figure of their own class, moving along with them like Alde-
baran among the lesser lights of his constellation. The signal object was
the "Handsome Sailor/' of the less prosaic time alike of the military and
merchant navies. With no perceptible trace of the vainglorious about him,
rather with the off-hand unaffectedness of natural regality, he seemed to
accept the spontaneous homage of his shipmates. A somewhat remark-
able instance recurs to me. In Liverpool, now half a century ago, I saw
under the shadow of the great dingy street-wall of Prince's Dock (an
obstruction long since removed) a common sailor, so intensely black that
he must needs have been a native African of the unadulterate blood of
Ham. A symmetric figure much above the average height. The two ends
of a gay silk handkerchief thrown loose about the neck danced upon the
displayed ebony of his chest; in his ears were big hoops of gold, and a
Scotch Highland bonnet with a tartan band set off his shapely head.
It was a hot noon in July; and his face, lustrous with perspiration,
beamed with barbaric good-humor. In jovial sallies right and left, his
white teeth flashing into view, he rollicked along, the center of a com-
pany of his shipmates. ... At each spontaneous tribute rendered by
the wayfarers to this black pagod of a fellow— the tribute of a pause and
stare, and less frequent an exclamation— the motley retinue showed
that they took that sort of pride in the evoker of it which the Assyrian
priests doubtless showed for their grand sculptured Bull when the faith-
ful prostrated themselves .—HERMAN MELVILLE: Billy Budd, Chap. 1.
In the following parable told by Jesus we find a general idea
illustrated by a particular instance:
And he began again to teach by the seaside: and there was gathered
unto him a great multitude, so that he entered into a ship, and sat in the
sea; and the whole multitude was by the sea on the land.
And he taught them many things by parables, and said unto them in
his doctrine,
Hearken; Behold, there went out a sower to sow:
And it came to pass, as he sowed, some fell by the wayside, and the
fowls of the air came and devoured it up.
ILLUSTRATION 59
And some fell on stony ground, where it had not much earth; and
immediately it sprang up, because it had no depth of earth:
But when the sun was up, it was scorched; and because it had no
root, it withered away.
And some fell among thorns, and the thorns grew up, and choked it,
and it yielded no fruit.
And other fell on good ground, and did yield fruit that sprang up and
increased; and brought forth, some thirty, some sixty, and some an
hundred.
And he said unto them, He that hath ears to hear, let him hear.
And when he was alone, they that were about him with the twelve
asked of him the parable.
And he said unto them, Unto you it is given to know the mystery of
the kingdom of God: but unto them that are without, all these things
are done in parables:
That seeing they may see, and not perceive; and hearing they may
hear, and not understand; lest at any time they should be converted,
and their sins should be forgiven them.
And he said unto them, Know ye not this parable? and how then
will ye know all parables?
The sower soweth the word.
And these are they by the wayside, where the word is sown; but when
they have heard, Satan cometh immediately, and taketh away the word
that was sown in their hearts.
And these are they likewise which are sown on stony ground; who,
when they have heard the word, immediately receive it with gladness;
And have no root in themselves, and so endure for a time: afterward,
when affliction or persecution ariseth for the word's sake, immediately
they are offended.
And these are they which are sown among thorns; such as hear the
word,
And the cares of this world, and the deceitfulness of riches, and the
lusts of other things entering in, choke the word, and it becometh
unfruitful.
And these are they which are sown on good ground; such as hear the
word, and receive it, and bring forth fruit, some thirty-fold, some sixty,
and some an hundred.— Mark 4:1-20.
The same method of giving the particular instance to explain the
general idea appears here:
A good neighbor, as the term was understood in the days when as a
little girl I lived on a farm in Southern Michigan, meant all that
60 EXPOSITION
nowadays is combined in corner store, telephone, daily newspaper, and
radio. But your neighbor was also your conscience. You had to behave
yourself on account of what the neighbors would think.
A good neighbor knew everything there was to know about you— and
liked you anyway. He never let you down— as long as you deserved his
good opinion. Even when you failed in that, if you were in trouble he
would come to your rescue. If one of the family was taken sick in the
night, you ran over to the neighbors' to get someone to sit up until the
doctor arrived. Only instead of sending for the doctor, you went for
him. Or one of the neighbors did.
The Bouldrys were that kind of neighbors. Lem Bouldry was a good
farmer and a good provider. Mis' Bouldry kept a hired girl and Lem had
two men the year round. They even had a piano, while the most the
other neighbors boasted was an organ or a melodeon. Mis' Bouldry
changed her dress every afternoon (my mother did too; she said she
thought more of herself when she did), and they kept the front yard
mowed.
But the Covells were just the opposite— the most shiftless family the
Lord ever let set foot on land. How they got along my father said he
didn't know, unless it was by the grace of God. Covell himself was ten
years younger than my father, yet everybody called him "Old Covell."
His face and hands were like sole leather and if his hair had ever been
washed, it was only when he got caught in a rainstorm. Father said Old
Covell would borrow the shirt off your back, then bring it around to
have it mended; Mother said, well, one thing certain, he wouldn't bring
it around to be washed.
Yet the time Mis' Covell almost died with her last baby— and the baby
did die— Mis' Bouldry took care of her; took care of the rest of the chil-
dren too— four of them. She stayed right there in the Covell house, just
going home to catch a little sleep now and then. She had to do that,
for there wasn't so much as an extra sheet in the house, much less an
extra bed. And Mis' Bouldry wasn't afraid to use her hands even if she
did keep a hired girl— she did all the Covells' washing herself.
But even Old Covell, despite his shiftlessness, was a good neighbor
in one way: he was a master hand at laying out the dead. Of course, he
wasn't worth a cent to sit up with the sick, for if it was Summer he'd go
outside to smoke his pipe and sleep; and if it was Winter he'd go into
the kitchen and stick his feet in the oven to warm them and go to sleep
there. But a dead man seemed to rouse some kind of pride and re-
sponsibility in him. There was no real undertaker nearer than ten miles,
and often the roads were impassable. Folks sent lor my mother when
or woman died, but Old Covell handled all the men. Though he
ILLUSTRATION 61
never wore a necktie himself, he kept on hand a supply of celluloid
collars and little black bow ties for the dead. When he had a body to
lay out, he'd call for the deceased's best pants and object strenuously
if he found a hole in the socks. Next, he'd polish the boots and put on a
white shirt, and fasten one of his black ties to the collar button. All in all,
he would do a masterly job.
Of course, nobody paid Old Covell for this. Nobody ever thought of
paying for just being neighborly. If anybody had ever offered to, they'd
have been snubbed for fair. It was just the way everybody did in those
half-forgotten times.— DELLA T. LUTES: "Are Neighbors Necessary?"4
It is clear that in the excerpt from Melville description is used,
in the parable narration is used, and in the essay on neighborliness
both description and narration are used. But here we must observe
that the description is not, strictly speaking, expository description.
Taken in itself, it is suggestive description. It is used, however, for
an expository purpose, to illustrate. The same situation prevails in
regard to the narration. The parable, for instance, is an example
of ordinary narration, and is not, in itself, expository narration. But
it is used here for an expository purpose. In each of these instances,
an expository intention dominates and gives unity to the composi-
tion.
COMPARISON AND CONTRAST
( In COMPARISON, as a method of exposition, we clarify a subject
by indicating similarities between two or more things; in CONTRAST,
by indicating differ ences.^Ve constantly and instinctively use com-
parison and contrast, but they are not always used for expository
purposes. For example, the poet making a comparison in a poem,
or a painter making a contrast of two forms in planning the com-
position of a picture, may not be doing so for an expository pur-
pose. The poet or the painter is acting with an appreciative or artistic
motivation ( see p. 33 ) , as contrasted with an expository or scientific
one, and all of us, even though we may not write poems or paint
pictures, sometimes make comparisons and contrasts out of a simi-
lar motivation to gain vividness, to appeal to the imagination.
We also use comparison constantly and instinctively for exposi-
4 From "Are Neighbors Necessary?" by Delia T. Lutes. Reprinted by per-
mission of the American Mercury and Mrs. Cecily I. Dodd.
62 EXPOSITION
tory purposes. A child asks, "What is a zebra?" And we are apt to
reply, "Oh, a zebra— it's an animal sort of like a mule, but it's not
as big as a mule. And it has stripes like a tiger, black and white
stripes all over. But you remember that a tiger's stripes are black
and orange." Here we have used both comparison and contrast.
We have compared the shape of the zebra to that of the mule, but
have contrasted the two animals in size. And we have compared
the stripes of ti. zebra to the stripes of a tiger, but have contrasted
them in color. It the child knows what mules and tigers are like, he
now has a pretty good idea of a zebra. But our instinctive applica-
tion of coirnparison and contrast can be made more useful if we are
systematic. '
To be systematic means, for one thing, to understand the purpose
for which a comparison or contrast is made. (We may distinguish
three types of purpose. In the first place our purpose may be to
inform the reader about one item, and we may do so by relating it to
another item with which the reader is already familiar. Second, we
may wish to inform the reader about both items involved, and do
so by comparing or contrasting them in relation to some general
principle with which the reader is already familiar and which
would apply to both. For example, if we are reviewing two novels
we may compare and contrast them by reference to what we assume
our reader knows about the principles of fiction. Third, we may
compare and contrast items with which the reader is already
familiar for the purpose of informing him about some general prin-
ciple or idea. For example, a student of political science, already
well acquainted with the governmental systems of the United States
and England, might undertake to compare and contrast those sys-
tems for the purpose of understanding, or of explaining to others,
the nature of democratic government.^
To be systematic means, also, to understand the area of interest
involved in a comparison or contrast. Jty[ ere differences and mere
similarities are not very instructive^To compare and contrast a
hawk and a handsaw would not be very profitable^ No common
area of interest brings them together and makes them worth treat-
ing. A zoologist might, however, profitably compare a hawk and a
wren, for his interest in them as living creatures would embrace
both. Or a student of the laws of flight might compare a hawk and
an airplane. J
COMPARISON AND CONTRAST 63
WAYS OF ORGANIZING MATERIAL
When we come to apply comparison and contrast in extended
form we find that there are two general ways of organizing the
material. First, we can fully present one item and then fully present
the other. Second, we can present a part of one item and then a
part of the other, until we have touched on all the parts relevant
to our comparison or contrast.
Each of these methods of organization has its ~°*ty. The first
method is, generally speaking, appropriate when the two items
treated are relatively uncomplicated, or when the points of com-
parison and contrast are fairly broad and obvious. It is clear that
in a very extended and complicated presentation the reader could
not carry enough detail in his mind to be properly aware of all the
points of comparison and contrast. When a great many details are
involved the second method is more apt to be useful. It is possible,
of course, to work out a sort of compromise. One can present the
first of the items in full, and then in presenting the second refer
the reader, ppint by point, to the earlier treatment for comparison
or contrast.^ '
Here is an example of the first type of organization:
My father died when I was a small child, and I do not even remember
him. I was raised by my mother and my maternal grandfather, in whose
house we lived until I came to college. My mother loved her father and
I have no reason to think he did not love her, but they were so different
that I was aware from the first of a conflict between them. Or, if it was
not a direct conflict between them, it was a conflict between what they
stood for. And both of them exerted a strong influence over me. There-
fore, as I grow up, I think more and more about their contrasting per-
sonalities and values and try to detect in myself the traces of each of
them. I do this because I am trying to understand myself.
My grandfather, whose name was Carruthers McKenzie, was of
Scotch-Irish blood, and belonged to the Presbyterian Church. He looked
like those pictures of pre-Civil War statesmen who had long, bony faces,
sunken cheeks, and straggly beards, like John C. Calhoun, for instance. He
was a man with an iron will if I ever saw one, and all of his way of life
was one long discipline fop himself and everybody about him. But it was
a discipline chiefly for himself. He never spent a day in bed in his life
until his last illness, and yet he was probably ill a good part of his life.
I used to see him spit blood when I was a child. After he died— and he
64 EXPOSITION
died of a cancer of the stomach— the doctor told us that he could not
understand how any man could keep on his feet so long without giving
in to the pain which he must have suffered before his collapse. There
was discipline enough left over for my mother and me and the two
Negroes who worked about the place. We had morning prayers and
evening prayers. I had to read the Bible an hour a day and learn long
passages by heart. My grandfather was a prosperous man, but I never
had a nickel to spend which I had not earned, and his rates of pay-
ment for my ^-^res were not generous. I was never allowed to speak in
the presence oftny elders unless I could show some great practical reason
for it. From the time I was eight on, I had to study three hours in the
afternoon and at least two hours at night, except for week ends. My
grandfather never uttered a word of praise to me except now and then
the statement, "You have done your duty." As one could guess, my
grandfather never told jokes, was scrupulous about all kinds of obliga-
tions, never touched an alcoholic beverage or even soft drinks, and wore
sober black, winter and summer.
My mother must have taken after her own mother, who was of South
German parentage, and a Catholic by training. Her people had come to
this country just before her birth. My mother's mother had given up her
religion to marry my grandfather, and had taken on his way of life, but
she died very young. My mother looked like her pictures. My mother
was rather short in stature and had a rather full but graceful figure, the
kind they call "partridge-y." She had round, pink cheeks and a com-
plexion like a child's. She had blue eyes, very large. They always seemed
to be laughing. My mother loved to laugh and joke, and spent a great
deal of time in the kitchen with Sally, the Negro cook. They laughed
and talked together a great deal. My mother was a good mother, as the
phrase goes; she loved me and she was careful of all my wants. But she
also liked idleness. She would sit on the veranda half the afternoon and
look across the yard, just rocking in her chair and enjoying the sunshine.
And she went to bridge parties and even took an occasional glass of
wine or, as I imagine, a highball.
She was made for a good time and noise and people, and when my
grandfather was out of the house, she used to romp and play with me or
take me on long walks in the country back of our place. I am now sure
that she would have got married very soon if she had not felt it best to
keep me in my grandfather's house and with the advantages which his
prosperity would give me. For after I grew up, when I was eighteen
and went off to college, she got married.
She married the kind of man you would expect her to pick. He was
big and strong-looking, with a heavy black mustache with a little gray
COMPARISON AND CONTRAST 65
in it. He smokes cigars and he likes fine whisky. He has a Packard
agency in the city and he keeps a little plane out at the airport. He
loves sports and a good time. My mother has married exactly the man
for her, I think, and I am enough like my mother to think he is fine,
too. But as I look back on my grandfather— he died three years ago
when I was seventeen— I have a great admiration for him and a sneak-
ing affection.
What follows is an example of the mixed type of organization. We
can see how in the second paragraph the contrasting characteristics
leads even to the use of balanced sentences treating a single point
of contrast.
We have divided men into Red-bloods and Mollycoddles. "A Red-
blood man" is a phrase which explains itself; "Mollycoddle" is its op-
posite. We have adopted it from a famous speech by Mr. Roosevelt,5
and redeemed it— perverted it, if you will— to other uses. A few examples
will make the notion clear. Shakespeare's Henry V is a typical Red-
blood; so was Bismarck; so was Palmerston; so is almost any business
man. On the other hand, typical Mollycoddles were Socrates, Voltaire,
and Shelley. The terms, you will observe, are comprehensive and the
types very broad. Generally speaking, men of action are Red-bloods.
Not but what the Mollycoddles may act, and act efficiently. But, if so,
he acts from principle, not from the instinct for action. The Red-blood,
on the other hand, acts as the stone falls, and does indiscriminately
anything that comes to hand. It is thus that he carries on the business
of the world. He steps without reflection into the first place offered him
and goes to work like a machine. The ideals and standards of his family,
his class, his city, his country, his age, he swallows as naturally as he
swallows food and drink. He is therefore always "in the swirn"; and he
is bound to "arrive," because he has set before him the attainable. You
will find him everywhere in all the prominent positions. In a military
age he is a soldier, in a commercial age a business man. He hates his
enemies, and he may love his friends; but he does not require friends
to love. A wife and children he does require, for the instinct to propa-
gate the race is as strong in him as all other instincts. His domestic life,
however, is not always happy; for he can seldom understand his wife.
This is part of his general incapacity to understand any point of view
but his own. He is incapable of an idea and contemptuous of a prin-
ciple. He is the Samson, the blind force, dearest to Nature of her chil-
5 Theodore Roosevelt.
66 EXPOSITION
dren. He neither looks back nor looks ahead. He lives in present action.
And when he can no longer act, he loses his reasons for existence. The
Red-blood is happiest if he dies in the prime of life; otherwise, he may
easily end with suicide. For he has no inner life; and when the outer
life fails, he can only fail with it. The instinct that animated him being
dead, he dies too. Nature, who has blown through him, blows else-
where. His stops are dumb; he is dead wood on the shore.
The Mollycoddle, on the other hand, is all inner life. He may indeed
act, as I said, but he acts, so to speak, by accident; just as the Red-
blood may reflect, but reflects by accident. The Mollycoddle in action is
the Crank; it is he who accomplishes reforms; who abolished slavery, for
example, and revolutionized prisons and lunatic asylums. Still, primarily,
the Mollycoddle is a critic, not a man of action. He challenges all stand-
ards and all facts. If an institution is established, that is a reason why
he will not accept it; if an idea is current, that is a reason why he should
repudiate it. He questions everything, including life and the universe.
And for that reason Nature hates him. On the Red-blood she heaps her
favors; she gives him a good digestion, a clear complexion, and sound
nerves. But to the Mollycoddle she apportions dyspepsia and black bile.
In the universe and in society the Mollycoddle is "out of it" as inevitably
as the Red-blood is "in it." At school, he is a "smug" or a "swat," while
the Red-blood is captain of the Eleven. At college, he is an "intellectual,"
while the Red-blood is in the "best set." In the world, he courts failure
while the Red-blood achieves success. The Red-blood sees nothing; but
the Mollycoddle sees through everything. The Red-blood joins societies;
the Mollycoddle is a non-joiner. Individualist of individualists, he can
only stand alone, while the Red-blood requires the support of a crowd.
The Mollycoddle engenders ideas, and the Red-blood exploits them.
The Mollycoddle discovers and the Red-blood invents. The whole struc-
ture of civilization rests on foundations laid by Mollycoddles; but all
the building is done by Red-bloods. The Red-blood despises the Molly-
coddle, but, in the long run, he does what the Mollycoddle tells him.
The Mollycoddle also despises the Red-blood, but he cannot do with-
out him. Each thinks he is master of the other, and, in a sense, each is
right. In his lifetime the Mollycoddle may be the slave of the Red-blood;
but after his death, he is his master, though the Red-blood may know it
not.
Nations, like men, may be classified roughly as Red-blood and Molly-
coddle. To the latter class belong clearly the ancient Greeks, the Italians,
the French and probably the Russians; to the former the Romans, the
Germans, and the English. But the Red-blood nation par excellence is
COMPARISON AND CONTRAST 67
the American; so that in comparison with them, Europe as a whole might
almost be called Mollycoddle. This characteristic of Americans is reflected
in the predominant physical type— the great jaw and chin, the huge teeth,
the predatory mouth; in their speech, where beauty and distinction are
sacrificed to force; in their need to live and feel and act in masses. To
be bom a Mollycoddle in America is to be born to a hard fate. You
must either emigrate or succumb. This, at least hitherto, has been the
alternative practiced. Whether a Mollycoddle will ever be produced
strong enough to breathe the American atmosphere and live, is a ciucial
question for the future. It is the question whether America will ever be
civilized. For civilization, you will have perceived, depends on a just
balance of Red-bloods and Mollycoddles. Without the Red-blood there
would be no life at all, no stuff, so to speak, for the Mollycoddle to work
upon; without the Mollycoddle, the stuff would remain shapeless and
chaotic. The Red-blood is the matter, the Mollycoddle the foim; the
Red-blood the dough, the Mollycoddle the yeast. On these two poles
turns the orb of human society. And if, at this point, you choose to say
that the poles are points and have no dimensions, that strictly neither
the Mollycoddle nor the Red-blood exist, and that real men contain
elements of both mixed in different proportions, I have no quarrel with
you except such as one has with the man who states the obvious. I am
satisfied to have distinguished the ideal extremes between which the
Actual vibrates. The detailed application of the conception I must leave
to more patient researchers.— G. LOWES DICKINSON: "Red-bloods and
Mollycoddles/* Appearances.6
CLASSIFICATION AND DIVISION
v CLASSIFICATION and DIVISION are ways of thinking in terms of a
system of classes.
By a class we mean a group whose members have significant
characteristics in common. What constitutes a significant character-
istic may vary according to the interest involved. For example, a
maker of cosmetics may think of women in groups determined by
complexion, and the secretary of a Y.W.C.A. may think in groups
determined by religious affiliations. What is significant for the
maker of cosmetics is not significant for the Y.W.C.A. secretary^)
Or, to take another example, the registrar of a college may group
6 From: Appearances by G. Lowes Dickinson. Copyright 1914 by G. Lowes
Dickinson. Reprinted by permission of Doubleday & Company, .Igp.
68 EXPOSITION
students according to grades, and the gymnasium instructor accord-
ing to athletic ability. The registrar and the gymnasium instructor
have different interests in classifying the same body of students.N
C By a system we mean a set of classes ranging from the most
inclusive down through the less inclusive; Let us set up a simple
example of such a system:
(I) A college student body
Religious affiliation No religious affiliation
I i
Protestant Non-Protestant
Here the group student body is the most inclusive class. Under
it we find classes less and less inclusive.
What is the difference between classification and division? Our
most useful way of thinking about this question is to regard them
as opposite movements, one down and one up, within a system.
In division we start with a class and divide it into subclasses by
reference to whatever characteristic is dictated by the interest
prompting the division. If, however, we start with the individuals,
arrange them in groups and then relate those groups to a more
inclusive group or a set of more inclusive groups, we have per-
formed a classification.!
Suppose we wish to classify the books we own. We may begin
by sorting out the individual items into classes, let us say (1) short
stories, (2) novels, (3) lyric poetry, (4) narrative poetry, (5) prose
drama, (6) verse drama, (7) critical essays, (8) informal essays, (9)
ethics, (10) logic, (11) political history, (12) economic history, (13)
social history, (14) literary history, (15) geometry, (16) algebra. We
see immediately that some of the classes are related to each other
in terms of superior classes— more inclusive classes. For instance,
we see that short stories and novels belong in a class together, the
class of fiction, and we see that there are several kinds of history
represented. Next, we observe that several classes, even more in-
clusive, are involved— literature, for example. So we can set up a
scheme which covers this particular collection of books.
(II)
CLASSIFICATION AND DIVISION
Books we own
69
Class 1
Class 2
I
Literature
I I 1
Philosophy Mathematics History
n n n . .
rv/roo 3 e*» *a5 r* r» 2S2 >> >*
Liiass o & > ^3^ SS ^^
CO H H V <6
Q, fX ^9 "9 ^ ^
O O 4> O ^r
"H ^. & OT y
fe -5 s 2 :-g
j g > fi & '
u
.5? So
This scheme indicates the classification of the books in this par-
ticular collection. But we understand that we do not have examples
of all kinds of books. For example, in class 1 we do not have science
or theology. In class 2 under philosophy we have only ethics and
logic, and under mathematics, only geometry and algebra. In class
3 under poetry, we have only lyric and narrative poetry, and under
the essay, only critical and informal essays. So we find many classes
blank in our particular scheme, classes which would not be blank
in the scheme for the classification of books for a great library
having copies of all kinds of books. The method of classification for
our little collection and for the great library would be, however,
the same.
The scheme which we have set up by classifying the books in
our collection would indicate equally well a division, for the dif-
ference is not in the kind of scheme we arrive at but in the way
we go about setting up the scheme.
In general, there are two kinds of schemes. Scheme I above is an
example of the SIMPLE and scheme II an example of the COMPLEX.
In the simple scheme we recognize, at any stage, only two classes,
which we can indicate by X and Non-X, for example, the class
Protestant and the class Non-Protestant. No matter how far we
carry such a scheme, we use this same method. For example, under
the class Protestant, we would not put the various denominations,
70 EXPOSITION
but only two classes, say Methodist and Non-Methodist. The
dummy, then, for a simple scheme always looks like this:
(HI) X
Non-Xi
X3 Non-Xs
X4 ]\on-X4
In the complex scheme we recognize individually at each stage
all the classes available. For example, in scheme II we indicate at
the first stage four classes (literature, philosophy, mathematics,
history] and would recognize other such general groups if they were
represented in the collection with which we are dealing. At the
second stage we indicate various groups under each head. For
example, under the head of literature we indicate four classes (fic-
tion, poetry, drama, essay}. That is, we are prepared to indicate
as many classes at any stage as we can distinguish on the basis of
whatever interest is determining the process. The dummy for a
complex scheme, then, varies from instance to instance, but is of
this general type:
(IV) A
D
G H I J K
I I I I I
n n n n n n
NOPQRSTUVWXYZ
In dealing with such schemes it is customary to use the two
terms GENUS (plural: GENERA) and SPECIES (plural: SPECIES) to indi-
CLASSIFICATION AND DIVISION 71
cate the superior and the inferior class in a system. The upper class
is called the genus and each subclass immediately under it is called
a species. For example, in the dummy above, D is a species of the
genus A, and G is a species of the genus C. Or to return to scheme
II the class fiction is a species of the genus literature, and the class
lyric poetry is a species of the genus poetry. But we must remember
that what is regarded as a species at one stage is regarded at the
next stage below as a genus. The class fiction, for example, is
regarded as a species of the genus literature, but as the genus
including the species short story and the species novel. A class may
be regarded as species or genus, according to whether we look
above or below it.
To be useful a scheme must fulfill certain requirements:
I. There can be only one principle of division applied at each
stage.
II. The subclass under any class must exhaust that class.
Rule I: We can best understand what is at stake here by looking
at an extreme and ridiculous instance. Suppose we try to divide a
student body into tall and short, men and women. Here two princi-
ples of division would be employed at the same time, namely,
height and sex. But obviously these two principles cannot be applied
at the same time, for they are at cross purposes with each other.
They result in what is called a CROSS DIVISION. A member of the
student body would necessarily be either a man or a woman, and
at the same time would be classifiable with reference to height.
Two competing principles are involyed.
But can we ever apply more than one principle to a class without
getting the nonsense of a cross division? We can do so if we apply
the principles in sequence and not at the same time. Let us take
an example. Suppose that we want to discover or exhibit the pro-
portion of Protestant veterans in a college student body. We have
here two principles, veteran and religious affiliation. First, we might
divide the student body on the basis of religious affiliation in gen-
eral. This would give the first stage. Then we might divide the class
religious affiliation into the classes Protestant and non-Protestant.
Thus, at the second stage, we have isolated the class Protestant9
the particular religious affiliation we are concerned with. At this
point we can introduce our second principle. So now wo divide the
72 EXPOSITION
class Protestant into the classes veteran and nonveteran for a third
stage. So we get the following scheme:
A college student body
Religious affiliation No religious affiliation
Protestant Non-Protestant
Veteran Nonveteran
The thing to remember is to avoid applying the second principle
until the first has been worked out to its conclusion. We do not
apply the principle veteran until we have worked out the principle
religious affiliation as far as our interest dictates. It may be said, of
course, that when we apply the second principle veteran we are
really beginning a new system. And in one sense this is true. But,
in any case, the over-all scheme gives us exactly what we need.
Rule II: To restate this rule, the sum of the members of the sub-
classes under a class must equal the sum of the members of the
class. In other words, we must account in the subclasses for all
members of the class. For example, dividing a student body into
Methodists, Baptists, Jews, and Catholics does not account for all
members of the student body if there are also in it some atheists
and Presbyterians. This problem of accounting for all the members
of a group does not arise in a simple system as indicated by scheme
III. At any stage we have only X and Non-X as subgroups, and the
formula necessarily takes all members into account. The problem
does arise in a complex system. If in scheme II we had forgotten
to include the class philosophy we would not have accounted for
all the books in the collection being classified. And of course scheme
II as it now stands would be shockingly defective in this regard
if it were regarded as applying to the books of a large general
library, which would have dozens of classes of books not accounted
for here.
In an essay or some other type of discussion we may find a very
elaborate system running through several stages, but ordinarily
CLASSIFICATION AND DIVISION 73
there are only one or two stages. The following selection is a classi-
fication of the kinds of thinking.
We do not think enough about thinking, and much of our confusion
is the result of current illusions in regard to it. Let us forget for the
moment any impressions we may have derived from the philosophers,
and see what seems to happen in ourselves. The first thing that we notice
is that our thought moves with such incredible rapidity that it is almost
impossible to arrest any specimen of it long enough to have a look at it.
When we are offered a penny for our thoughts we always find that we
have recently had so many things in mind that we can easily make a
selection which will not compromise us too nakedly. On inspection we
shall find that even if we are not downright ashamed of a great part of
our spontaneous thinking it is far too intimate, personal, ignoble, or trivial
to permit us to reveal more than a small part of it. I believe this must be
true of everyone. We do not, of course, know what goes on in other
people's heads. They tell us very little and we tell them very little. The
spigot of speech, rarely fully opened, could never emit more than driblets
of the ever renewed hogshead of thought— noch grosser wies Hcidel-
bcrger Pass [even larger than the Heidelberg vat]. We find it hard to
believe that other people's thoughts are as silly as our own, but they
probably are.
We all appear to ourselves to be thinking all the time during our
waking hours, and most of us are aware that we go on thinking while we
are asleep, even more foolishly than when awake. When uninterrupted
by some practical issue we are engaged in what is now known as a
reverie. This is our spontaneous and favorite kind of thinking. We allow
our ideas to take their own course and this course is determined by our
hopes and fears, our spontaneous desires, their fulfillment or frustration;
by our likes and dislikes, our loves and hates and resentments. There is
nothing else anything like so interesting to ourselves as ourselves. All
thought that is not more or less laboriously controlled and directed will
inevitably circle about the beloved Ego. It is amusing and pathetic to
observe this tendency in ourselves and in others. We learn politely and
generously to overlook this truth, but if we dare to think of it, it blazes
forth like the noontide sun.
The reverie or "free association of ideas" has of late become the sub-
ject of scientific research. While investigators are not yet agreed on the
results, or at least on the proper interpretation to be given to them,
there can be no doubt that our reveries form the chief index to our
fundamental character. They are a reflection of our nature as modified by
often hidden and forgotten experiences. We need not go into the matter
74 EXPOSITION
further here, for it is only necessary to observe that the reverie is at all
times a potent and in many cases an omnipotent rival to every other kind
of thinking. It doubtless influences all our speculations in its persistent
tendency to self-magnification and self- justification, which are its chief
preoccupations, but it is the last thing to make directly or indirectly for
honest increase of knowledge. Philosophers usually talk as if such think-
ing did not exist or were in some way negligible. This is what makes
their speculations so unreal and often worthless.
The reverie, as any of us can see for himself, is frequently broken and
interrupted by the necessity of a second kind of thinking. We have to
made practical decisions. Shall we write a letter or no? Shall we take the
subway or a bus? Shall we have dinner at seven or half-past? Shall we
buy U. S. Rubber or a Liberty Bond? Decisions are easily distinguish-
able from the free flow of reverie. Sometimes they demand a good deal
of careful pondering and the recollection of pertinent facts; often, how-
ever, they are made impulsively. They are a more difficult and laborious
thing than the reverie, and we resent having to "make up our mind"
when we are tired, or absorbed in a congenial reverie. Weighing a de-
cision, it should be noted, does not necessarily add anything to our
knowledge, although we may, of course, seek further information before
making it.
A third kind of thinking is stimulated when anyone questions our
belief and opinions. We sometimes find ourselves changing our minds
without any resistance or heavy emotion, but if we are told that we are
wrong we resent the imputation and harden our hearts. We are incredibly
heedless in the formation of our beliefs, but find ourselves filled with an
illicit passion for them when anyone proposes to rob us of their com-
panionship. It is obviously not the ideas themselves that are dear to us,
but our self-esteem, which is threatened. We are by nature stubbornly
pledged to defend our own from attack, whether it be our person, our
family, our property, or our opinion. A United States Senator once re-
marked to a friend of mine that God Almighty could not make him
change his mind on our Latin-American policy. We may surrender, but
rarely confess ourselves vanquished. In the intellectual world at least
peace is without victory.
Few of us take the pains to study the origin of our cherished convic-
tions; indeed, we have a natural repugnance to so doing. We like to
continue to believe what we have been accustomed to accept as true,
and the resentment aroused when doubt is cast upon any of our assump-
tions leads us to seek every manner of excuse for clinging to them. The
result is that most of our so-called reasoning consists in finding argu-
ments for going on believing as ice already do.
CLASSIFICATION AND DIVISION 75
I remember years ago attending a public dinner to which the Governor
of the state was bidden. The chairman explained that His Excellency
could not be present for certain "good" reasons; what the "real" reasons
were the presiding officer said he would leave us to conjecture. This
distinction between "good'* and "real" reasons is one of the most clarify-
ing and essential in the whole realm of thought. We can readily give
what seem to us "good" reasons for being a Catholic or a Mason, a
Republican or a Democrat, an adherent or opponent of the League of
Nations. But the "real" reasons are usually on quite a different plane. Of
course the importance of this distinction is popularly, if somewhat ob-
scurely, recognized. The Baptist missionaiy is ready enough to see that
the Buddhist is not such because his doctrines would bear careful inspec-
tion, but because he happened to be born in a Buddhist family in Tokio.
But it would be treason to his faith to acknowledge that his own par-
tiality for certain doctrines is due to the fact that his mother was a
member of the First Baptist Church of Oak Ridge. A savage can give all
sorts of reasons for his belief that it is dangerous to step on a man's
shadow, and a newspaper editor can advance plenty of arguments against
the Bolsheviki. But neither of them may realize why he happens to be
defending his particular opinion.
The "real" reasons for our beliefs are concealed from ourselves as well
as from others. As we grow up we simply adopt the ideas presented to
us in regard to such matters as religion, family relations, property, busi-
ness, our country, and the state. We unconsciously absorb them from
our environment. They are persistently whispered in our ear by the
group in which we happen to live. Moreover, as Mr. Trotter has pointed
out, these judgments, being the product of suggestion and not of reason-
ing, have the quality of perfect obviousness, so that to question them
"is to the believer to carry skepticism to an insane degree, and will be
met by contempt, disapproval, or condemnation, according to the nature
of the belief in question. When, therefore, we find ourselves entertaining
arl opinion about the basis of which there is a quality of feeling which
tells us that to inquire into it would be absurd, obviously unnecessary,
unprofitable, undesirable, bad form, or wicked, we may know that that
opinion is a non-rational one, and probably, therefore, founded upon
inadequate evidence." 7
Opinions, on the other hand, which are the result of experience or of
honest reasoning do not have this quality of "primary certitude." I re-
member when as a youth I heard a group of businessmen discussing the
question of the immortality of the soul, I was outraged by the sentiment
of doubt expressed by one of the party. As I look back now I see that
7 Instincts of the Herd, p. 44.
76 EXPOSITION
I had at the time no interest in the matter, and certainly no least argu-
ment to urge in favor of the belief in which I had been reared. But
neither my personal indifference to the issue, nor the fact that I had
previously given it no attention, served to prevent an angry resentment
when I heard my ideas questioned.
This spontaneous and loyal support of our preconceptions— this process
of finding "good" reasons to justify our routine beliefs— is known to mod-
ern psychologists as "rationalizing"— clearly only a new name for a very
ancient thing. Our "good" reasons ordinarily have no value in promoting
honest enlightenment, because, no matter how solemnly they may be
marshaled, they are at bottom the result of personal preference or preju-
dice, and not of an honest desire to seek or accept new knowledge.
In our reveries we are frequently engaged in self-justification, for we
cannot bear to think ourselves wrong, and yet have constant illustrations
of our weaknesses and mistakes. So we spend much time finding fault
with circumstances and the conduct of others, and shifting on to them
with great ingenuity the onus of our own failures and disappointments.
Rationalizing is the self -exculpation which occurs when we feel our-
selves, or our group, accused of misapprehension or error.
The little word my is the most important one in all human affairs, and
properly to reckon with it is the beginning of wisdom. It has the same
force whether it is my dinner, my dog, and my house, or my faith, my
country, and my God. We not only resent the imputation that our watch
is wrong, or our car shabby, but that our conception of the canals of
Mars, of the pronunciation of "Epictetus," of the medicinal value of sali-
cine, or the date of Sargon I, are subject to revision.
Philosophers, scholars, and men of science exhibit a common sensi-
tiveness in all decisions in which their amour propre is involved. Thou-
sands of argumentative works have been written to vent a grudge. How-
ever stately their reasoning, it may be nothing but rationalizing, stimu-
lated by the most commonplace of all motives. A histoiy of philosophy
and theology could be written in terms of grouches, wounded pride, and
aversions, and it would be far more instructive than the usual treatments
of these themes. Sometimes, under Providence, the lowly impulse of
resentment leads to great achievements. Milton wrote his treatise on
divorce as a result of his troubles with his seventeen-year-old wife, and
when he was accused of being the leading spirit in a new sect, the
Divorcers, he wrote his noble Areopagitica to prove his right to say what
he thought fit, and incidentally to establish the advantage of a free press
in the promotion of Truth.
All mankind, high and low, thinks in all the ways which have been
described. The reverie goes on all the time not only in the mind of the
CLASSIFICATION AND DIVISION 77
mill hand and the Broadway flapper, but equally in weighty judges and
godly bishops. It has gone on in all the philosophers, scientists, poets,
and theologians that have ever lived, Aristotle's most abstruse specula-
tions were doubtless tempered by highly irrelevant reflections. He is re-
ported to have had very thin legs and small eyes, for which he doubtless
had to find excuses, and he was wont to indulge in very conspicuous
dress and rings and was accustomed to arrange his hair carefully.8
Diogenes the Cynic exhibited the impudence of a touchy soul. His tub
was his distinction. Tennyson in beginning his "Maud" could not forget
his chagrin over losing his patrimony years before as the result of an
unhappy investment in the Patent Decorative Carving Company. These
facts are not recalled here as a gratuitous disparagement of the truly
great, but to insure a full realization of the tremendous competition
which all really exacting thought has to face, even in the minds of the
most highly endowed mortals.
And now the astonishing and perturbing suspicion emerges that per-
haps almost all that had passed for social science, political economy,
politics, and ethics in the past may be brushed aside by future genera-
tions as mainly rationalizing. John Dewey has already reached this con-
clusion in regard to philosophy.9 Veblen 10 and other writers have re-
vealed the various unperceived presuppositions of the traditional political
economy, and now comes an Italian sociologist, Vilfredo Pareto, who, in
his huge treatise on general sociology, devotes hundreds of pages to
substantiating a similar thesis affecting all the social sciences.11 This
conclusion may be ranked by students of a hundred years hence as one
of the several great discoveries of our age. It is by no means fully worked
out, and it is so opposed to nature that it will be very slowly accepted
by the great mass of those who consider themselves thoughtful. As a
historical student I am personally fully reconciled to this newer view.
Indeed, it seems to me inevitable that just as the various sciences of
nature were, before the opening of the seventeenth century, largely
masses of rationalizations to suit the religious sentiments of the period,
so the social sciences have continued even to our own day to be rationali-
zations of uncritically accepted beliefs and customs.
8 Diogenes Laertius, Book V.
9 Reconstruction in Philosophy.
10 The Place of Science in Modern Civilization.
11 Traite de Sociologie Generate, passim. The author's term "derivations"
seems to be his precise way of expressing what we have called the "good"
reasons, and his "residus" correspond to the "real" reasons. He well says,
"L'homme eprouve le besoin de raisonnery et en outre d'etendre une voile sur
ses instincts et sur ses sentiments"— hence, rationalization. ( p. 788. ) His aim is
to reduce sociology to the "real" reasons, (p. 791.)
78 EXPOSITION
It will become apparent as we proceed that the fact that an idea is
ancient and that it has been widely received is no argument in its favor,
but should immediately suggest the necessity of carefully testing it as a
probable instance of rationalization.
This brings us to another kind of thought which can fairly easily be
distinguished from the three kinds described above. It has not the usual
qualities of the reverie, for it does not hover about our personal com-
placencies and humiliations. It is not made up of the homely decisions
forced upon us by everyday needs, when we review our little stock of
existing information, consult our conventional preferences and obligations,
and make a choice of action. It is not the defense of our own cherished
beliefs and prejudices just because they are our own— mere plausible
excuses for remaining of the same mind. On the contrary, it is that
peculiar species of thought which leads us to change our mind.
It is this kind of thought that has raised man from his pristine, sub-
savage ignorance and squalor to the degree of knowledge and comfort
which he now possesses. On his capacity to continue and greatly extend
this kind of thinking depends his chance of groping his way out of the
plight in which the most highly civilized peoples of the world now find
themselves. In the past this type of thinking has been called Reason.
But so many misapprehensions have grown up around the word that
some of us have become very suspicious of it. I suggest, therefore, that
we substitute a recent name and speak of "creative thought" rather than
of Reason. For this kind of meditation begets knowledge, and knowledge
is really creative inasmuch as it makes things look different from what
they seemed before and may indeed work for their reconstruction.
In certain moods some of us realize that we are observing things or
making reflections with a seeming disregard of our personal preoccupa-
tions. We are not preening or defending ourselves; we are not faced by
the necessity of any practical decision, nor are we apologizing for believ-
ing this or that. We are just wondering and looking and mayhap seeing
what we never perceived before.
Curiosity is as clear and definite as any of our urges. We wonder what
is in a sealed telegram or in a letter in which someone else is absorbed,
or what is being said in the telephone booth or in low conversation.
This inquisitiveness is vastly stimulated by jealousy, suspicion, or any
hint that we ourselves are directly or indirectly involved. But there ap-
pears to be a fair amount of personal interest in other people's affairs
even when they do not concern us except as a mystery to be unraveled
or a tale to be told. The reports of a divorce suit will have "news
value" tor many weeks. They constitute a story, like a novel or play or
moving picture. This is not an example of pure curiosity, however, since
CLASSIFICATION AND DIVISION 79
we readily identify ourselves with others, and their joys and despair then
become our own.
We also take note of, or "observe," as Sherlock Holmes says, things
which have nothing to do with our personal interests and make no
personal appeal either direct or by way of sympathy. This is what Veblen
so well calls "idle curiosity." And it is usually idle enough. Some of us
when we face the line of people opposite us in a subway train im-
pulsively consider them in detail and engage in rapid inferences and
form theories in regard to them. On entering a room there are those who
will perceive at a glance the degree of preciousness of the rugs, the
character of the pictures, and the personality revealed by the books. But
there are many, it would seem, who are so absorbed in their personal
reverie or in some definite purpose that they have no bright-eyed energy
for idle curiosity. The tendency to miscellaneous observation we come
by honestly enough, for we note it in many of our animal relatives.
Veblen, however, uses the term "idle curiosity" somewhat ironically,
as is his wont. It is idle only to those who fail to realize that it may be a
very rare and indispensable thing from which almost all distinguished
human achievement proceeds, since it may lead to systematic examina-
tion and seeking for things hitherto undiscovered. For research is but
diligent search which enjoys the high flavor of primitive hunting. Occa-
sionally and fitfully, idle curiosity thus leads to creative thought, which
alters and broadens our own views and aspirations and may in turn,
under highly favorable circumstances, affect the views and lives of
others, even for generations to follow. An example or two will make this
unique human process clear.
Galileo was a thoughtful youth and doubtless carried on a rich and
varied reverie. He had artistic ability and might have turned out to be
a musician or painter. When he had dwelt among the monks at Vallom-
brosa he had been tempted to lead the life of a religious. As a boy he
busied himself with toy machines and he inherited a fondness for mathe-
matics. All these facts are on record. We may safely assume also that,
along with many other subjects of contemplation, the Pisan maidens
found a vivid place in his thoughts.
One day when seventeen years old he wandered into the cathedral
of his native town. In the midst of his reverie he looked up at the lamps
hanging by long chains from the high ceiling of the church. Then some-
thing very difficult to explain occurred. He found himself no longer
thinking of the building, worshipers, or the services; of his artistic or
religious interests; of his reluctance to become a physician as his father
wished. He forgot the question of a career and even the graziosissime
donne. As he watched the swinging lamps he was suddenly wondering
80 EXPOSITION
if mayhap their oscillations, whether long or short, did not occupy the
same time. Then he tested this hypothesis by counting his pulse, for that
was the only timepiece he had with him.
This observation, however remarkable in itself, was not enough to
produce a really creative thought. Others may have noticed the same
thing and yet nothing came of it. Most of our observations have no
assignable results. Galileo may have seen that the warts on a peasant's
face formed a perfect isosceles triangle, or he may have noticed with
boyish glee that just as the officiating priest was uttering the solemn
words, Ecce agnus Dei, a fly lit on the end of his nose. To be really
creative, ideas have to be worked up and then "put over/' so that they
become a part of man's social heritage. The highly accurate pendulum
clock was one of the later results of Galileo's discovery. He himself was
led to reconsider and successfully to refute the old notions of falling
bodies. It remained for Newton to prove that the moon was falling, and
presumably all the heavenly bodies. This quite upset all the consecrated
views of the heavens as managed by angelic engineers. The universality
of the laws of gravitation stimulated the attempt to seek other and equally
important natural laws and cast grave doubts on the miracles in which
mankind had hitherto believed. In short, those who dared to include in
their thought the discoveries of Galileo and his successors found them-
selves in a new earth surrounded by new heavens.
On the 28th of October, 1831, two hundred and fifty years after
Galileo had noticed the isochronous vibrations of the lamps, creative
thought and its currency had so far increased that Faraday was wonder-
ing what would happen if he mounted a disk of copper between the
poles of a horseshoe magnet. As the disk revolved an electric current
was produced. This would doubtless have seemed the idlest kind of
experiment to the stanch businessmen of the time, who, it happened,
were just then denouncing the child-labor bills in their anxiety to avail
themselves to the full of the results of earlier idle curiosity. But should
the dynamos and motors which have come into being as the outcome of
Faraday's experiment be stopped this evening, the businessman of today,
agitated over labor troubles, might, as he trudged home past lines of
"dead" cars, through dark streets to an unlighted house, engage in a
little creative thought of his own and perceive that he and his laborers
would have no modern factories and mines to quarrel about if it had not
been for the strange practical effects of the idle curiosity of scientists,
inventors and engineers.
The examples of creative intelligence given above belong to the realm
of modern scientific achievement, which furnishes the most striking in-
stances of the effects of scrupulous, objective thinking. But there are, of
CLASSIFICATION AND DIVISION 81
course, other great realms in which the recording and embodiment of
acute observation and insight have wrought themselves into the higher
life of man. The great poets and dramatists and our modern story-tellers
have found themselves engaged in productive reveries, noting and ar-
tistically presenting their discoveries for the delight and instruction of
those who have the ability to appreciate them.
The process by which a fresh and original poem or drama comes into
being is doubtless analogous to that which originates and elaborates so-
called scientific discoveries; but there is clearly a temperamental dif-
ference. The genesis and advance of painting, sculpture, and music offer
still other problems. We really as yet know shockingly little about these
matters, and indeed very few people have the least curiosity about
them.12 Nevertheless, creative intelligence in its various forms is what
makes man. Were it not for its slow, painful, and constantly discouraged
operations through the ages man would be no more than a species of
primate living on seeds, fruit, roots, and uncooked flesh, and wandering
naked through the woods and over the plains like a chimpanzee.
The origin and progress and future promotion of civilization are ill
understood and misconceived. These should be made the chief theme of
education, but much hard work is necessary before we can construct our
ideas of man and his capacities and free ourselves from innumerable
persistent misapprehensions. There have been obstructionists in all
times, not merely the lethargic masses, but the moralists, the rationaliz-
ing theologians, and most of the philosophers, all busily if unconsciously
engaged in ratifying existing ignorance and mistakes and discouraging
creative thought. Naturally, those who reassure us seem worthy of honor
and respect. Equally naturally those who puzzle us with disturbing criti-
cisms and invite us to change our ways are objects of suspicion and
readily discredited. Our personal discontent does not ordinarily extend
to any critical questioning of the general situation in which we find
ourselves. In every age the prevailing conditions of civilization have
appeared quite natural and inevitable to those who grew up in them.
The cow asks no questions as to how it happens to have a dry stall and
a supply of hay. The kitten laps its warm milk from a china saucer, with-
out knowing anything about porcelain; the dog nestles in the corner of
12 Recently a re-examination of creative thought has begun as a result of new
knowledge which discredits many of the notions formerly held about "reason/*
See, for example, Creative Intelligence, by a group of American philosophic
thinkers: John Dewey, Essays in Experimental Logic (both pretty hard books):
and Veblen, The Place of Science in Modern Civilization. Easier than these and
very stimulating are Dewey, Reconstruction in Philosophy, and Woodworth,
Dynamic Psychology.
82 EXPOSITION
a divan with no sense of obligation to the inventors of upholstery and
the manufacturers of down pillows. So we humans accept our break-
fasts, our trains and telephones and orchestras and movies, our national
Constitution, our moral code and standards of manners, with the sim-
plicity and innocence of a pet rabbit. We have absolutely inexhaustible
capacities for appropriating what others do for us with no thought of a
"thank you." We do not feel called upon to make any least contribution
to the merry game ourselves. Indeed, we are usually quite unaware that
a game is being played at all.
We have now examined the various classes of thinking which we can
readily observe in ourselves and which we have plenty of reasons to
believe go on, and always have been going on, in our fellow men. We
can sometimes get quite pure and sparkling examples of all four kinds,
but commonly they are so confused and intermingled in our reverie as
not to be readily distinguishable. The reverie is a reflection of our long-
ings, exultations, and complacencies, our fears, suspicions, and dis-
appointments. We are chiefly engaged in struggling to maintain our
self-respect and in asserting that supremacy which we all crave and
which seems to us our natural prerogative. It is not strange, but rather
quite inevitable, that our beliefs about what is true and false, good and
bad, right and wrong, should be mixed up with the reverie and be in-
fluenced by the same considerations which determine its character and
course. We resent criticisms of our views exactly as we do of anything
else connected with ourselves. Our notions of life and its ideals seem to
us to be our own and as such necessarily true and right, to be defended
at all costs.
We very rarely consider, however, the process by which we gained
our convictions. If we did so, we could hardly fail to see that there was
usually little ground for our confidence in them. Here and there, in this
department of knowledge or that, some one of us might make a fair
claim to have taken some trouble to get correct ideas of, let us say, the
situation in Russia, the sources of our food supply, the origin of the
Constitution, the revision of the tariff, the policy of the Holy Roman
Apostolic Church, modern business organization, trade unions, birth
control, socialism, the League of Nations, the excess-profits tax, prepared-
ness, advertising in its social bearings; but only a very exceptional person
would be entitled to opinions on all of even these few matters. And yet
most of us have opinions on all these, and on many other questions of
equal importance, of which we may know even less. We feel compelled,
as self-respecting persons, to take sides when they come up for discus-
sion. We even surprise ourselves by our omniscience. Without taking
thought we see in a flash that it is most righteous and expedient to
CLASSIFICATION AND DIVISION 83
discourage birth control by legislative enactment, or that one who decries
intervention in Mexico is clearly wrong, or that big advertising is essen-
tial to big business and that big business is the pride of the land. As
godlike beings why should we not rejoice in our omniscience?
It is clear in any case, that our convictions on important matters are
not the result of knowledge or critical thought, nor, it may be added,
are they often dictated by supposed self-interest. Most of them are pure
prejudices in the proper sense of that word. We do not form them
ourselves. They are the whispering of "the voice of the herd." We have
in the last analysis no responsibility for them and need assume none.
They are not really our own ideas, but those of others no more well
informed or inspired than ourselves, who have got them in the same
humiliating manner as we. It should be our pride to revise our ideas and
not to adhere to what passes for respectable opinion, for such opinion
can frequently be shown to be not respectable at all. We should, in
view of the considerations that have been mentioned, resent our supine
credulity. As an English writer has remarked:
"If we feared the entertaining of an unverifiable opinion with the
warmth with which we fear using the wrong implement at the dinner
table, if the thought of holding a prejudice disgusted us as does a foul
disease, then the dangers of man's susceptibility would be turned into
advantages."— JAMES HARVEY ROBINSON: The Mind in the Making, Chap.
2.1S
DEFINITION
In one sense we can say that DEFINITION answers the question,
"What is it?" A small child asks, "What is a zebra?" and the grown-
up replies, very unscientifically, that a zebra is a kind of horse, but
not as big as a real horse, with black and white stripes. The grown-
up has given a description of the animal.
In another and stricter sense, however, it can be said that a defini-
tion is not of a thing, but of the word referring to the thing. Its
function is to tell how to use the word. It sets the bound or limit
within which the word will apply— as the derivation of the word
definition implies (it comes from two Latin words, de meaning
concerning, and finis meaning limit). This idea of definition as the
limiting of a word is illustrated in the demand frequently made
13 From The Mind in the Making by James Harvey Robinson. Copyright,
1921, by Harper & Brothers. Copyright, 1949, by Bankers Trust Company.
84 EXPOSITION
during an argument: "Define your terms." And by TERM we mean
any word or group of words that constitutes a unit of meaning—
that refers to one thing or idea.
We shall discuss definition as the definition of a term, but it is
clear that we cannot define a term without some knowledge of the
thing to which the term refers. So the process of making a definition
involves knowledge. It is not a mere game of words. Not only may
definition enlarge the understanding of the person who receives
a definition, but the process of definition may lead the maker of the
definition to clarify his own mind on the subject involved.
PARTS OF A DEFINITION
A definition falls into two parts, the element to be defined and
the element which does the defining. The two elements form an
equation, that is, one can be substituted for the other in a statement
without changing the sense in any respect.
For example, we may define a slave as a human being who is the
legal property of another, and then set this up as an equation:
The to-be-defined = the definer
Slave is human being who is the legal property
of another.
Now if we make a statement using the word slave, we may sub-
stitute the definer ("human being who is the legal property of an-
other") for that word without any change of sense. The statement,
1. To be a slave is worse than death.
has exactly the same meaning as the statement,
2. To be the legal property of another is worse than death.
We must remember that the adequacy of the original definition
is not the point here. We may have given an inadequate definition,
but in so far as we are willing to stand by our definition we are
willing to substitute the definer for the to-be-defined in any state-
ment. Furthermore, the truth or falsity of any particular statement
is not relevant. What is relevant is that the two elements form an
equation, are CONVERTIBLE.
When the elements are not convertible, we do not have a real
definition.
DEFINITION 85
THE PROCESS OF DEFINITION
To get a notion of the process of definition let us take a very
simple situation. A small child who has never seen a cat receives
one as a pet. The father tells the child that the animal is a cat-
a kitty. The proud parent now assumes that the child knows what
the word cat means, but he may be surprised one day to find the
child pointing at a Pekingese and calling, "Kitty, kitty." It is obvious
that the child is using the word to mean any small, furry animal,
and when the father takes him to the park the child is very apt to
call a squirrel a kitty, too.
The father now undertakes to give the child a definition of cat.
To do so he must instruct the child in the differences between a
cat, a Pekingese, and a squirrel. In other words, he undertakes to
break up the group the child has made (all small, furry animals)
into certain subgroups (cats, Pekingese, squirrels) by focusing atten-
tion upon the differences, the DIFFERENTIA.
If the child understands his father, he now has the knowledge to
give a definition of the word cat— a very inadequate definition but
a kind of definition. If we question the child we may elicit a defi-
nition.
Questioner: What does cat mean?
Child: It's a little-bitty animal, and it's got fur.
Questioner: But dogs have fur, too, and dogs aren't cats.
Child: Yes, but dogs bark. Cats don't bark. Cats me-ow. And cats
climb trees.
Questioner: But squirrels have fur, and they climb trees and are
little-bitty.
Child: Yes, but squirrels don't just climb trees like cats. They
live in trees. And they don't me-ow like cats.
The child has put cat into a group (small, furry animals) and then
has distinguished the subgroup of cats from other subgroups of
Pekingese and squirrels.
If we chart the child's reasoning we get something like this:
GROUP small, furry animals
SUBGROUP cats Pekingese squirrels
86 EXPOSITION
The pattern of the child's definition is the pattern of all defini-
tion. It involves, we see, the kind of scheme we have already studied
under classification and division. Here the class small, furry animals
is the genus, and the classes cats, Pekingese, and squirrels are the
species. Definition involves placing the relevant species under its
genus and then indicating the characteristics which distinguish it
from other species of the same genus. So we get the formula:
Definition of species = genus + differentia
The pattern of the child's definition of cat is the pattern of all
definition, but the particular definition will not serve in an adult
world. The classifications the child is using are not significant, since
smallness and furriness are not sufficiently particularized traits. A
zoologist would go about the business differently.
He might begin by saying: "A csit—Felis domestica, we call it— is
a digitigrade, carnivorous mammal, of the genus Felis, which in-
cludes the species tiger (Felis tigris), the species ocelot (Felis par-
dalis), the species lion (Felis leo), the species cougar (Felis concolor),
and several other species. All the species of the genus Felis have
lithe, graceful, long bodies, relatively short legs, with soft, padded
feet, strong claws which are retracted into sheaths when not in
use, powerful jaws with sharp teeth, and soft, beautifully marked
fur. The cat is the smallest species of the genus, usually measuring
so-and-so. It is the only species easily domesticated. . . ."
Like the child, the zoologist has set up a group (which he calls
a genus), and has given the characteristics of the group. Then he
has broken up the group into several subgroups (each of which he
calls a species). Last he has set about pointing out the differences
between the species cat and the other species of the same genus.
Set up as a scheme, his thinking has this form:
GENUS Felis
SPECIES Felis domestica Felis tigris Felis leo Felis concolor etc.
(cat) (tiger) (lion) (cougar)
The form used by the zoologist is, we see, the same as that used
by the child. The difference is that the zoologist thinks in significant
classes. It is true that for him the words genus and species have a
DEFINITION 87
somewhat different meaning from the meanings we use in referring
to classification and division. For the zoologist the word genus
means a group of species closely related structurally and by origin,
and the word species means a group whose members possess nu-
merous characteristics in common and do or may interbreed to
preserve those characteristics. This difference comes from the fact
that the zoologist is dealing with living forms. But despite these
differences in the meaning of genus and species he uses them in
his pattern of definition in the same way we have used them.
Though our thinking may follow the pattern of genus and species,
we do not ordinarily use those terms in framing a definition. To de-
fine bungalow we may say that the species falls under the genus
house and give the differentia distinguishing it from other species,
other types of houses. Set up formally the scheme would be this:
GENUS House
SPECIES Bungalow Ranch Dutch Southern Georgian etc.
house colonial colonial
Ordinarily, however, we would not use the technical terms. We
might say: "A bungalow is a kind of house. It differs from some
kinds, like the Dutch colonial, the Georgian, and the Southern
colonial, in that it has only one story. But it differs from other one-
story types, like the ranch house, in that its floor plan is so-and-so."
The important thing is the pattern of thought.
DEFINITION AND THE COMMON GROUND
If we are not content with a definition given us— for instance, the
definition of cat given by the zoologist— we may push the giver back
by asking more about the genus in which he has located the species
under discussion. If we ask the zoologist about the genus Felis, he
may say that it is a group under the family Felidae, which contains
another genus, the genus Lynx. If, after he has established the
differentia here between the genera Felis and Lynx, we are still not
satisfied, he may patiently repeat the process, going up the scale
to another group, for instance, mammals, and on above that to
vertebrates, and on above that to animals. We would conclude with
some very elaborate scheme, roughly as follows:
£8 EXPOSITION
Animals
Stage 5: \
Vertebrates Nonvertebrates
Stage 4: |
I I
Mammals Nonmammals
Stage 3: |
i m
Felidae Other families
Stage 2: \
Felis Lynx
Stage 1: \
Felis domes tica Felis ligris Felis leo etc.
If we keep forcing the zoologist upward from stage to stage, he
will in each instance give us a new definition by the same method.
The only difference will be that what has been the main group in
Stage 1, for example, becomes the subgroup in Stage 2, and so on
up the scale. Here he is seeking a point where the questioner will
feel at home, where he and the questioner will have common
ground.
Common ground is necessary for an effective definition. Such
common ground may be difficult to discover in a transaction be-
tween a scientist, for instance a zoologist, who employs a highly
technical language and a highly technical scheme based on the
structures of living creatures, and a layman who deals in language
and in appearances in a rough-and-ready way. But if the scientist
wishes to communicate with the layman he must find a common
gifound and a common language.
(This principle of the common ground for a definition is very
important, for it implies that a definition is not only of some term
but is for somebody. The giver of the definition can only define by
reference to what his particular audience already knows or is will-
ing to learn.
This knowledge must be of two kinds.
First, since any definition must be in words, the giver of the defi-
nition must use words that his audience is, or can readily become,
DEFINITION 89
acquainted with. For instance, when the zoologist refers to the cat
as a "digitigrade mammal," and so on, he is using words that no
small child and few adults would know. In such cases, the zoologist
would have to explain further that digitigrade means "walking on
the toes" the way a cat does, as opposed to "walking on the whole
foot" (plantigrade) the way a man does. In this way the zoologist
would provide the common ground in words which would make
the definition effective.
Second, the giver of a definition must appeal to information which
his audience has or can readily get. For instance, there is no use in
trying to define the color beige to a man blind from birth. If you
say that beige is a light grayish color, the natural color of wool, you
have really said nothing to him. For he has had no experience of
color. It will do no good to continue and say that gray is a mixture
of black and white. If you go on and give the physicist's definition
of color, referring to wave lengths of light, you run into the same
difficulty. He can grasp the notion of wave length, but he has no
basis for knowing what light is. You run into a defect in his experi-
ence, in his knowledge.
PRINCIPLES OF DEFINITION
Assuming, however, that the giver of the definition finds the com-
mon ground in regard to both words and knowledge, there are still
certain principles to be observed if the definer is truly to enlarge
the audience's understanding of the to-be-defined.
I. The to-be-defined must be equivalent to the definer.
II. The to-be-defined must not be part of the definer.
III. The definer must not be negative unless the to-be-defined is
negative. v
y I. We see immediately that in principle I we are repeating the
notion that a definition involves an equation, the possibility of sub-
stitution of one element of the definition for the other. But it may
be useful to break this notion down:
1. The definer must not be broader than the to-be-defined.
2. The definer must not be narrower than the to-be-defined.
We have an example of the violation of principle 1 if we define
table as a piece of furniture on which we put dishes, lamps, ashtrays,
books, or knickknacks. The definer is here too broad because it
would equally well apply to sideboards, chests of drawers, buffets,
90 EXPOSITION
or what-nots— on which we put dishes, lamps, and so forth. The
definer says some things that are true, but these true things apply
too widely. To put it another way, we can say that the definition
does not properly consider the differentia which would distinguish
the various species under the genus furniture.
We have an example of the violation of principle 2 if we define
table as the piece of furniture on which we serve our meals. Here
the definer is too narrow, because it would not apply to some types
of tables, such as end tables, study tables, bedside tables, or sewing
tables. It really only applies to a subspecies of the species table,
and not to the species. Yet the species table is what is involved in
the definition.
II. The to-be-defined is part of the definer when it is defined in
whole, or in part, in terms of itself. This occurs in two sorts of cases:
1. When a word or phrase of the to-be-defined, or a variation of
a word or phrase, is significantly repeated in the definer.
2. When an idea of the to-be-defined, though in different words,
is significantly repeated in the definer.
We get an example of the first when we define the word statis-
tician by saying it means anyone who makes a profession of com-
piling and studying statistics. The trouble here is that statistics is a
mere variation of statistician. The essential question, "What kind of
thing does a statistician do?" is left unanswered because we have
not yet defined statistics. Or if we define man as a human being,
we commit the same error. In these cases the definer tells a truth,
but it is not a new truth. It is a truth already implicit in the to-be-
defined. There has been no real enlargement of understanding. To
state the matter another way, there has been a circle in the defini-
tion: you come back to your starting point.
In the first type of circular definition, it is clear that when we
repeat in the definer a word or words of the to-be-defined we repeat
an idea already expressed. But it is possible to repeat an idea in
different words, and this, too, gives a circle in the definition. For
example, we have a circle in the definition when we say that fast
means having a rapid rate of motion. The definer does not really
enlarge our notion of the to-be-defined because the word rapid, the
key word in the definer, really repeats the idea of fast, the word to
be defined.
DEFINITION 91
III. If we define a positive to-be-defined by a negative definer
we may wind up with something like this: "Tiffin is what the
English in India call a meal not eaten in the morning." Now it is
perfectly true that tiffin is not eaten in the morning. It is eaten at
noon. But the trouble with the negative statement is that it does
not exclude other possibilities than morning. According to the defi-
nition given above, tiffin might just as well be eaten in the afternoon
or the evening. The truth in the definer is not the whole truth, and
the definition fails to establish the necessary equation between the
elements of the definition.
When, however, the to-be-defined is negative— when its nature
involves some deficiency— it is correct to use a negative definer. For
example, it is correct to define the word widow as a woman who
has lost her husband by death, for here the^idea of loss, of deficiency,
is the essential notion in the to-be-defined, j
EXTENDED DEFINITION
Early in the discussion of definition we said that definition not
only is useful to a person who receives it but may also be useful to
the person who makes it. It is a way of thinking, a way of clarifying
one's own views. This consideration is not very important in deal-
ing with a word like house. With a little information we can make
a workable definition. But sometimes a little information is not all
we need. We may need to think through a very complicated set
of relations. We may need a discussion and not a simple definition^
Let us take for an example the following discussion of the meaning
of the word labor.
It is easy to meet with definitions or at least descriptions of the term
labour, especially among non-British economists. We need hardly notice
the definition of Cicero, who says, "Labor est functio quaedam vel animi
vel corporis." If we are thus to make labour include all action of mind
or body, it includes all life. • . . Malthus expressly defines labour as
follows: "The exertions of human beings employed with a view to re-
muneration. If the term be applied to other exertions, they must be
particularly specified/' In this proposition, however, the word remunera-
tion is very uncertain in meaning. Does it mean only wages paid by other
persons than the labourer, or does it include the benefit which a la-
bourer may gain directly from his own labour? . . .
92 EXPOSITION
It is plain that labour must consist of some energy or action of the
body or mind, but it does not follow that every kind of exertion is to be
treated in economics. Lay has restricted the term by the following con-
cise definition: "Travail; action suivie, dirigee vers un but" The action
here contemplated excludes mere play and sport, which carries its whole
purpose with it. There must be some extrinsic benefit to be purchased
by the action, which moreover must be continued, consistent action,
directed steadily to the same end. This correctly describes the great
mass of economic labour which is directed simply to the earning of
wages and the producing of the commodities which eventually consti-
tute wages. But there is nothing in this definition to exclude the long-
continued exertions of a boat's crew training for a race, the steady prac-
tice of a company of cricketers, or even the regular constitutional walk
of the student who values his good health. Moreover, no considerable
continuity of labour is requisite to bring it under economic laws. A poor
man who gathers groundsell in the morning and sells it about the streets
the same afternoon may complete the circle of economic action within
twenty-four hours. . . .
Senior has given a definition of the term in question, saying, "Labour
is the voluntary exertion of bodily or mental faculties for the purpose of
production." Here the term production is made the scapegoat. Does
production include the production of pleasure or prevention of pain in
every way? Does it include the training of the cricketer? The word
"voluntary," again, excludes the forced labour of slaves and prisoners,
not to speak of draught animals. Yet many economic questions arise
about the productiveness of the exertions of such agents. . . .
Some later economists consider pain or disagreeableness to be a
necessary characteristic of labour, and probably with correctness. Thus
Mill defines labour as "muscular or nervous action, including all feel-
ings of a disagreeable kind, all bodily inconvenience or mental annoy-
ance connected with the employment of one's thoughts or muscles, or
both, in a particular occupation." He seems to intend that only what is
disagreeable, inconvenient or annoying, shall be included. Professor
Hearn also says that such effort as the term labour seems to imply is
"more or less troublesome." It may be added that in all the dictionaries
pain seems to be regarded as a necessary constituent of labour.
Nevertheless it cannot possibly be said that all economic labour is
simple pain. Beyond doubt a workman in good health and spirits, and
fresh from a good night's rest actually enjoys the customary exertion of
his morning task. To a man brought up in the steady round of daily
trade and labour, inactivity soon becomes tedious. Happiness has been
defined as the reflex of unimpeded energy, and whatever exactly this
EXTENDED DEFINITION 93
may mean, there can be no doubt that any considerable degree of
pleasure can be attained only by setting up some end to be worked
for and then working. The real solution of the difficulty seems to be
this— that, however agreeable labour may be when the muscles are
recruited and the nerves unstrained, the hedonic condition is always
changed as the labour proceeds. As we shall see, continued labour
grows more and more painful, *and when long-continued becomes almost
intolerable. However pleasurable the beginning, the pleasure merges into
pain. Now when we are engaged in mere sport, devoid of any con-
scious perception of future good or evil, exertion will not continue beyond
the point when present pain and pleasure are balanced. No motive can
exist for further action. But when we have any future utility in view the
case is different. The mind of the labourer balances present pain against
future good, so that the labour before it is terminated becomes purely
painful. Now the problems and theorems of economics always turn upon
the point where equality or equilibrium is attained; when labour is itself
pleasurable no questions can arise about its continuance. There is the
double gain— the pleasure of the labour itself and the pleasure of gaining
its produce. No complicated calculus is needed where all is happy and
certain. It is on this ground that we may probably dismiss from economic
science all sports and other exertions to which may be applied the
maxim— leave off as soon as you feel inclined. But it is far otherwise with
that advanced point of economic labour when the question arises whether
more labour will be repaid by the probability of future good.
I am by no means sure that it is possible to embody in a single defini-
tion the view here put forward. If obliged to attempt a definition, I
should say that labour includes all exertion of body and/or mind
eventually becoming painful if prolonged, and not wholly undertaken
for the sake of immediate pleasure. This proposition plainly includes all
painful exertion which we undergo in order to gain future pleasures or
to ward off pains, in such a way as to leave a probable hedonic bal-
ance in our favor; but it does not exclude exertion which, even at the
time of exertion, is producing such a balance.— WILLIAM STANLEY JEVONS :
The Principles of Economics, Chap. 14.14
The author ends by putting labor in the general group of "exer-
tion of body and/or mind," and by distinguishing it from other
possible types of exertion. He has used the formula of definition.
But he arrives at his own definition by a discussion of previous
definitions. He criticizes them and indicates his reason for rejecting
14 From The Principles of Economics by William Stanley Jevons. Reprinted
by permission of The Macmillan Company.
94 EXPOSITION
them. It is through this criticism that he sets up the differentia for
his own definition.
Let us take another word, liberty, which is probably even more
difficult to define than labor. Offhand, we think we have a very
clear notion of its meaning, but when we try to define it we may
become aware of our own ignorance or vagueness. We have some
notion, no doubt, that liberty means being able to do what one
likes. But reflection shows us that we cannot mean that if we hold
that the word has any reference to the real world we live in. For
no one is free to do what he likes. All sorts of things thwart us, our
physical limitations, our intellectual limitations, our economic limi-
tations, social pressures, laws. We can say, of course, that we choose
to use the word liberty to refer to the state of being able to do what
one likes; and that statement, if we are consistent in our use of the
word, will constitute a kind of definition. But if we wish to use the
word as having some reference to the actual situation of human
beings, we must explore the concept more fully.
Such an exploration would undoubtedly lead us very far afield.
We would find that we had gone far beyond the kind of vest-pocket
definition which appears in a dictionary. We would write an essay
or a book. And innumerable essays and books have been written
in the attempt to define liberty.
How might we go about framing a definition of liberty?
The word liberty is used to refer to several different things. It
may refer to the theological question of the relation of the human
will in relation to God's will and foreknowledge. It may refer to the
psychological question of whether the human being makes choices
or is a very complicated mechanism that responds but does not
choose. It may refer to the question of the relation of the individual
to society. Before we attempt a definition of the word we obviously
must decide which reference here is our concern.
John Stuart Mill begins his famous essay "On Liberty" by
indicating the particular aspect of the subject which he intends to
treat. "The subject of this Essay is not the so-called Liberty of the
Will, so unfortunately opposed to the misnamed doctrine of Philo-
sophical Necessity; but Civil or Social Liberty: The nature and
limits of the power which can be legitimately exercised by society
over the individual."
Having in this fashion confined his interest to social liberty, Mill
EXTENDED DEFINITION 95
then proceeds to distinguish the different conceptions of social liberty
which have prevailed at different times and places: (1) immunities
under a "governing One, or a governing tribe or caste" who did
not govern "at the pleasure of the governed'*; (2) constitutional
checks under the same type of government as above; (3) the right
to elect rulers; (4) the right to protection against the will of the
majority as expressed through government; (5) the right to protec-
tion against social pressure. Set up as a scheme we have this:
Social Liberty
12345
Mill then goes on to point out that in the modern world concep-
tions 1, 2, and 3 are outmoded, for the historical situations account-
ing for them no longer prevail. Thus conceptions 4 and 5 are left
as the special content of his subject— which may be called Social
Liberty in its modern reference.
But Social Liberty in its modern reference has various areas of
application, which must be distinguished from each other. These
various areas of application are: (a) liberty of "consciousness"—
liberty of conscience, of thought, and of opinion, and by exten-
sion, of expression; (b) liberty of "tastes and pursuits"— liberty
of framing the "plan of our life to suit our own character"; (c)
liberty of "combination"— liberty of individuals to unite, the indi-
viduals combining "being supposed to be of full age, and not forced
or deceived." So we can develop our scheme:
Social Liberty
Social Liberty in its modern reference
By making this series of distinctions Mill has limited and ex-
plained the area of his discussion. He can now proceed to frame
96 EXPOSITION
his definition with some assurance that his audience will see where
the definition can be applied and by what line of thought it was
developed.
All the way through his discussion Mill is conscious of the fact
that the liberty of one individual cannot be thought of apart from
the liberty of other individuals, for all are members of a society.
Therefore, if one individual, in pursuing what he takes to be his
liberty, infringes upon or limits the liberty of another individual,
he is not exercising his liberty but is doing something else. That is,
liberty must be understood as meaning the maximum liberty of all
individuals and not the mere opportunity of one individual to do
what he pleases.
Having developed that thought, Mill can now define Social Lib-
erty in its modern reference as the pursuit of "our own good in
our own way, so long as we do not attempt to deprive others of
theirs, or impede their efforts to obtain it." It may be said, of course,
that Mill is really defining the term justifiable liberty and not the
term liberty. But this, he says, is the only liberty that "deserves the
name." That is, he would use the term liberty only to apply to the
situation just described, and his definition means something to us
because of the discussion that has preceded it.
Let us turn to another famous essay, "What is a University?" by
John Henry Newman, as an example of extended definition. This
is the first paragraph:
If I were asked to describe as briefly and popularly as I could, what
a University was, I should draw my answer from its ancient designa-
tion of a Studium Generate, or "School of Universal Learning/' This
description implies the assemblage of strangers from all parts in one
spot;— from all parts; else, how will you find professors and students for
every department of knowledge? and in one spot; else, how can there
be any school at all? Accordingly, in its simple and rudimental form, it is
a school of knowledge of every kind, consisting of teachers and learners
from every quarter. Many things are requisite to complete and satisfy
the idea embodied in this description; but such as this a University
seems to be in its essence, a place for the communication and circula-
tion of thought, by means of personal intercourse, through a wide extent
of country.
We remember that both Jevons and Mill move toward a defini-
tion through a discussion, but here we see that Newman starts with
EXTENDED DEFINITION 97
a definition. The definition is the basis for a discussion, the discus-
sion being a development of the implications of the original defini-
tion.
CHANGED USE OF A TERM
We can see another difference between the essay by Mill and
that by Newman. Mill looks back over history to see what has been
understood by liberty at different times in the past, but the defini-
tion he finally gives is for his own time and not for any past time.
Newman, too, looks back to the past, and begins his first paragraph
by referring to an earlier notion. But he does not contrast the earlier
notion with a modern notion. Instead, he uses the old notion to help
him define the word university in a modern reference. What he
draws from the old term Studium Generate he applies to the new
term university.
A study of the use of a term in the past may be useful, then,
because of either continuity or contrast. For example, if we are
asked to define the term American democracy, we may very profit-
ably raise the historical question. Do we understand the same thing
by it as the Founding Fathers did? What must we make of the fact
that the Founding Fathers did not believe in universal suffrage and
that we may? Are there any elements of continuity?
DERIVATION OF A TERM TO BE DEFINED
- As it is sometimes useful to know the history of the use of a term,
it is sometimes useful to know the derivation of a term. Every word
has a history, and the history of the word itself may lead to a fuller
notion of its meaning. For instance, it helps us to understand the
meaning of the word philosophy to learn that it derives from a
Greek word meaning the love of wisdom. The derivation may indi-
cate or explain some basic meaning. For instance, an article on
asceticism begins as follows:
ASCETICISM: the theory and practice of bodily abstinence and self-
mortification, generally religious. The word is derived from a Greek word
(doxew) meaning "to practice/' or "to train," and it embodies a metaphor
taken from the ancient wrestling place, where victory rewarded those
who had best trained their bodies.— Encyclopaedia Britannica, 14th edi-
tion.
98 EXPOSITION
Here the derivation of the word really enlightens us about the
significance of self-denial for the religious person: it is like the train-
ing of an athlete.
METHODS OF EXTENDED DEFINITION
We begin to see some of the ways in which the simple definition
may be extended. We may start by looking into the derivation of
the term to be defined. We may follow Newman's method of defin-
ing a present term by reference to an old usage. We may look at
the history of various meanings of a term as a background for a
present meaning, as Mill looks at the history of liberty. We may
extend the discussion through several stages as Mill does, to locate
the precise area in which the definition will apply. We may develop
a definition by a series of illustrations, comparisons, and contrasts,
as Newman does in the body of his essay. We may do any or all of
these things, We may, in fact, do anything that will really help
to make our definition clear.
(In writing an extended definition we may find, of course, that we
are running away from the strict concern of definition into illustra-
tions, for example, or comparisons and contrasts. Other intentions
may become dominant over the intention to define. If we are
setting out to write a definition, and only a definition, this wavering
of intention may confuse us and our readers. But definition may be
merely the beginning of a piece of exposition, and may be subordi-
nate to other intentions. Then, what is important is to be able to
use the method of definition as far as it is fruitful for understand-
ing the subject. Definition is, in the end, a device for reaching
understanding.^
ANALYSIS: THE TWO KINDS
I ANALYSIS is the method of dividing into component parts. The
word means loosening into parts. The method can be applied to
anything that can be thought of as having parts. We can analyze
an object such as a dog, a house, a tree, a picture. We can analyze
an idea such as nationalism, religion, or treachery. We can analyze
an organization such as a church, a corporation, a university, or »
government.
ANALYSIS: THE TWO KINDS 99
We must make a distinction between PHYSICAL ANALYSIS and CON-
CEPTUAL ANALYSIS.
In physical analysis some object is spatially separated into its
components^ If a clockmaker takes a clock apart, he performs a
physical analysis. If a student of zoology dissects a pickled dogfish,
he performs a physical analysis, i If a chemist makes a chemical
analysis of a sample of butter, he performs a physical analysis^)
Obviously an idea cannot be separated into parts like cogs and
springs or chemical elements. An idea can be analyzed only into
other ideas. For instance, the idea of nationalism can be analyzed
only in terms of human motives, attitudes, and interests. Nor can
an organization be analyzed by spatial separation. For example, a
corporation cannot be analyzed by physically grouping the indi-
vidual chairs, desks, typewriters, and filing cabinets which appear
in various departments. These objects do not constitute the depart-
ments, nor do the physical persons employed in the respective
departments. We can analyze a corporation only by understanding
what constitutes the function of a department.^
, In dealing with nationalism or a corporation, then, we must per-
form the analysis in our minds, by the use of our reason. This is
conceptual analysis. It must be remembered, however, that con-
ceptual analysis may be used to report on subjects which have
physical existence. For instance, when the chemist, instead of per-
forming a chemical analysis before his class, describes the com-
position of a substance, he is giving a conceptual analysis. The fact
that he has earlier made a chemical analysis of the substance in
his laboratory does not mean that the present analysis is physical.
Conceptual analysis is the kind which concerns us here, the kind
which we can perform in our minds and report in words, in a
discourse.
ANALYSIS AND STRUCTURE
Analysis, as we have said, is a method of dividing into parts. In
this statement we should emphasize the word method. An analysis
does not take place by accident, but by design, in the light of
some principle. A baby tearing up the morning paper can scarcely
be said to perform an analysis.
We can propose an analysis only if we regard the thing analyzed
100 EXPOSITION
as constituting a determinate structure. A thing constitutes a struc-
ture when its components may be regarded not as assembled at
random but as being organized, as having necessary relations to
each other. For example, we do not regard a pile of bricks as a
structure, but we do so regard a brick wall. We regard an automo-
bile as a structure, a human body, a corporation, a textbook, a tree.
In each of these things some principle determines the relation
among the parts.
/ According to our different interests, we may regard the same
object as having various kinds of structure. For example, the bot-
anist would regard an apple as one kind of structure, and there-
fore would analyze it into, shall we say, stem, skin, flesh, seeds,
and so forth, whereas a chemist would regard it as another kind and
would analyze it into certain chemical elements, or a painter would
regard it as still another kind and would analyze it into a pattern
of color. Each man would perform his analysis in terms of a
particular interest, and the interest prompting his analysis would
decide the kind of structure which he took the object to be, and
the kind of structure which he took it to be would determine what
might be regarded as a part of the structure.
In illustrating the fact that the same thing may be regarded as
having different kinds of structure, we have used an example having
physical existence, an apple. But the same thing may hold good of
something with no physical existence, say a short story. We may
regard it as a grammatical structure, for it is made up of words. Or
we may regard it as a fictional structure, that is, as being composed
of plot, of characters, of theme— things which we can think of and
discuss as separate elements. Or an institution may be regarded as
having different kinds of structure. For instance, we may regard
the family as an educational structure, an economic structure, or
a moral structure. Each of these structures implies different rela-
tionships among the members of a family.
ANALYSIS: RELATION AMONG PARTS
We have said that a thing may be regarded as a structure when
its parts may be regarded not as assembled at random but as being
organized, as having necessary relations to each other. So a com-
ANALYSIS: RELATION AMONG PARTS 101
plete analysis does not merely specify the parts of the thing analyzed
but indicates the relation among parts. It tells how the parts fulfill
their individual functions in composing the structure in which they
participate. It tells what principle binds them together. For in-
stance, a lecturer in political science analyzing the structure of our
government would not only name the three main divisions—legis-
lative, judicial, and executive— but would indicate the significance
of each in the government. Otherwise, his audience would learn
little from him. Or if we analyze a theme into its parts— introduc-
tion, discussion, and conclusion— we make our analysis intelligible
by telling what constitutes an introduction, what it is supposed to
accomplish.
We have said that in making an analysis it is useful to indicate
the relation among the parts distinguished. In fact, we may go even
further and say that a part is to be distinguished as an element
which has some significant relation to the whole. In analyzing the
ignition system of an automobile we are not concerned with the
color of the insulation on the wires. The color has no significant
relation. Or in analyzing a corporation we can scarcely be con-
cerned with the age of the second vice-president or his taste in
cigars. We are concerned only with his relation to the corporation
as a corporation, not with his individual qualities in so far as they
have no bearing on his job.
ANALYSIS AND EXPOSITORY DESCRIPTION
, Such analysis as we have been discussing— analysis which divides
a thing into its parts— can be regarded as a form of expository
description (p. 42). It is a way of explaining the thing analyzed.
It is technical in its method, and aims, not at giving a vivid imme-
diate impression, but at leading to an understanding of the thing
analyzed. When the analysis is concerned with a type, we have
generalized description. In the example below we see that the
analysis is of a type of mechanism, not of a particular set of radar
equipment. It is concerned with the parts which must be present
in any radar set if that set is to fulfill its proper function. We notice
that, though the primary intention is to distinguish the parts, there
is also a clear indication of the use of each part in the structure.
102 EXPOSITION
Practically every radar set is made up of the following major parts or
components:
1, A modulator; 2, A radio-frequency oscillator; 3, An antenna with
suitable scanning mechanism; 4, A receiver; and 5, An indicator.
While the physical form for each of these components may vary
widely from one kind of radar set to another, each radar must have
this complement of parts in order to function.
1. The modulator is a device for taking power from the primary
source (which may be the commercial power line, a special engine or
motor-driven generator, or storage batteries) and forming suitable volt-
age pulses to drive the r-f oscillator in its bursts of radio-frequency
oscillations. In other words, it is the modulator which turns on the radio-
frequency oscillator to oscillate violently for a millionth of a second or
so, turns it off sharply and keeps it in repose until time for the next
burst.
2. The radio-frequency oscillator is a vacuum tube of suitable de-
sign, or a group of such tubes, which will oscillate at the desired radio
frequency and give the desired bursts of radio-frequency power when
connected to the modulator. The development of suitable oscillator tubes
has been one of the major achievements of the radar art. It is a rela-
tively simple job to produce a radio-frequency oscillator which will give
oscillations of any desired frequency provided one is satisfied with a
power of only a few thousandths of a watt. In the receiving part of a
radar circuit this amount of power is adequate. A practical radar trans-
mitter, however, must generate during its momentary bursts of oscilla-
tion a power which may run into hundreds of kilowatts. Since the
oscillator is turned on a small fraction of the time, the average power is
usually hundreds of times less than the peak power, but even the average
power may run up to the order of one kilowatt. Thus, practical radar
equipment requires extremely high frequency oscillators running at
powers thousands of times greater than was thought possible a few
years ago.
3. The problem of antenna design is also one of the major problems
in radar, incomprehensible as this may seem to the operator of a home
radio receiver, who finds a few yards of wire strung up on his roof ade-
quate for his purpose. A suitable radar antenna must have the following
characteristics:
a. It must be directional; that is, it must concentrate the radio energy
into a definitely defined beam, since this is the method by which
the direction to the objects detected is determined.
b. It must be highly efficient. All of the generated power must go into
ANALYSIS AND EXPOSITORY DESCRIPTION 103
the beam and none must leak off into "side lobes" in other direc-
tions, since such side lobes may often be fatally confusing; and,
c. The radar antenna must be capable of being directed or scanned
from one point in space to another, and on shipboard and in air-
craft it must frequently be stabilized to take out the motions of the
ship or airplane itself.
An antenna may be made directional either by building it up of an
array of small antennas or dipoles, suitably spaced and phased to con-
centrate the energy in one direction, or it may be built on the search-
light principle of spraying the energy into a large parabolic "mirror,"
which focuses the energy into a beam. In either case, the larger the
antenna, the sharper the beam for any given wave length. Sometimes
antennas may be longer in one direction than the other, giving a beam
which is sharper in the first direction and thus fan shaped.
The scanning of the portion of space which the radar set is intended
to cover must usually be done by mechanical movement of the antenna
structure itself. This means that the structure, whatever its size, must
swing around or up and down to direct the beam in the necessary
direction. In certain cases where one needs to scan only a small sector,
techniques have been worked out for rapid electrical scanning not re-
quiring the motion of the whole antenna structure itself. So far, how-
ever, there has been no method for extending this rapid electrical
scanning to cover more than a relatively small sector. Radars for directing
guns which need accurate and fast data in a small sector are making
use, however, of this valuable technique.
To carry the radio-frequency energy from the oscillator to the an-
tenna, and the echo from the antenna to the receiver, wires and coaxial
cables are used at ordinary wave lengths. For microwaves, however, it
is more efficient to use wave guides, which essentially are carefully pro-
portioned hollow pipes—and the transmission system hence is often
called "plumbing."
4. The problem of the receiver for radar is also a complex one. In
practically all radars the superheterodyne principle is employed, which
involves generating at low power a radio frequency fairly close to that
received, and "beating" this against the received signals, forming an
intermediate frequency, which is then amplified many times. Curiously
enough the crystal, used as a detector and mixer, has again come into
its own in microwave receivers. The peculiar characteristics of pulse sig-
nals require that receivers be built with extremely fast response, much
faster even than that required in television. The final stages must prepare
the signals for suitable presentation in the indicator. The receiver nor-
104 EXPOSITION
mally occupies a relatively small box in the complete radar set, and yet
this box represents a marvel of engineering ingenuity. A particularly
difficult piece of development is concerned with a part closely connected
with the receiver. This is a method of disconnecting the receiver from
the antenna during intervals when the transmitter is operating so that
the receiver will not be paralyzed or burned out by the stupendous
bursts of radio-frequency energy generated by the transmitter. Within
a millionth of a second after the transmitter has completed its pulse,
however, the receiver must be open to receive the relatively weak echo
signals; but now the transmitter part of the circuit must be closed off so
it will not absorb any of this energy.
5. It is the indicator of a radar that presents the information collected
in a form best adapted to efficient use of the set. Nearly (but not quite)
all radar indicators consist of one or more cathode-ray tubes. In the
simplest or "A" type of presentation the electron beam is given a deflec-
tion proportional to time in one direction—say, horizontally— and propor-
tional to the strength of the echo pulse in the other— say, vertically. If
no signals are visible, then one sees a bright horizontal line (the "time
base") across the tube face, the distance along this line representing time
elapsed after the outgoing pulse. A returning echo then gives a V-shaped
break in the line at the point corresponding to the time it took the echo
to come back. The position of the "pip" along this line measures the
distance to the reflecting object. There are many variations of this type
of indicator for special purposes, but most radars have an A-scope, even
when other types are also provided.
Many types of radar whose antennas "scan" various directions employ
the PPI tube. Here the time base starts from the center of the tube and
moves radially outward .n a direction corresponding to that in which the
antenna is pointing. This time base rotates in synchronism with the
antenna. The returning signal, instead of causing a break in the time
base, simply intensifies its brilliance for an instant. Hence each signal
appears as a bright spot of light at a position corresponding to the range
and bearing of the target. Thus a maplike picture of all reflecting objects
appears in the cathofle-ray tube face.
Since the antenna can usually be -otated only slowly (e.g., from 1 to
20 r.p.m.) and since the light from an ordinary cathode-ray tube fades
away almost instantly, one might expect not to see a "map" at all, but
only bright flashes at various spots as the antenna revolves. Some way
had to be found to make the brightness of these flashes persist for many
seconds after they were produced. Special screens were developed which
continue to glow for some time after being lighted by a signal. Thus the
ANALYSIS AND EXPOSITORY DESCRIPTION 105
whole map is displayed at once.— OFFICE OF WAR INFORMATION: Radar:
A Report on Science at War.16
FUNCTIONAL ANALYSIS
The kind of analysis which we have been discussing provides the
answ er to such a question as, "How is it put together?" But when we
undertake to answer the question, "How does it work?" we give
what is called FUNCTIONAL ANALYSIS. (We have to say how the parts
of a thing, whatever that thing is, relate to each other in action
so that that thing fulfills its characteristic function. We are, further-
more, concerned with the stages of a process. We have to explain
how something comes about, and this means that our analysis will
be in a time sequence^
(' Since it is in time sequence, this kind of analysis is a form of
expository narration. It may be of a particular event, say the stages
by which an inventor arrived at the solution of a problem, or it may
be of an event which is characteristically repeated, say the manu-
facture of hydrochloric acid or the training of a football squad.
In the latter instance, the analysis of the stages of an event charac-
teristically repeated, we get generalized narration.
It is easiest to understand functional analysis if we think of it as
applied to some mechanism. If we take an alarm clock, for instance,
we can see how the spring provides power, how this power is con-
trolled by a system of reducing gears and a checking device so
that it does not expend itself in one spurt, how the pace of expendi-
ture is evenly controlled so that the movement of the hands serves
as a register of time, and how at a certain fixed point the alarm is
released. We are concerned with the parts here, but only in so far
as they relate to the special function of the mechanism. In so far
as we undertake to explain the process by which the special func-
tion is fulfilled, we are giving a functional analysis. In other words,
our primary concern is with stages in a process, and the parts are
interesting to us only in so far as they are associated with stages.
To take another example, it is not functional analysis to list the
components of apple pie and describe their relation to each other,
15 From Radar: A Report on Science at War, issued by the Office of War
Information, sponsored by the Office of Scientific Research and Development,
the War Department and the Navy Department, obtainable from the Superin-
tendent of Documents, U. S. Government Printing Office.
106 EXPOSITION
but it is functional analysis to tell how to make a pie. When we
give these directions, we are dealing with stages in a process.
The same general principle, the concern with stages, applies when
we are dealing, not with a mechanism or with directions for mak-
ing or doing something, but with an organization or institution.
It is one thing, (for instance, to describe the organization of our
government, and it is quite another to tell how a bill becomes law,
how legality may be tested in the Supreme Court, and how the law
may be enforced. In telling how the bill becomes law, and so on,
we are giving a functional analysis.
(Functional analysis, then, is the method by which we distinguish
the stages in a process which may be regarded as having a charac-
teristic function or purpose. Though we use the word functional to
describe the particular kind of analysis, we may distinguish between
the characteristic function and the characteristic purpose of what-
ever is analyzed. An example may enlighten us. If we are discussing
a university, we can treat the subject in terms of purpose, for it is
an institution created by men to gain certain ends. But if we are
discussing the circulation of the blood, we can treat the subject
only in terms of a characteristic function. We cannot say that pur-
pose is involved. Or to take another contrasted pair of examples,
if we give directions for making an apple pie, we are treating our
subject in terms of purpose, but if we discuss the stages of develop-
ment of an apple, we are treating the subject in terms of function.
In both instances we can, of course, observe a regular pattern, but
in one case we interpret the pattern as representing purpose and
in the other as representing function.
Sometimes we can fruitfully distinguish both function and pur-
pose in a thing which we wish to analyze. For instance, it might
be said that we give an analysis of a radar set in terms of function:
it operates because of certain natural laws which cannot be said to
represent purpose. But at the same time the equipment is con-
structed to use those natural laws for a purpose. Man has a purpose
in constructing the equipment. To construct the set man has manip-
ulated certain materials in terms of natural laws (the only way he
could manipulate the materials) to achieve a certain purpose. He
cannot manipulate his circulatory system. So we may take the fact
of manipulation as the point of distinction.
What is the significance of this distinction for purposes of exposi-
ANALYSIS AND EXPOSITORY DESCRIPTION 107
tion? It is a way of defining our subject, of knowing exactly what
sort of structure we are dealing with. And that in itself is a step
toward understanding.
Below is an example of functional analysis applied to a mecha-
nism, something created by man to fulfill a certain purpose, a radar
set. Contrast the method used here with the previous analysis of
the set into its parts.
In radar, unlike communications, the transmitter and the receiver are
located at the same place, and more often than not have a common
antenna. The transmitter is actually sending out energy only a very
small part of the time; it sends out this energy in very intense bursts of
small duration, called pulses. These pulses may be only a millionth of a
second long. After each pulse, the transmitter waits a relatively long
time—a few thousandths of a second— before sending out the next pulse.
During the interval between pulses, the receiver is working and the
signals it receives are the echoes of the powerful transmitted pulse from
nearby objects. The nearest objects will give echoes coming very soon
after the transmitter pulse is finished; those farther away give later
returns. The elapsed time between the transmission of the pulse and
the reception of its echo measures the distance of the object giving that
echo— ship, airplane, mountain, or building— from the place where the
radar set is located. This is possible because the elapsed time is just
that required for the pulse, which travels with the speed of light, to
get there and back. Light travels very fast, as everybody knows, hence
these intervals are very small. Their exact measurement is one of the
technical triumphs of modern radar. Since light goes 186,000 miles a
second, or 328 yards each millionth of a second, and since it must travel
twice— out and back— the distance from radar to target, an object 1,000
yards from the radar will give an echo only six-millionths of a second
later than the transmitted pulse. This is a rather short time, by prewar
standards, but we have learned how to measure time like this with an
accuracy which corresponds to only 5 or 10 yards range, or about one-
thirtieth of a millionth of a second.
The use of pulses, as we have seen, gives a simple means of measuring
the range. How, then, is the direction in which a target lies determined?
This is done by providing the radar with a directional antenna, which
sends out the pulses in a narrow beam, like a searchlight. This antenna
may be rotated as the pulses are sent out, and we get back a "pip"
(radar slang for a target indication) when the antenna is pointed toward
its target. We get the strongest pip when the beam of energy sent out
by the radar is pointed directly at the target. The bearing of the antenna
108 EXPOSITION
—which is also the bearing of the target— may then be read off and
used to point a warship's guns, or set the course of a bomber, or direct
a fighter to intercept an enemy plane, or for other use the particular
purpose of the equipment dictates.
An even more spectacular indication of the direction and range of
the target is obtained with the use of the PPI— Plan Position Indicator.
In this case, the radar echoes are caused to draw a map on the face of
a cathode-ray tube. The radar operator could imagine himself sus-
pended high above the set, whether on a ship or plane or on the ground,
looking down on the scene spread out below. No matter how many
targets surround the radar set, each is indicated by a blob of light on
the tube face— the direction of the blob from the center indicating the
target's range. The whole picture is there. It is not like television; the
blobs do not actually look like ships or planes, but are interpretable to a
trained operator.
Still other ways of displaying radar echoes are used. On a battleship,
for example, where exact range is desired to lay the 16-inch guns, the
radar echoes are so displayed that the operator can read a range scale
down to a few yards. In the case of Army antiaircraft fire, the radar
antenna actually moves automatically so that it always points at the plane
without help from an operator, and the guns follow automatically by
remote control. Other types of radar use other types of displays, de-
signed to perform one or another special purpose.
What we may call the sharpness of vision of a radar set— its ability to
distinguish separately the echoes from two targets close together and at
the same distance from the radar— depends on the sharpness of the radar
beam. With an antenna of given size, the beam will become sharper and
sharper as the wave length decreases. In fact, for a given antenna size,
the beam width is just proportional to the wave length. The earliest radar
worked on wave lengths of several meters, with correspondingly broad
beams, unless large antennas were used. Then there was a great flowering
of equipment working near a meter and a half, which was, at the begin-
ning of the war, about the shortest wave length at which radio tech-
niques had been worked out. The wartime period of development has
witnessed an intensive exploitation of shorter and shorter wave lengths.
—OFFICE OF WAR INFORMATION: Radar: A Report on Science at War.
Here is an example of functional analysis applied to an organiza-
tion, our financial system. This is not a very orderly piece of exposi-
tion as compared with the analysis of radar. But we can reduce it
to order by extracting the answers to several questions: (1) What
would be the four functions of a financial system in our society?
ANALYSIS AND EXPOSITORY DESCRIPTION 109
(2) How were these functions related to each other to produce the
present system? (3) How would these functions be related in what
Brandeis calls a beneficent system?
How the masters of credit-financing gradually, through processes of
interlocking directorates, achieved their complete overlordship of finance,
industry, insurance, communication, and transportation is a long story—
too long to be told here. The interested reader can get it most vividly in
Louis (now Justice) Brandeis' Other People's Money. In that book he
declares:
"The dominant element in our financial oligarchy is the investment
banker. Associated banks, trust companies and life insurance companies
are his tools. Controlled railroads, public service and industrial corpora-
tions are his subjects. Though properly but middlemen, these bankers
bestride as masters America's business world, so that practically no large
enterprise can be undertaken successfully without their participation or
approval."
It is well to ponder these words: "practically no large enterprise can
be undertaken successfully without their participation or approval." They
are an ironic commentary upon the statement so often made by the
defenders of the economic status quo that the present system is one
which encourages the utmost freedom of initiative. "These bankers
bestride as masters America's business world."
"The key to their power," Brandeis continues, "is combination." In
the first place, there was the legal consolidation of banks and trust com-
panies; then there were affiliations brought about by stockholders, voting
trusts, and interlocking directorates in banking institutions which were
not legally connected; and finally, there were the gentlemen's agree-
ments, joint transactions, and "banking ethics," which unofficially elim-
inated competition among the investment bankers.
In the second place, the organization of railroads into huge systems,
the large consolidations of public service corporations, and the creation
of industrial trusts directly played into the hands of the associated New
York bankers, for these businesses were so vast that no local, independent
bank could supply the necessary funds.
These factors alone, however, "could not have produced the Money
Trust . . . another and more potent factor of combination was added."
It is this third factor that is most astounding.
Investment bankers were dealers in stocks, bonds, and notes. As such,
they performed one necessary function in our kind of society. In order
that they should possess the public's confidence, they had to be able, with
complete objectivity, to estimate the soundness of what they sold. Hence
no EXPOSITION
they could not themselves, properly, have an interest in the investments.
They had to be middlemen pure and simple.
But not so. Through the purchases of voting stock they became the
directing power in the very enterprises— railroads, public service and
industrial corporations— that were the issuers of the securities they sold.
But more than this. They purchased voting stock in the great enter-
prises, like life insurance companies and other corporate reservoirs of
the people's savings, that were the buyers of securities. So they made
for themselves a ready market for the securities which they themselves
issued.
And finally, they became the governing power in banks and trust
companies. These were the depositories of the savings of the people. As
holders of these savings they were able to make loans to (their own) cor-
porations; these in turn could issue securities that the investment bank-
ers could readily sell to their own corporations as well as buy at figures
acceptable to themselves and sell at conveniently higher prices to their
own depositors and the public.
"Thus four distinct functions, each essential to business, and each
exercised, originally, by a distinct set of men became united in the
investment banker. It is to this union of business functions that the
existence of the Money Trust is mainly due."
And Brandeis concludes his analysis with this ominous observation:
"The development of our financial oligarchy followed, in this respect,
lines with which the history of political despotism has familiarized us:
usurpation, proceeding by gradual encroachment rather than by violent
acts; subtle and often long-concealed concentration of distinct functions,
which are beneficent when separately administered, and dangerous only
when combined in the same persons. It was by such processes as these
that Caesar Augustus became master of Rome."— H. A. OVERSTREET: A
Declaration of Interdependence, Chap. 3.16
CHRONOLOGICAL ANALYSIS
Sometimes we are called upon to deal with a subject which we
cannot easily treat with reference to function or purpose. For in-
stance, a historical event.
It is true that a historical event may involve human purposes,
many human purposes, but the event itself cannot be understood
merely by reference to those purposes. The individual purposes
16 Reprinted from A Declaration of Interdependence by H. A. Overstreet, by
permission of W. W. Norton & Company, Inc. Copyright 1937 by the pub-
lishers. The late Justice Brandeis is quoted by permission of Susan Brandeis.
ANALYSIS AND EXPOSITORY DESCRIPTION 111
may be too numerous, too various, and too confused. By the same
token we cannot find a characteristic function. Or different people
may find different functions, as it were, according to their interpre-
tation of history. For example, it is hardly precise to say that the
French Revolution had a function in our sense of the word, in the
sense that the human heart has a function in the circulation of the
blood.>
If we cannot discuss an event, however, with reference to a
purpose or function, we may, at least, try to distinguish the stages
in the process. We can sort out the steps. Our concern is to establish
the facts in their chronological order and to arrange them so that
they can be grasped as some sort of pattern. We may want to do
this as a preliminary to further study, but if we can do no more we
can at least try to see the pattern of sequence in time. This kind
of analysis we may call CHRONOLOGICAL ANALYSIS.
For example, in an article on the last days of General Rommel,
who was in command of the German forces supposed to defend
France against the British and American landings on D-Day, June 6,
1944, the author analyzes the complex event into its stages:
There were to be five acts in the swift concluding drama of Rommel's
career— and of his world. Roughly stated, their themes in sequence were:
initial stupefaction, improvisation, frustration, desperation, and final
liquidation.— WILLIAM HARLAN HALE: "The End of Marshal Rommel."
Then the author proceeds to discuss each stage. The chronologi-
cal analysis gives him the frame for his treatment, for his interpre-
tation.
CAUSAL ANALYSIS
We often want to go beyond a mere sequence in time. One way
to do this is to consider cause and effect. CAUSAL ANALYSIS is con-
cerned with two questions: "What caused this?" and "Given this
set of circumstances, what effect will follow?" In answering the first
we must reason from effect back to cause, and in answering the
second, from cause forward to effect. Again, as with chronological
analysis, this kind of analysis usually takes the form of expository
narration. We are accustomed to think of cause and effect in a time
sequence, a chain of happenings.
112 EXPOSITION
CAUSE
What do we understand by cause? We all have a rough-and-
ready notion. We have to have a notion of it in order to manage
our daily lives. The burnt child shuns the fire only after he has
learned that a certain act, putting his finger in the flame, is followed
by a certain unpleasant effect, a burn. He has made a connection
between events.
Cause is a certain kind of connection between events. It is the
kind of connection that enables us to say that without event A,
event B would not have come about, and whenever you have A
you will have B.17
IMMEDIATE CONNECTION
The connection between cause and effect, between our A and
our B, is relatively immediate. Sometimes we encounter an idea of
cause that ignores the immediate connection—that regards as a
cause of B whatever goes to provide, however remotely, the con-
ditions that have resulted in the existence of B. In the poem "Flower
in the Crannied Wall," by Tennyson, we see that idea:
Flower in the crannied wall,
I pluck you out of the crannies,
I hold you here, root and all, in my hand,
Little flower— but if I could understand
What you are, root and all, and all in all,
I should know what God and man is.
The poet says that if he could explain the flower he could explain
God and man. He is here thinking of a tissue of relationships bind-
ing the whole universe so that to know the "cause" of the flower
would be to know the entire universe.
To take another example, one might say, by this wide use of the
17 The use of the word event here may be objected to. It may be said, for
instance, that the word thing might be substituted, at least on some occasions,
for the word event. We may say that a nail is the cause of the fact that the
picture hangs on the wall, and that a nail is a thing. But it is not the nail
as a thing that sustains the picture. It is its state of being in the wall that
causes the picture to be sustained, and its state of being in the wall is an
event. There must be things, of course, for there to be events, but the event
is what we are concerned with. The state of a thing is an event, in the mean-
ing of the word in our discussion.
ANALYSIS AND EXPOSITORY DESCRIPTION 113
word cause, that the birth of the grandfather (A) is the "cause" of
the death of the grandson (B)— for had the grandfather not existed,
the grandson would not have existed, and had the grandson not
existed, he could not have died.
In our discussion, however, we are concerned with a more imme-
diate idea of cause: the death of the grandson is in our ordinary
view caused by, shall we say, a fall from a stepladder and not by
the birth of the grandfather. By and large, the more immediate the
relation between A and B the more certainly it can be discussed
as cause.
CAUSE AND INTEREST
What we take to be the cause of an event is, in one way, dictated
by our special interest in the event. When the little grandson falls
from the stepladder and is killed, a neighbor, commenting on the
event, would be satisfied by the fact of the fall from the ladder as
the cause. But the mother might take her own carelessness as the
cause: she left the stepladder standing on the edge of the back
porch instead of putting it away in the closet where it belonged.
Or a physiologist might take a more scientific view of the cause and
say that death was the result of a fracture of the skull of such and
such a nature.
In its own perspective, in relation to the special interest brought
to bear on the event, each of these statements may be true. What
is important is to know what we are doing when we take a particu-
lar line of interest to explain an event.
A CONDITION
An event does not take place in complete isolation. It takes place
in the world, and many factors constitute its setting. To study the
cause of something we must give some attention to the setting, the
situation in which it occurs.
Let us take a simple instance, one that could be set up as an
experiment. To a clockwork device which will sway back and forth
when hung on a string, we attach a little bell. The bell will ring
as the device oscillates on its string. The whole thing is hung inside
a large glass jar. When the mechanism swings, we can hear the
bell ring. But let us pump the air out of the jar. The bell will con-
114 EXPOSITION
tinue to swing back and forth and the clapper will strike the sides
of the bell, but now we can hear no sound. The bell does not ring.18
We know why. For there to be a sound, there must be a medium
in which the sound waves can travel to our ears. When there was
air in the jar there was a sound because the air was the medium
for the waves. But when there is no air, there is no sound.
In this situation we may call the air a CONDITION. And a condition,
as we use the word, is whatever factor existing in a situation will
permit the effect to appear. It is a factor that we regard as a kind
of background to the event being considered. Yet it must be a
significant background. Some background factors are not significant.
For instance, in our experiment the color of the glass of the jar is
not significant. It has no relation to the event. A change in the
color of the glass will not alter the event.19
18 This account of the experiment is paraphrased from L. S. Stebbing, A
Modern Introduction to Logic, 2nd ed., London, 1933, pp. 270-71.
19 How do we distinguish a condition from a cause? If, in our jar experi-
ment, we are thinking of cause in its most immediate connection, we may
take the stroke of the clapper against the side of the bell to be the cause of
the sound. In that case, we regard the motion generated by the clockwork
mechanism to be, like the presence of the air, a condition. But we might take
the motion of the mechanism to be the cause, and regard the free-swinging
clapper as a condition, a factor that permits the event to take place.
So we cannot make an absolute distinction between condition and cause.
We must return to our notion that the interest we bring to bear on a situation
is significant in our taking one factor rather than another to be the cause. We
focus our interest on one factor, and assume the presence of the others. For
instance, Tennyson, looking at his flower in the crannied wall, might have
said that the cause was the fact that a bird had dropped a seed there. But
without the conditions of nutrition, moisture, heat, and light, he would not
have had the flower. When he selected one factor as the cause of the event,
he was assuming the presence of the others. In a fuller sense, then, the cause
of the flower is the complex of factors, of conditions. And so it may be said
of any event.
What is important in thinking about cause is to know what we are doing
if we take some single factor to be the cause of an event. We must try to
know how the factor we have selected is related to other factors. Or if we
take a group of factors to be the cause, we must try to know what relation
they bear to each other and to the event. And this leads us to the distinction,
discussed above, between two kinds of condition.
ANALYSIS AND EXPOSITORY DESCRIPTION 115
SUFFICIENT CONDITION AND NECESSARY CONDITION
There are two kinds of condition, SUFFICIENT CONDITION and
NECESSARY CONDITION.
Let us take a situation in which the event B occurs. In this situa-
tion X is a factor, a condition. The condition X is a sufficient con-
dition if, other things being the same, B occurs whenever X is
present. But suppose that B occurs on some occasions when X is
not present. For example, the bell of our experiment might be
heard when some other gas than air was present in the jar. In that
case the air is a sufficient condition, but it is not necessary: some
other gas will do. Or to take another example, we may say that
whenever we do not bank the furnace at night, the fire goes out.
Not banking the furnace is, then, a sufficient condition. But it is
not a necessary condition. The furnace may also go out if the
damper is closed or if there is not enough fuel.
To illustrate a necessary condition, we may take a situation in
which B never occurs when the condition Y is absent. It is neces-
sary for Y to be present for B to occur. Thus we may say that nutri-
tion is a necessary condition of human life, or that fuel is a nec-
essary condition for the functioning of the furnace.
But we can have a condition that is necessary and not sufficient.
To have the spark plugs in order is a necessary condition for the
running of our automobile. But this is not a sufficient condition.
Among other things, we must have the battery connected. Nor is
nutrition a sufficient condition of human life. Many other condi-
tions must prevail at the same time for life to exist.
THE PRINCIPLE OF UNIFORMITY
When we say that A is the cause of B, we are not merely refer-
ring to the particular case of a particular A and a particular B.
We are also implying that a general principle exists, that under the
same circumstances any A would cause a B. We imply a principle
of uniformity behind the particular case. Let us take a simple
instance:
Tom asks, "Why did Jane behave so strangely last night at
dinner?"
Jack replies, "Because she was mad at her husband/'
Tom asks, "How do you know?"
116 EXPOSITION
Jack replies, "That's the way she always behaves when she gets
mad at him."
Tom asks, "You must have been around the family a lot?"
Jack replies, "Sure, I lived in the house for a year."
When Jack says that the cause of Jane's conduct was her anger
at her husband he is not merely commenting on the particular
instance. And Tom's further question elicits the fact that a principle
of uniformity is involved: Jane behaves this way every time she
gets angry with her husband. The principle here may not be one
on which we can depend with any great degree of certainty. On
some future occasion she may not merely be short with her husband
at dinner but may kick the cat, get a divorce, or shoot her husband
in the shoulder with a Smith and Wesson .38. But past observation
gives us some degree of probability that when Jane is angry with
her husband she merely behaves in a certain way at dinner, that a
principle of uniformity is involved.
The same principle is involved in what we call a law of nature.
A chemist says that when we ignite hydrogen in the presence of
oxygen we will get water, H2O. The element hydrogen and the
element oxygen will always behave the same way under specified
conditions. At least we believe that to be true because the two ele-
ments have always behaved that way in the past. We must appeal
to experience and to a number of instances.
Furthermore, the principle of uniformity refers only to the essen-
tial characteristics of the situation. For instance, it doesn't matter
whether the laboratory worker igniting hydrogen in the presence
of oxygen is a Catholic or a Jew, a Republican or a Democrat, a
Chinese or a Greek. Or to take Charles Lamb's story of the boy who
accidentally discovered how to roast a pig by burning down a house,
the boy had not isolated the essential characteristic of the situation:
he had not learned that he didn't have to burn down a house every
time he wanted roast pig but could make a small fire in the yard.
He had not isolated the essential characteristic of fire that would
do the roasting.
Or let us examine the treatment of the sick in a certain primitive
tribe. The medicine man undertakes to cure the patient by a draught
of a brew, the sacrifice of three cocks, and a dance around the pallet.
In a fair number of instances the patient recovers. A modern phy-
sician examining the situation regards the sacrifice and dancing as
ANALYSIS AND EXPOSITORY DESCRIPTION 117
irrelevant to a cure. But he analyzes the brew and discovers that
one of the plants always present has a purgative effect. He has
located the essential characteristic, and now only has to persuade
the tribe that a dose of castor oil is cheaper, quicker, and better for
stomach-ache than the medicine man's ritual. The principle of uni-
formity applies to the essential characteristic, the effect of castor oil
on the human body.
REASONING ABOUT CAUSE
How do we reason about the cause-and-effect relation in a situa-
tion?
To begin with we must keep in mind two primary notions:
1. A cannot be the cause of B if A is ever absent when B is
present.
2. A cannot be the cause of B if B is ever absent when A is
present.
This is but another way of saying that, under a given set of
circumstances, A and B are uniformly related.
Let us notice the phrase, "under a given set of circumstances."
It is relatively easy in a laboratory to control the circumstances of
an experiment, and to repeat the experiment any number of times
in the same circumstances. This gives the experimenter the chance
to try different combinations of factors until he has isolated the
one factor or the group of factors which he can regard as a cause.
If, for example, his situation has factors A, X, Y, and Z as possible
causes for the effect B, he can show by a process of elimination
that A will cause B, and that X, Y, and Z will not.
But it is hard to control the circumstances outside of the labora-
tory. And many events in the outside world that we want to ex-
plain cannot be repeated at will. We must examine the cases we
have and try to make sense of them. Furthermore, many events are
enormously complicated. More than one factor contributes to the
effect, and we have a complex and not a simple cause. Situations
involving human behavior are difficult to treat in terms of cause
and effect, but we are constantly making the effort despite the com-
plexity of factors involved. The advertising man, the politician, the
teacher, the mother of a family, the sociologist, the historian— they
are all trying to reason about human behavior. We must make the
118 EXPOSITION
effort, even if we know that we can scarcely hope for a full measure
of success.
Even if we cannot hope for full success in dealing with compli-
cated situations we can at least reduce our margin of error by
remembering certain things. First, we can examine the situation to
try to see what is essential in it. In every event there are certain
factors that are not relevant to the event, things that are merely
associated with it. We must rule those factors out of our considera-
tion.
For an example, we can take the following passage:
Whenever I see the movement of a locomotive I hear the whistle and
see the valves opening and wheels turning; but I have no right to con-
clude that the whistling and the turning of wheels are the cause of the
movement of the engine.
The peasants say that a cold wind blows in late spring because the
oaks are budding, and really every spring cold winds do blow when
the oak is budding. But I do not know what causes the cold winds to
blow when the oak buds unfold, I cannot agree with the peasants that
the unfolding of the oak buds is the cause of the cold wind, for the force
of the wind is beyond the influence of the buds. I see only a coincidence
of occurrences such as happens with all the phenomena of life, and I
see that however much and however carefully I observe the hands of the
watch, and the valves and wheels of the engine, and the oak, I shall
not discover the cause of the bells ringing, the engine moving, or of the
winds of spring. To do that I must entirely change my point of view and
study the laws of the movement of steam, of the bells, and of the wind.
—LEO TOLSTOY: War and Peace, Book XI, Chap. 1.
The fact that something is merely associated with something else
in time does not mean that it is to be regarded as either cause or
effect of the thing. In fact, one of the commonest failures in reason-
ing about cause and effect is to assume that if something comes
after something else it is to be regarded as the effect. The Russian
peasant in Tolstoy's novel thinks the cold wind is the effect of the
budding of the oak because it comes after it. To avoid such an
error, we must try to find the essential characteristic in the situa-
tion we are studying.
We must remember, too, that we are concerned with a principle
of uniformity. That means that we must consider more than one
case. We must check other situations which seem similar to our
ANALYSIS AND EXPOSITORY DESCRIPTION 119
situation in order to find what is constant from one to the other.
For example, if a historian should wish to find what situations pro-
voke revolutions, he would study as many revolutions as possible
to locate the common factors. Then he might venture a conclusion.
But studying one revolution would scarcely give him grounds fot
a conclusion. When we try to find the cause of a given effect, we
appeal to what we know about uniformities beyond the particular
situation.
We must remember that we are dealing with a complex of
factors. Therefore we must not be too ready to seize on one
factor as the cause. We must analyze as fully as possible the factors
involved and try to see what group of factors must be present for
our effect to take place. In situations involving human behavior,
for example, a historical event, we may have difficulty distinguish-
ing between factors that are relevant to the event and factors that
are present as mere background. If we can accomplish this much,
we have done a great deal. Then if we discuss some single factor
or group of factors as cause, we must remember the relation of
that factor or group of factors to the other factors present.
One last caution: in studying a situation we must try to be system-
atic. In the foregoing discussion of cause many of the ideas have
probably struck the reader as something he already knew. He has
known them. He has been making judgments of cause and effect
all his life— in fishing and hunting, in games, in gardening, in labora-
tory work, in crossing the street. Being acquainted with the ideas
is not, however, quite enough. One must make a practice of apply-
ing them systematically to a situation. If the reader can think
straight about a problem of cause and effect, then it will be easy
for him to write well about it. And to think straight, he must be
systematic in applying ideas (see Appendix on Causal Analysis,
p. 475).
EXPOSITORY METHODS AND THEIR USES
In this chapter we have considered various expository methods
in relatively pure form, for example, definition by itself, or illustra-
tion by itself. But in actual practice the methods are often mixed.
We move from one to another as the occasion demands. This is
only natural, for the methods are methods of thought and in treat-
120 EXPOSITION
ing the same subject we may be compelled to use different kinds
of thinking to reach a full understanding. Or in appealing to a single
interest we may have to use different methods. Suppose we are deal-
ing with the question, "What is it worth?'* We have to make an
evaluation of whatever the "it" happens to be. But to make an
evaluation we may have to classify the thing, then analyze it, then
think of its effects, then compare it with a standard we set up for
the kind of thing it is.
We must not be bound by the methods. We must see them as
tools which we use. And at any moment we should be able to use
whatever will accomplish the purpose at hand.
SUMMARY
EXPOSITION is the kind of discourse which explains or clarifies a
subject. It appeals to the understanding, and can be applied to
anything which challenges the understanding.
A piece of exposition may be regarded as the answer to a ques-
tion, whether or not the question has in reality been asked. In
giving a piece of exposition one should know what question, or
questions, he wishes to answer, what INTEREST he wishes to appeal
to. For example, "What is it?" "What does it mean?" "How is it put
together?" "How does it work?" "When did it exist or occur?" "What
is it worth?" If a writer wishes to appeal to more than one interest,
he should keep these various interests distinct and should establish
the relationship among them.
IDENTIFICATION and ILLUSTRATION are simple ways of answering
the question, "What is it?"
Identification is a kind of pointing by language, a way of locating
the subject in time and place, or in relation to some system. When
it becomes elaborate it tends to move over into other types of ex-
position, such as comparison or classification.
Illustration is the method employed when some class or group
is identified by giving a particular instance of the class or group.
The particular instance may be an object, an event, a person, an
idea— anything^ which may be conceived of as belonging to a certain
class or group. \
EXPOSITORY DESCRIPTION Or TECHNICAL DESCRIPTION is the kind of
description which does not aim at presenting a vivid impression of
SUMMARY 121
its subject, as does ordinary or SUGGESTIVE DESCRIPTION, but aims at
giving information about its subject. It is scientific rather than
artistic in its nature. GENERALIZED DESCRIPTION is expository descrip-
tion applied to a class.
EXPOSITORY NARRATION corresponds to ordinary narration as ex-
pository description corresponds to ordinary description. It is nar-
ration used to give information, and may be applied to a class to
give GENERALIZED NARRATION.
sin COMPARISON we clarify a subject by indicating similarities be-
tween two or more things, in CONTRAST by indicating differences;
Comparison and contrast as methods of exposition are most effective
when used systematically. This means that^they should represent
some purpose and should be undertaken in some area of interest)
Comparison and contrast may be organized in either of two ways.
We may fully present one item, and then fully present another. Or
we may present one part of one item and then a part of the other,
until we have touched on all the parts relevant to our comparison
or contrast. The methods, of course, may sometimes be mixed.\
(CLASSIFICATION and DIVISION are ways of thinking in terms of a
sysfem of classes. A class is a group whose members have significant
characteristics in common. What constitutes a significant character-
istic, however, may vary according to the interest involved. For
instance, a cosmetic-maker may classify women by complexion
and the secretary of a Y.W.C.A. by religious affiliation. A system
is a set of classes ranging from a most inclusive class down through
less and less inclusive classes. Division represents a downward
movement of subdivision by classes from a most inclusive class
through less and less inclusive classes. Classification, however, starts
with individuals, arranges them in groups, and then relates those
groups to more inclusive groups above. To be useful a scheme of
classes must conform to the following rules of division:
I. There can be only one principle of division applied at each
stage.
II. The subgroups under any group must exhaust that group.
III. The same principle of division that is applied in the first
stage must be continued through successive stages if such exist,/
(DEFINITION is one way to answer the question, "What is it?"
But strictly speaking, definition is of a word, or phrase, and
not of the thing indicated by the word or phrase. It is a way of
122 EXPOSITION
telling how properly to use the word or phrase. It sets the limit
of meaning. But a definition cannot be made without knowledge
of the thing behind the word. So the process of definition may lead
to an enlargement of understanding not only of the word but of
the thing referred to.
A definition has two parts, the element to be defined and the
element that defines. The elements are parts of an equation. That
is, one may be used for the other in a discourse without changing
the meaning.
The process of definition is the placing of the to-be-defined in a
group (called the GENUS) and the differentiating of it from other
members of the same group (SPECIES) by pointing out the qualities
which distinguish it (DIFFERENTIA).
Definition is not only of some term but is for somebody. The
audience must be considered, and the definition must refer to what
the audience knows or is willing to learn. The language and the
experience of the audience must be regarded. There must be a
common ground for the definition.
Once the common ground is established, there are certain princi-
ples to be regarded:
I. The to-be-defined must be equivalent to the definer.
II. The to-be-defined must not be part of the definer.
III. The definer must not be negative unless the to-be-defined is
negative.
For a complicated to-be-defined the simple definition may not be
satisfactory. It is sometimes impossible to appeal to a generally
accepted notion, and the writer must develop his own definition in
detail. For example, a word like democracy or liberty cannot be
defined simply. It requires an EXTENDED DEFINITION, a discussion.
The DERIVATION of a word is sometimes helpful in setting up a
definition, even when the application of the word has changed
during its history.)
ANALYSIS is the method of dividing into component parts. It can
be applied to anything that can be thought of as having parts. There
are two kinds of analysis, PHYSICAL ANALYSIS and CONCEPTUAL ANAL-
YSIS. In physical analysis some object is spatially separated into its
components, as when a clockmaker takes a clock apart. But things
like ideas and institutions cannot be dealt with except in the
mind, by the use of reason, as when we analyze the organization
SUMMARY 123
of a government. Conceptual analysis, the kind which is performed
in the mind and can be reported in words, is what concerns us here.
l^We can propose an analysis only if we regard the thing to be
analyzed as having a structure. A thing has a structure when its com-
ponents may be regarded not as assembled at random but as being
organized, as having necessary relations to each other. The same
thing may be regarded as being different kinds of structures. The
botanist regards the apple as one kind of structure, and the chemist,
as another. The same principle may apply to things which cannot
be physically analyzed, such as ideas or organizations.
Analysis when fully realized not only divides into parts but indi-
cates the relation among parts, their place in the structure. In fact,
we may regard a part as whatever can be described as having a
necessary place in a structure.
FUNCTIONAL ANALYSIS answers the question, "How does it work?"
It is concerned not primarily with the parts of a thing analyzed but
with the stages of some sequence. This means that functional
analysis is a kind of expository narration.
Functional analysis can be applied to anything which involves
a process: to the working of a mechanism or the working of an insti-
tution, to natural processes, such as the growth of a seed, or to
human processes, such as making or doing something.
CHRONOLOGICAL ANALYSIS is concerned with determining the stages
of an event when the event is one which cannot be treated as hav-
ing a function, for example, a historical event. It is a preliminary
step toward fuller understanding and interpretation.
CAUSAL ANALYSIS deals with the relation of cause and effect./
CAUSE is the kind of connection between events that enables us
to say that without event A, event B would not have come about,
and whenever you have A, you will have B.
The connection must be considered as relatively IMMEDIATE. In
one sense, the whole universe is a tissue of relationships and any-
thing, however remote, may be taken to be a "cause" of something
else. But only immediate connections tell us very much.
What we take to be the cause of an event may be dictated by
our INTEREST. A coroner investigating the death of a child would
state the cause as a fall from a stepladder, whereas the mother
might take her negligence to be the cause.
An event does not take place in complete isolation. Various fac-
124 EXPOSITION
tors constitute a setting for the event. A factor which, existing in
the situation, will permit the effect to appear is called a CONDITION,
There are two kinds of condition, SUFFICIENT CONDITION and NEC-
ESSARY CONDITION,
For example, take a situation in which the event B occurs and in
which the factor X is present as a condition. The condition X is
sufficient if, whenever X is present, B occurs. But in such an ex-
ample, if B still occurs with X absent and some other factor taking
its place, then X is not a necessary condition. A necessary condition
is one which must be present for the effect to take place.
When we speak of a cause we refer to some PRINCIPLE OF UNI-
FORMITY. Under the same circumstances the A would always cause
the B. This is the principle involved in what is called a law of
nature. Hydrogen ignited in the presence of oxygen always gives
us water.
To reason about cause, we must keep in mind two principles:
1. A cannot be the cause of B if A is ever absent when B is
present.
2. A cannot be the cause of B if B is ever absent when A is
present. That is, A and B are uniformly related.
CHAPTER
Argument
ARGUMENT is the kind of discourse used to make the audience
(reader or listener) think or act as the arguer desiresi It is some-
times said that the purpose of argument is not doublets just stated,
but single— in other words, that its purpose is to lead the audience
to act. In the final analysis there is justification for this view, for a
way of thinking means by implication a way of acting, and acting
is the fulfillment of a way of thinking.) As Justice Holmes says,
"Every idea is an incitement." But in practice we can distinguish
between the two purposes.
THE APPEAL OF ARGUMENT
It is sometimes said that argument may make either or both of
two appeals, the appeal to understanding and the appeal to emo-
tions, and that in appealing to the understanding, argument aims to
CONVINCE, and in appealing to the emotions, aims to PERSUADE) Here
we shall)take a stricter view, and (treat argument as an appeal to
the understanding. How, then, does it differ from other forms of
discourse, which also involve, in various ways, an appeal to the
understanding?
ARGUMENT AND CONFLICT
(Argument differs from the other kinds of discourse because of the
basic situation in which it originates. Argument implies conflict or
the possibility of conflict. We do not argue with a person who
126 ARGUMENT
already agrees with us, but with a person who is opposed to us or
who is undecided. Furthermore, argument implies a conflict be-
tween positions. We do not argue about a subject if only one posi-
tion can possibly be taken in regard to it. The arguer presumably
believes that his position is the only reasonable position, but by the
fact of arguing at all he recognizes that another position, no matter
how mistakenly, is held or may be held. The purpose of argument
is to resolve the conflict in which the argument originates. The
arguer argues to convince, to win.\
The situation of conflict distinguishes argument from the other
kinds of discourse, but in the course of achieving his purpose of
resolving the conflict the arguer may resort to the other kinds of
discourse, especially to exposition. In fact, if a dispute is really
based on the misunderstanding of a set of facts, mere exposition
may be enough to win the argument. Argument, like the other
kinds of discourse, rarely appears in an absolutely pure form. Here,
as in the other kinds of discourse, we define a particular piece of
speaking or writing in terms of its dominant intention. The domi-
nant intention of a piece of argument, no matter how much descrip-
tion, narration, or exposition it may use, is to make the audience
change its mind or conduct.
rAigument, either as the dominant intention or a subsidiary in-
tention, may appear in many forms. It appears in conversation, in
public addresses, in the lawyer's presentation of his case, in feature
articles, in editorials, in textbooks on any subject, in essays, in
poetry, in history, in drama, in fiction. It properly appears wherever
the possibility of conflict between positions appears. The salesman
trying to sell a car uses argument. The historian trying to prove
that a certain event took place at a certain time uses argument.
The congressman speaking on behalf of a bill uses argument. The
dramatist setting two characters into conflict may use argument.
But no matter what form argument takes, the general principles
involved remain the same) In this chapter we shall try to examine
some of the principles. With many of them we are already ac-
quainted, for in so far as we have been able to argue reasonably
we have always been thinking in accordance with them.
ARGUMENT AND THE UNDERSTANDING 127
ARGUMENT AND THE UNDERSTANDING
Argument gains its ends by an appeal to the understanding, to
man's reasoning nature. We ordinarily recognize this fact when we
say of a speaker, "He didn't really have an argument; he merely
carried the audience by appealing to their emotions." Such a speaker
has persuaded but he has not convinced. The advertiser who puts
the picture of a sweet-faced, gray-haired grandmother beside the
picture of his ice box is not appealing to reason but to emotion.
He may have a good sales argument in favor of his ice box on
grounds of economy, efficiency, or convenience, but he is not pre-
senting it. The political speaker who screams, "Every red-blooded
American will vote for John Jones, the friend of the people!" is not
offering an argument any more than the defense lawyer who points
to the accused murderer and, with tears in his voice, demands of
the jury, "This man before you, this simple man who loves his
children, who prays for them every night— would you send him to
the gallows? You fathers and mothers, would you make those poor
babes fatherless?"' The advertiser may sell the ice box) the politician
may get the votes, the lawyer may get an acquittal for the accused
;ty the appeal to the emotions, but in no case has an argument been
offered.N
The objection may be raised: "What does it matter Jf the adver-
tiser ,or politician or lawyer 'didn't offer an argument? ^The ice box
was good— or the politician was honest and able— or the accused was
innocent." 'If the ice box was good, etc., then the question is merely
a practical one: Is the simple appeal to the emotions the best and
safest way of achieving the good purpose? Perhaps not, for if an
audience becomes aware that no real argument is being offered,
that there is only an attempt to play on its emotions, it may feel
that it is being treated like a child, that proper respect is not being
paid to its powers of reason, that it is being duped and betrayed.
So the appeal to the emotions may backfire, and regardless of the
merits of the case there may be blind resentment instead of blind
agreement.
( But another objection, may be raised: "Suppose the advertiser
or politician or lawyer did gain his purpose, no matter what the
merit of the case.\He won, didn't he? And isn't the object to win?"
128 ARGUMENT
If the ice box was not good, the question now becomes a moral one-.
Is a man entitled to practice a fraud merely because he has the
ability to do so— in this instance to sway people by the appeal to
the emotions? But the same question would apply if the man did
not appeal to the emotions of his audience but offered them mis-
leading arguments.^
If the appeal to the understanding is the appeal of argument,
then what becomes of the appeal to the emotions? Nothing becomes
of it. It is still a very important consideration. It remains important
even in relation to argument. If we have a good case on logical
grounds, we may still lose it because we present it untactfully, be-
cause we do not know how to make the most of the temperament
and attitude of the audience. Frequently the problem may be to
"persuade" the audience to give our logical case an examination.
Persuasion begins in the attempt to find common ground in atti-
tudes, feelings, sentiments. And only if we find such common ground
as a starting point can we ordinarily hope, in the end, to win an
agreement about the matter of argument. Persuasion is very impor-
tant in the strategy of argument,) and at the end of this chapter we
shall discuss it. But for the present we shall consider questions
arising from the consideration of argument as an appeal to the
understanding.
WHAT ARGUMENT IS ABOUT
What is argument about? People argue about anything, we may
answer. But that is not a specific answer.
To illustrate:
John comes upon a group obviously engaged in a heated argu-
ment. "What are you arguing about?"
Jack answers: "Football."
John asks: "What about football?"
Jack answers: "About who won the Army-Navy game in 1936."
John laughs and says: "For the Lord's sake, what are you wasting
your breath for? Why don't you telephone the information bureau
at the newspaper and find out?"
John is right. When a fact can be established by investigation,
there is no need to establish it by argument. Why argue about the
length of a piece of string if there is a ruler handy?
WHAT ARGUMENT IS ABOUT 129
Or again suppose John asks his first question, and Jack replies,
"Football."
John asks: "What about football?"
Jack answers: "Which is the better game, football or basketball?"
John laughs again, and says: "For the Lord's sake, what are you
wasting your breath for? You can't settle that. A guy just likes the
game he likes. Take me, I like tennis better than either of them."
John is right again. An argument about a matter of mere taste
is useless, and in so far as the word "better" x in the above conver-
sation merely means what one happens to like, there is no proper
matter for argument.
Anyone sees immediately the absurdity of an argument between
two children about whether candy is better than pie. Such a dis-
agreement permits of no conclusion. No process of reason can lead
to an agreement between the taste buds of Sally's mouth and the
taste buds of Susie's mouth, for both sets of taste buds give "truth"
for the person to whom they belong. But a doctor could argue that
spinach is better than either candy or pie for the child. He can do
so because he has a definite objective standard, the child's health,
to which he can appeal.
In other words, a matter of absolute taste is not a matter for
argument. Only a matter of judgment is a matter for argument. We
must remember, however, that there is no single sharp and fast line
1 Expressions like "better," "more desirable," "to be preferred," "greater,"
"good," "acceptable," and so forth, may indicate mere preference, an un-
arguable question of taste, and in ordinary usage this is frequently so. When
dealing with such an expression, one should ask questions which will determine
whether or not the word has an objective content. Take the simple statement:
"That is a good horse." We immediately have to ask, "Good for what?" For
draying, for racing, for the bridle path, for the show ring, for the range? Or
does the speaker merely mean that the horse is gentle, responsive, and affec-
tionate, a sort of pet? By forcing the question we may discover the real meaning
behind the original statement. But sometimes there is no meaning beyond the
question of taste. Somebody says: "Jake is a good guy." If you force the
question here and get the reply, "Oh, he's just regular, I like to be around
him," you discover that the statement has no objective content. It tells you
nothing about Jake. As the philosopher Spinoza puts it, Paul's opinion about
Peter tells more about Paul than about Peter.
Useful forcing questions to apply to such expressions are: What is it good,
desirable, etc. for? What is it good in relation to? Is the standard invoked
objective and therefore worth discussing?
130 ARGUMENT
between matters of taste and matters of judgment. In between obvi-
ous extremes, there is a vast body of matters about which it is
difficult to be sure, and each question must be examined on its own
merits.
Let us take, for example, an argument about whether Words-
worth or Longfellow is the finer poet. Are we dealing with a matter
of taste or a matter of judgment?
If one person says, "I don't care what other people think, I just
like Longfellow better," he is treating the whole business as a matter
of taste. He is making no appeal to reason. But if another person
tries to set up a standard for poetic excellence in general and tests
the poets by that standard, he is making an appeal to judgment. He
might say, for instance, that Wordsworth has greater originality in
subject matter, has more serious ideas, has had more influence on
later poets, and uses fresher and more suggestive metaphors. He
might not win agreement, but he is at least using the method of
argument, is trying to appeal to reason in terms of an objective
standard.
But let us come back to our original illustration. We notice that
in both instances when Jack says that he and his friends are arguing
about football, John asks: "What about football?"
John is bound to ask this question if he has any real curiosity
about the argument. For football, in itself, is no matter for argu-
ment. It may provide the material for an argument, but that is all.
There must be something "about" football which is the matter for
argument. So John asks the question.
Jack answers: "Oh, about the Michigan-Purdue game last Satur-
day."
John says: "Gosh, but you are thick-headed. What about the
game?"
Jack answers: "About Randall and Bolewiensky."
John says: "Well, I give up! What about Randall and Bolewien-
sky?"
Jack answers: "About who is the more useful player/'
John says: "Well, it is sure time you were telling me."
John's thick-headed friend has finally managed to state what the
argument is about. If there is an argument here, somebody holds
that Randall is a more useful player than Bolewiensky and some-
body denies it. In other words, the argument is about a PROPOSITION.
WHAT ARGUMENT IS ABOUT 131
A proposition is what an argument is about, and is the only thing
an argument can be about. The argument develops when some-
body affirms a proposition and somebody else denies it.
THE PROPOSITION: TWO KINDS
A proposition is the declaration of a judgment. It is a statement
that can be believed, doubted, or disbelieved. A proposition states
something as a fact or states that some line of action should or
should not be followed. So we have PROPOSITIONS OF FACT and
PROPOSITIONS OF POLICY. A lawyer arguing that his client has an
alibi for a certain time is dealing with a proposition of fact. A bond
salesman trying to sell a bond to an investor is dealing with a
proposition of policy. The typical statement of a proposition of fact
is is or does. The typical statement of a proposition of policy is
should.}
( The^mere presence in a statement, however, of is or does cannot
be taken to indicate a proposition of fact. For instance, the follow-
ing statement uses is:
It is desirable to abolish the poll tax.
But the statement means that the poll tax should be abolished. It
indicates a line of action. Therefore, it is a proposition of policy.
Likewise, the mere presence of should does not necessarily indi-
cate a proposition of policy. For instance:
Any experienced reader of poetry should regard Wordsworth as
a better poet than Longfellow.
This statement really means that any experienced reader of poetry
does regard Wordsworth as a better poet than Longfellow. It is a
statement of fact that may be believed, doubted, or disbelieved.
So the typical form of a proposition can be disguised, and one
must look to the fundamental intention of a statement arid not to
its accidental phrasing.
THE STATEMENT OF THE PROPOSITION
v In formal debate the proposition is ordinarily given as a resolu-
tion: Resolved, That the United States should adopt free trade.
132 ARGUMENT
Or: Resolved, That the language requirements for the B.A. degree
should be abolished.
Formal debates, however, make up only a fraction of all argu-
ment. We find argument in a hundred other places— wherever any-
one is trying to lead us to accept something as a fact or to accept
a line of action. Ordinarily the proposition underlying an argument
is not formally stated, and sometimes may not be stated at all. For
instance, the arguer may refrain from giving the proposition because
he is sure the audience already grasps it, or because he wishes to
lead the audience by degrees to discover it for themselves. In cer-
tain kinds of propaganda, for example, the arguer deliberately con-
ceals the proposition in order to deceive the audience.
If an arguer wishes to think straight he ought to be able to state
his proposition. If he is to be effective he must know exactly what
is at stake in the argument, and the best way to be sure that he
knows what is at stake is to frame the proposition, at least for him-
self. And the proposition should be single, clear, and unprejudiced.
THE SINGLE PROPOSITION
A proposition should be single. It should not express more than
one idea for argument. We must fix here on the phrase, "one idea
for argument." Even the proposition, "This rose is red," expresses
more than one idea. It says that the "this" is a rose, and it says that
the "this" is red. But obviously it intends to present only one point
for argument—the redness. Presumably the idea that the "this" is
a rose is expected to pass without question. s
. It is always possible, of course, that someone may challenge an
idea which is not put forward for argument but is implied in the
proposition. In such a case the argument then turns on a new prop-
osition. For instance, suppose I say, "The whale is the most intelli-
gent fish." Obviously, I intend the argument to turn on the question
of the intelligence of the whale. But a zoologist may challenge an-
other idea of my proposition by saying that a whale is not a fish.
This may start another argument based on the idea in my original
proposition that a whale is a fish. Or I may take the zoologist's word
that the whale is a mammal, and restate my original proposition:
"A whale is the most intelligent creature living in water/')
( To say that a proposition should be single does not "mean that
a total argument may not involve more than one arguable idea.
THE STATEMENT OF THE PROPOSITION 133
Many arguable ideas may appear in the course of an argument. But
each idea should be treated separately to avoid confusion. The dis-
cussion of this question will be postponed, however, until we treat
the organization of argument.
THE CLEAR PROPOSITION
A clear proposition says what we mean)) But it is not easy to say
what we mean. Most words as we ordinarily use them do not have
very precise limits. Even words which refer to an objective physical
situation may be vague. How "tall" is a tall man? Five feet, eleven?
Six feet? Six feet, three? Any of these men would be well above
average height, but there is a great range here. So we may say
"tallish," "tall," or "very tall" to indicate the scale; but even then
we might hesitate about the choice of a word. Or (take the word
"bald." How much hair must be lacking before we can say that a
man is bald? The word does not fix an objective standard although
it does refer to an objective situation?1
(The problem is even more complicated when we come to words
like "good," "cute," or "progressive" which do not refer to objective
physical situations. What is really said in the proposition, "Mary
is the cutest girl in town"? The word "cute" indicates some lauda-
tory or appreciative attitude on the part of the speaker, but it does
not tell us very much about Mary^ Or if we hear, "Mr. Black is a
progressive citizen," what are we to understand? That Black works
hard, pays his taxes, treats his family decently, saves money, and
stays out of jail? Or that he is interested in improving the local
school, bringing new factories to town, and planting flowers in the
park? Or that he has a certain political philosophy? Such a word
tells us very little about Mr. Black. It seems to indicate some gen-
eral approval on the part of the speaker, but we don't know exactly
what, and the odds are that he does not know either. The word is
vague.
Let us take another example of vagueness, the proposition, "Soviet
Russia is more democratic than England."
A person defending the above proposition might argue that
Russia is more democratic than England because in its system
there are no hereditary titles, because great fortunes cannot be
accumulated, and because the worker is glorified. A person attack-
ing the proposition might argue that England is more democratic
134 ARGUMENT
because actual political power is in the hands of leaders chosen by
the majority of voters in free elections, because there is freedom
of speech, and because a man can choose his occupation. The word
"democratic" is vague, and the two disputants are using it in dif-
ferent senses. They can have no argument on the original proposi-
tion until they have agreed on a definition of democracy. And this,
of course, may mean that the argument shifts to a new proposition:
"Democracy is so-and-so."
Many words, like "democracy," have no generally accepted
meaning to which we can refer. Even the dictionary does not help
us much with such a word. It can give us authority for a word like
"horse," for to zoology a horse is a horse wherever we find it. As
for "democracy," the dictionary may give us some idea of several
more or less well-accepted senses and may start us on the way to
a clear statement, but the dictionary definition can rarely be full
enough to cover the meaning of such a word as it will appear in
an argument. In framing a proposition we should try to fix the
definition ( pp. 83-91 ) of any significant word, to determine exactly
what we mean by it, and then we should stick to that definition.
Until both parties to an argument agree about terms, there can be
no fruitful meeting, indeed, no meeting.
THE UNPREJUDICED PROPOSITION
/A proposition should not only be single and clear. It should also
be unprejudiced. That is, it should not smuggle into the proposition
anything which implies a foregone conclusion to the argument.
The following is not an unprejudiced proposition: "The unsanitary
condition of the slaughter pens at Morgansville is detrimental to
the public health." It is prejudiced, for the adjective unsanitary
really means "detrimental to the public health." If we accept that
word into the proposition, there is nothing arguable: the point of
the argument has been already settled. The question has been
begged, to use the phrase ordinarily applied to such a situation.
HISTORY OF THE QUESTION
' We have to understand our proposition before we can argue
about it. Some propositions can be understood immediately, but
some can only be understood if we go into the HISTORY OF THE
HISTORY OF THE QUESTION 135
QUESTION— that is, if we inform ourselves about the circumstances
which brought the argument into being. For instance, in a debate
about tariffs some knowledge of how they have worked in this
country and elsewhere would be almost essential to a full under-
standing of what is really at stake at the present moment. Even a
matter of definition of words in a proposition may depend on our
knowledge of the history of the question. For similar reasons it is
important to understand the OCCASION OF THE DISCUSSION— that is,
what makes the argument significant at the present moment.)
ISSUES
But once we understand our proposition we are still not ready
to argue it. Common sense tells us that there may be many argu-
ments for and against a given proposition. Though the proposition
properly stated is single, reasons for and against it may be plural.
The single idea of the proposition may raise various questions for
controversy. When a question is ESSENTIAL to the proposition, we
call it an ISSUE. And any question is essential if its defeat means
the defeat of the proposition. An issue, then, is a point of funda-
mental importance in the argument, and the affirmative side, the
side supporting the proposition, must win on all issues in order to
win on the proposition.
Let us take a simple example. The constitution of a certain
college honor society, which we shall call the Corinthians, specifies
that a student to be eligible for membership must (1) have a scho-
lastic average of B or above, (2) have won a letter in at least one
college sport, (3) have made some substantial contributions to the
general good of the college community, and (4) have conducted
himself as a gentleman during the period of his college career.
William Smith is proposed for election. His sponsor argues that
Smith has made an A-average, has won the state junior champion-
ship in swimming, has brought about a reform of the student coun-
cil system by his editorials in the college paper, and is a person of
high character and good manners. Smith seems certain of election
until one Corinthian refers to the constitution and regretfully points
out that Smith cannot fulfill requirement 2. "But he is an excellent
athlete," the sponsor retorts; "he can out-swim anybody in this
school/'
136 ARGUMENT
"That's not the point," the other Corinthian replies. "The consti-
tution explicitly states that to be eligible a student must have won
a letter in at least one sport. And Rutherford College has no swim-
ming team, and therefore does not give a letter for swimming/*
If the constitution is taken seriously, Smith's eligibility must be
denied. The proposition is that Smith is eligible for membership
in the Corinthians, and the constitution is the source of authority
for the requirements for eligibility. Each of those requirements is
essential, and in the argument about Smith's eligibility would there-
fore properly be an issue.
ADMITTED ISSUES AND CRUCIAL ISSUES
It is important to notice here that the opposition does not contest
Smith's eligibility on every point. It admits that Smith has made
a scholastic average of B or above, has made some substantial con-
tribution to the general good of the college community, and has
conducted himself as a gentleman. The proposition really depends
on the college letter in athletics. Now in most arguments, some
issues are uncontested. These are called ADMITTED ISSUES. The re-
maining issues (or issue) are called CRUCIAL ISSUES. They are the
points on which the real argument takes place.
LOCATING THE ISSUES: ANALYSIS OF THE PROPOSITION
Let us return for a moment to the case of Smith's eligibility.
Suppose someone says: "Well, Smith ought to be elected, and if a
man like Smith can't get in under the present constitution, then
the constitution ought to be changed." That may be true, but that
is another problem, and would have to be considered on its own
merits. This situation is similar to certain cases at law in which one
may feel that the letter of the law defeats justice. For example,
a defending lawyer in a first-degree murder case may argue that
his client had suffered intolerable provocation, that the victim had
grievously slandered the defendant's wife, and that the defendant,
a simple man raised in rather primitive surroundings, had thought
killing the slanderer to be the only course of honor and decency.
The prosecution argues that this is no issue in the case, because
the legal definition of murder is such and such, and makes 110 recog-
nition of the provocation of slander, or of the personal background
of the accused. The prosecutor is, of course, right. The law defines
ISSUES 137
the issues by which the proposition, that so-and-so is guilty of
murder in the first degree, must stand or fall. If the jury does
acquit the defendant, it does so out of sentiment, prejudice, or some
notion of justice which is inconsistent with the law.
The case of William Smith or of the murderer is very simple, for
the issues are defined beforehand by a document— eligibility for
membership by the constitution of the Corinthians, or murder by
the law. In many arguments, however, we must locate the issues
for ourselves. We do this by making an ANALYSIS of the proposition.
In making the analysis of a proposition we do not arbitrarily
decide that certain questions are issues. They are implied in the
proposition, and we must locate them, or discover them. In a rough-
and-tumble argument, undertaken without preparation, two reason-
ably intelligent opponents will eventually isolate at least some of
the issues; but in the clash of argument, issues develop more or less
hit-or-miss. If there is time for preparation, as there usually is in
writing a theme or an article, we should try to determine the issues
beforehand.
The first step in this process is to set up all the possible argu-
ments on each side of the proposition. In first draft such a list may
be a very crude affair, with important and unimportant items Jum-
bled together, but it will give a kind of preview of the problem.
Even in this form, however, we can see that arguments tend to
go in pairs, a negative as opposed to an affirmative. Not all argu-
ments may, however, be paired. The negative may admit certain
points, and naturally does not offer arguments in regard to them.
Let us set up such a preliminary list for the proposition of policy
that the United States should adopt universal military training.
AFFIRMATIVE (A) NEGATIVE (N)
1. There is a dangerous inter-
national situation and the
United States has no clearly
defined policy to meet it.
2. The present army of the United
States will be inadequate for
a major conflict as soon as the
atomic bomb is possessed by
other nations.
138
ARGUMENT
AFFIRMATIVE (A)
3. Within a few years our trained
reserves will be over-age.
4. The next war will probably
move rapidly to a decision and
will give no time to train and
equip an army.
5. The tensions in international
relations at present are serious
and a war may come within a
few years.
6. Our possible enemies are main-
taining large armies.
7. Military training gives young
men a sense of responsibility
and discipline which is valu-
able in any occupation of
later life.
8. The United Nations does not
guarantee our safety.
9. No cost is too great to pay for
our national safety.
10. Military training does not fos-
ter immorality.
11. Military training will produce
specialists and even if the next
war is a war fought with
atomic bombs, robot planes,
etc., trained men are required
to operate such mechanisms
and ground troops will always
be required to occupy and
hold territory.
NEGATIVE (N)
No nation can now afford to under-
take a war, least of all the nations
which might be arrayed against
us. Further, there are no insupera-
ble difficulties to peace.
If other nations are assured of our
good faith by our relative dis-
armament, they will reduce their
own forces.
The time spent in military train-
ing seriously impairs the education
of young men, and reduces their
efficiency in later life.
The United Nations has not been
given a fair trial; we must show
our good faith in it.
The country is burdened with a
great national debt and needs to
practice economy if our system is
to survive.
Military life fosters immorality.
The next war will be a war of
specialists, and a large body of
ordinary troops would be useless.
ISSUES 139
AFFIRMATIVE (A) NEGATIVE (N)
12. Universal military training does Universal military training would
not aggravate the international signify to the world that we had
situation. Instead our pre- no faith in the possibility of peace
paredness would tend to pre- and would precipitate an arma-
vent a conflict. ment race.
13. Victory would be possible in The next war, if it comes, will be
a future war, for there is a war of total destruction; there-
reason to believe that defenses fore the only hope of survival for
can be developed against the civilization is to bend every effort
new methods of attack. for peace by developing a world
federation or a world government.
This list is not systematic. The items are jotted down as they
occur in a first survey of the subject. So in revising the list we must
try to put things together that are closely related in meaning. For
instance, if we finally keep 7 and 10, we must put them in some
relation to each other, for they both bear on the effect of military
training on the education and the morality of young men.
Order, however, is not the only thing we must consider. There
are four other considerations which we can introduce at this stage.
I. Are the arguments all significant?
II. Do they cover the subject?
III. Do they overlap each other?
IV. Does any really include more than one idea?
With these considerations in mind we can see that 7, 9, and 10
do not bear on the proposition. They raise questions concerning
the effects on education (7) and morality (10) of military training,
and of the cost (9) of the military training. Obviously, if the na-
tional survival is at stake (and that is what is implied in the word
should of the proposition), these questions are not significant.
Upon inspection we may discover that the issues do not cover
the subject. First, we may notice that, though 2, 3, and 4 imply the
need for military policy, no such argument is stated. And certainly
such an important point should be stated. Second, we discover that
the question of pacifism is nowhere mentioned. Pacifism is a sweep-
ing and important argument, either when grounded on the notion
that all war is sinful and is never justifiable or when grounded on
140 ARGUMENT
the idea that nonviolence eventually defeats violence. A person
arguing the negative side might not believe in pacifism and there-
fore would not wish to raise the objection, but anyone intending
to support the affirmative side would have to include the argument
for the sake of completeness. He cannot be sure what arguments
may appear.
As for overlapping among arguments, we find several instances.
Items 1A and 5A overlap, for they both affirm the danger in the
existing situation. Furthermore, 2A, 3A, and 4A might be fused,
for they are closely related as arguments for the notion that a mili-
tary policy is needed. And if items 7 and 10 had not already been
excluded as not significant, they should be fused.
Last we find that item 1A really includes two ideas, one concern-
ing the danger in the international situation and the other concern-
ing the lack of any policy, either political or military, to combat the
danger. The same is true of 13N, which states two ideas, one that
another war would destroy all civilization, the other that the hope
for survival lies in a world federation or a world government.
If now we try to systematize what we have, we get something
like the following:
AFFIRMATIVE NEGATIVE
1. There is a dangerous inter-
national situation.
2. The United States has no pol-
icy to meet the danger, either
political or military. (1, 8) 2
3. There is need for a military pol- The need is for a political policy,
icy, for (a) as soon as the secret
of the atomic bomb is in the
hands of other nations, our
present force will be inadequate
for a major conflict, (b) within
a few years our trained reserves
will be over-age, and (c) the
speed with which the next war
would move to a decision would
give no time to train and equip
an army. (2, 3, 4)
2 Numbers in parentheses refer to numbers in first draft of possible issues.
ISSUES
141
AFFIRMATIVE
4. Our possible enemies are main-
taining large armies. (6)
5. Military training would help to
prepare specialists, and even if
the next war is fought with
atomic bombs, robot planes,
etc., large numbers of men are
required to operate such mech-
anisms and ground troops will
always be required to occupy
and hold territory. (11)
6. Our preparedness would tend
to prevent a conflict.
7. Victory would be possible in a
future war, for there is reason
to believe that defenses can be
developed against the new
methods of attack. (13)
8. We can hope for the develop-
ment of international safe-
guards, but we cannot be sure
of them at this date. (8)
9. There are theoretical arguments
against pacifism even on re-
ligious grounds. (For instance,
most churches do not preach
pacifism as such.) If we take
the argument that nonviolence
always conquers violence in
the end, we find no evidence
for this in history. In any case
the argument for pacifism is ir-
relevant on practical grounds
because in neither this country
nor any other are there many
pacifists.
NEGATIVE
If other nations are assured of our
good faith, they will reduce their
armaments. (6)
The next war will be a war oi
specialists, and military training
would not produce them. Further-
more, in such a war, large bodies
of troops would be useless.
Universal military training would
signify that we had no faith in
peace and would precipitate an
armament race. (12)
The next war, if it comes, will be
a war of total destruction for all
involved. (13)
The only hope for survival lies in
world federation or world govern-
ment. (13)
War is morally wrong and should
not be resorted to for any reason.
But even if war were not wrong
on moral grounds, pacifism would
still be a good policy, for non-
violence always conquers violence
in the end.
142 ARGUMENT
We see here that some new material has been introduced. Since
a statement has emerged that there is need for a military policy (3),
the negative counters by stating the need for a political policy
instead. And the arguments for and against pacifism now appear
in the list. We also see that there are no negative arguments for
items 1 and 2. The negative admits these points.
STOCK QUESTIONS
The second draft is more systematic and complete than the first.
But we can further simplify the treatment and more definitely locate
the issues. We need to carry on our analysis and find the big, main
issues under which merely particular arguments can be organized.
We are here dealing with what is called a proposition of policy,
which means that the argument is about the best way of accom-
plishing some end; and in arguments of this sort there are cer-
tain STOCK QUESTIONS which can be applied to the material as a
kind of guide for locating issues. These stock questions help us,
first, to simplify our material, and second, to establish the essenti-
ality of our issues.3
I. Is there a need for some change?
II. Will the policy suggested by the proposition be effective?
III. Are the possible benefits of this policy greater than any new
disadvantage which it may create?
IV. Is the proposed policy better than any alternative policy?
Upon reflection we may see that I includes 1, 2, 3, and 4; that
II includes 5 and 7; that III includes 6; 4 and that IV includes 8
and 9.
" See essential issues, p. 135.
4 It might be said that 6 really belongs under II, and that there is no III to
be considered in the present argument. There is some ground for this view,
for if, as 6A states, preparedness would help prevent a conflict, then that
policy would be effective in maintaining national safety. But if, as in 6N,
emphasis is on the new, or increased danger, which preparedness would create
by precipitating an armament race, then we can consider this as a definite
disadvantage— it increases the danger already existing. It will be found that
in practice II and III often overlap to a degree, but the difference in emphasis
between them is important. We can find, however, perfectly clear-cut cases of
difference between II and III. For example, a farmer might decide that a dam
on a creek would stop erosion on his land— would be an effective policy for
ISSUES 143
We should now be prepared to set up the issues. When formally
stated, issues appear as questions so phrased that the affirmative
must answer yes to them if the proposition is to stand.
STOCK QUESTION ISSUE
I. t 1. Is there a dangerous international situa-
tion? (1) *
* 2. Is there need for a military policy? (2, 3, 4)
II. 3. Would the universal military training be an
effective military policy? (5, 6, 7)
III. 4. Would the advantages of universal military
training outweigh the dangers that it might
create or aggravate? (6)
IV. 5. Is universal military training better than
any alternative policy? (8, 9)
To summarize what we have done thus far: First, we have set
up, more or less at random, opposed particular arguments. When-
ever we have found a pairing of an affirmative and a negative argu-
ment, we have located a point of collision, a possible issue. Second,
we have analyzed these possible issues to see that they (1) are
relevant and essential, (2) cover the subject, and (3) do not overlap
each other or do not individually include more than one possible
issue. Third, after the analysis we have drawn a revised list of
affirmative and negative arguments. Fourth, to the revised list we
have applied the four stock questions as a guide: (1) Is there a need
for change? (2) Will the policy suggested by the proposition be
effective? (3) Are the possible benefits of this policy greater than
any new disadvantages which it might create? (4) Is the proposed
policy better than any alternative policy? We have given each issue
thus defined the form of a question which demands an affirmative
that purpose (II). But he then might discover that the dam would flood some
of his best pasture land further up the creek. This would be a new disadvan-
tage, and would raise a new question ( III ) .
It might also be said that 5 belongs under IV, for the negative, by implica-
tion at least, suggests an alternative policy, the creation of an army of special-
ists. But this really raises the question of the effectiveness of the policy sug-
gested by the proposition. So II and IV overlap on this point.
5 Numbers in parentheses refer to numbers in the second draft of possible
issues.
144 ARGUMENT
answer if the proposition is to be supported. These questions are
the issues.
We may note that the first issue, since it is not contested by the
negative on our list, is an admitted issue. We may note also that
under each issue we have indicated the particular arguments from
the revised list which should be discussed under the general head
provided by that issue. For instance, under issue 2, we have placed
arguments 2, 3, and 4 from the revised list.
If we have done our work well, we now have the material organ-
ized for our argument. This does not mean that the arguments need
follow this order. We might, for example, want to dispose of the
question of pacifism and to point out reasons for pessimism concern-
ing a system of international arrangements (topic 5 in our final list
of issues) before arguing the specific merits of universal training.
Or the strategy of persuasion for a particular audience might make
us take a very indirect approach to the whole subject. We might,
for instance, want to paint a vivid picture of the destruction our
cities would suffer if we were caught unprepared. But the arrange-
ment of issues as set up provides a reasonable scheme for treating
the subject. A student, in the theme given below, has followed this
scheme in arguing on the affirmative side. (The numbers in paren-
theses refer to the steps in the revised draft.)
SHOULD THE UNITED STATES ADOPT
UNIVERSAL MILITARY TRAINING?
(1) No thinking person can deny that the world at this date is in ter-
rible confusion. While World War II was going on, many of us thought
that victory over the evil forces of Nazism and Fascism would bring in
a new day and give us a happier world than man had ever known. Those
of us who were really in the show had to feel that way to keep on going.
We had to feel that or we had to be sure we didn't feel anything at all.
But in May, 1947, now that we are back home and in school or holding
jobs, we find that what we expected has not come true. Any newspaper
we pick up tells us that much.
There are several things making for this terrible confusion. The con-
quered countries are in a desperate condition and some of those on the
winning side are not much better. France, Greece, and China are suf-
fering from many shortages and actual hunger, at times to the point of
starvation. In the conquered countries there are many people who are
just waiting for a chance to avenge their defeat, and they are ready to
ISSUES 145
sign on with anybody who may help them. Behind this confusion there
is the struggle between two very different notions of how the world
ought to be run. Soviet Russia stands for one notion, and the United
States stands for the other. In other countries, France, Germany, Italy,
China, and even England, those two notions divide the people into
parties and even into armed camps. The two notions are communism
and democracy. There is the making here of a war which would make
previous war look like a Boy Scout jamboree.
(2) The United States has no clear policy in international affairs to
meet this crisis. The loan to Greece and Turkey is something, but no-
body could say that it is a long-range policy and answers all our ques-
tions. We do not even know what we want to do about the United
Nations.
(3) It is certainly important to get a foreign policy and work for
peace, but it is also important to get a military policy. When the war
was over everybody wanted to get home, and this was only human.
Also the atomic bomb made us feel safe. But the result is that right now
we are a disarmed nation, and (3a) soon the atomic bomb will be in the
hands of other nations. (3b) Within a few years, too, most of our trained
reserves will be a little too old to make the best soldiers. (3c) And if
another war comes, it will move so fast there will not be time to train
and equip forces. (4) Our possible enemies are not making this mistake,
for they are maintaining large armies and are training new men. As soon
as they get the secret of the bomb, our edge will be gone.
Universal military training is something that we need to safeguard our
future. I know that there are arguments against this, but I do not believe
that they will stand up against the facts.
(5) The first argument which you often hear is that universal military
training would not be desirable because the new type of war will be a
war of specialists which universal military training would not produce.
But this depends on the kind of training which is given. The training
can be adapted to changing military needs. But in any case, there is
good reason to believe that there will always be a place for the guy in
the mud. I was one of them myself, and I know that they always had
to send us in sooner or later. Large bodies of troops will be required to
occupy and hold territory.
(6) The second argument ° is that universal military training would
provoke an armament race. The answer is that the race is already on,
6 This argument is not placed according to the scheme. It really concerns a
disadvantage which might be created by the proposed policy (stock question
III), but here it is placed between two arguments for the effectiveness of
universal military training (stock question II).
146 ARGUMENT
but at the present is merely a one-sided race. The other countries are
racing to get what we have got— the A-bomb. But they are also building
up big armies. If we showed that we mean to be strong, it might dis-
courage other countries and make them want to come to an under-
standing.
(7) The third argument is that the next war, if it comes, will be a war
of general suicide. It is said that nobody will survive except a few
starved and diseased people among the ruins. This picture is too pessi-
mistic. I do not want to deny what horrors of war can be, for I have
seen some of them in West Germany when we went in. But the history
of war shows that for every weapon of offense a weapon of defense de-
velops sooner or later. Our scientists and military men should develop
defenses just as they should develop weapons of offense. We have to
do all we can to be sure that we are prepared if the war conies. And
one of the things necessary is to adopt universal military training.
(8) Even people who admit that a strong military policy might be
effective in itself sometimes argue that a better plan is to try to set up a
world system of some kind. Any sensible person wants to avoid war, and
one way to do that is to work for international understanding. But we
are a long way from a system which we can depend on, and there is no
reason why we should commit suicide as a nation in trying to get one.
If we are strong we can enter into any international arrangements with a
good bargaining position.
(9) There is one other argument which sometimes crops up in dis-
cussions about military training. That is the pacifist argument. People
say that war is sinful and that you should never fight. Now I respect
some of the people who argue that way. One of my best high school
buddies was a pacifist, and when war came he went to a C.O. camp.
I respect him, but I think that he was a crackpot. It is against human
nature to take everything lying down, and that is really what pacifism
amounts to. The man who lies down gets stepped on. History shows
that. But there really aren't enough pacifists in this country or any other
to make the subject worth arguing about.
To sum up, I say, "Work for peace, but prepare for war." Teddy
Roosevelt's idea of walking softly and carrying a big stick still makes
sense, for the world has not changed much since his day. And one big
stick that the United States can carry is universal military training.
PROPOSITIONS OF FACT
The proposition argued above is, of course, a proposition of
policy. But how do we go about establishing the issue, or issues, in
PROPOSITIONS OF FACT 147
a proposition of fact? In the case of the eligibility of William Smith
for membership in the Corinthians, the issues were defined before-
hand by a document— the constitution of the society. But there are
propositions of fact in which the issues are not established before-
hand by any such definition.
Let us take a very simple instance, one in which there can be
only a single issue. If two men in the wilderness wish to cross a
stream, one of them may propose that they drop a tree across it.
The other objects that the available tree is too short. They can
establish the height of the tree by geometric calculation, but they
cannot establish the width of the stream. Therefore the proposition
(the tree is long enough) is a matter of judgment, and is subject to
argument. Several arguments, good or bad, may be offered on either
side, but there is only one issue: Is the tree long enough? In such
cases of simple fact, the proposition itself establishes the issue. But
in other cases the fact may not be simple, and there may be no prior
definition of the issues (as in the case of William Smith and the
Corinthians).
Let us take such an example: John did right in leaving his fortune
to the Ashford Medical Foundation.
First, are we sure that this 5s a proposition of fact? At first glance
it may look like a proposition of policy, for it contains the phrase
"did right"— which seems to imply policy. Certainly, we would have
a proposition of policy if it were stated: John will do right to. ...
Or: John should leave. . . . But in its original form, the proposition
concerns an event that has already taken place, and concerns the
nature of the event, not a course of action to be pursued. This
becomes clear if we translate the proposition into the standard
form: John's conduct in leaving his fortune to the Ashford Medical
Foundation is (or was) right. So we have an is proposition, not a
should proposition.
Second, how can we establish the issues? To do so, we must de-
cide what we mean by the word "right"— the predicate of the
proposition. Suppose the opponents agree that a deed is morally
right only if it fulfills all of the following requirements: (1) the doer
is responsible, (2) the doer undertakes the deed for a laudable
motive, and (3) the consequences of the deed are beneficial. The
issues then become:
148 ARGUMENT
1. Was John of sound mind when he made his will?
2. Was his motive laudable?
3. Will the money be used for a beneficial activity?
The affirmative must establish all of these points in order to win
the argument. Suppose that there is no doubt of John's sanity, and
no doubt that the money will be used for a good purpose. Suppose
that these facts are admitted. Yet if the negative establishes that
John, in a fit of fury at his daughter for making a marriage with-
out his consent, changed his will, then the motive is a bad one, for
the deed comes out of spite and offended vanity. Therefore the
proposition would be lost.
In such propositions of fact, where the fact is complex, the locat-
ing of the issues becomes a matter of analyzing the fact. In practice
this may mean defining the key word (or words) in the proposition,
as right in the example that we have just discussed.
EVIDENCE
When you get into an argument, you may be pretty sure that
your opponent will be from Missouri. He will say, "Seeing is believ-
ing," and what he wants is the EVIDENCE. Without evidence you can
only offer your own unsupported views, which you already know
the opponent will not accept— for if he did accept them there would
have been no argument in the first place.
Evidence is whatever can be offered as support for a proposition^
KINDS OF EVIDENCE: FACT AND OPINION
What constitutes evidence? <Teople constantly appeal to facts, or
try to appeal to facts, to support argument. "The facts of the case"
are important as evidence, but they are not the only thing which
can be used as evidence. People also appeal to opinions of other
people who are supposed to have authority. "Expert testimony" is
offered in the courtroom as evidence to support a case. The murder
trial may bring out the alienist, the ballistics expert, the medical
examiner, and any number of other experts whose opinions are to
he considered by the jury. Presumably they base their testimony
on facts, but what the jury is asked to accept is their opinion, their
judgment of the facts.
KINDS OF EVIDENCE: FACT AND OPINION 149
The expert may be wrong, and experts frequently disagree among
themselves; and what they disagree about is ordinarily not the facts
but their interpretation of the facts. Opinion, therefore, appears as
evidence. But not only the so-called expert opinion may appear as
evidence. Even before the law we find what is called the character
witness, and what the character witness finally offers is his opinion.
In ordinary argument people constantly invoke opinion of all sort—
"Mr. Allen says so, and I should think he would know," or "The
New York Times says so." The author of the student theme on uni-
versal military training invokes the opinion of Teddy Roosevelt:
Roosevelt's opinion about carrying the big stick is used as evidence,
Fact or opinion may constitute evidence. What tests can we apply
to them to satisfy ourselves that they are worth admitting into an
argument?
FACTS AS EVIDENCE
A fact must be made to stick. That is, the fact must be a fact.
What is offered as a fact may turn out to be merely a mistaken
opinion. We know this pattern well from detective stories. A "fact"
points to the guilt of a certain character. He is arrested by the
stupid police sergeant. The clever detective proves that the "fact*
was not a fact at all. The true criminal had worn the hooded rain-
coat which everybody at the house party associated with Miss Per-
kins, and he had been mistaken for her in the mist on the beach. The
"fact"— that Miss Perkins was observed near the scene of the crime
at a certain hour— turns out to be not a fact at all, and justice is
done.
To stick, a fact must be (1) verifiable or (2) attested by a
reliable source.
VERIFICATION
Certain facts can be established by referring to some regularity
in nature— that a certain type of cord would not support a certain
weight, that potassium permanganate will explode under certain
conditions, that the robin's egg is a certain shade of blue with
brown markings, that a certain night of the year did not have a
full moon, that rigor mortis sets in at a certain time after death.
Such facts belong to a pattern in nature which is observable, and
150 ARGUMENT
to test a particular fact we refer it to the pattern. We have an
example in a story about one of Abraham Lincoln's law cases. A
witness testified that he had observed a certain event. Lincoln asked
him how, and he replied that he had seen it by moonlight. By pro-
ducing an almanac, Lincoln showed that there had been no moon
on the night in question. Lincoln tested the fact by referring it to
a natural pattern. We shall here use the word verifiable in this
sense.
FACT ESTABLISHED BY TESTIMONY
Suppose, however, Lincoln had not been able to check the wit-
ness by an almanac. What questions could he have asked to deter-
mine the reliability of the evidence offered by the witness? Four
questions are relevant in such cases:
1. Was there opportunity for the witness to observe the event?
2. Was the witness physically capable of observing the event?
3. Was the witness intellectually capable of understanding the
event and reporting accurately?
4. Was the witness honest?
The first question is clear enough, but the others are a little more
complicated. For instance, if a blind newsman attests that Bill Sims
was present in a railway station at such a time, how good is his
evidence? Was he capable of observing the event? If it can be
demonstrated that the blind man is capable of recognizing a step
and was acquainted with the step of Bill Sims, who stopped at his
newsstand every day to buy cigarettes, then it can be assumed that
the newsman is capable of recognizing Bill Sims' presence at a
certain time. If, furthermore, it can be accepted that the news-
man has common sense, is not given to delusions, flights of fancy,
or exaggerations, and has a good memory, then it can be assumed
that he is intellectually capable of understanding and reporting the
event. What remains is the question of honesty. If the newsman
has no connection with the case, if no malice, profit, or other special
interest is involved, then it can be readily assumed that his report
is an honest one. But if some motive which might make him color
or falsify the report can be established, then this fact must be
assessed in relation to what is known about the newsman's general
character. Generally speaking, an interested witness is a poor wit-
KINDS OF EVIDENCE: FACT AND OPINION 151
ness. Even if he is honest, his report does not carry prompt convic-
tion, especially to a hostile or indifferent audience.
The case we have given for reliability here— the blind newsman's
testimony— is a relatively simple one. But it illustrates the kind of
questions that must be raised in all situations involving testimony.
A historian trying to determine the truth about an event long past, a
Congressional committee conducting a hearing on an economic situ-
ation, a farmer shopping for a new tractor are all engaged in
assessing the reliability of testimony, and must ask the same ques-
tions.
To sum up: only facts that are verifiable or reliably attested
should be admitted into the argument.
OPINION AS EVIDENCE
We can set up a parallel set of tests for the admission of opinion
into the argument. Corresponding to the first requirement for the
admission of a fact, we find the authority of an opinion. There is no
use in introducing an opinion to support our argument if the opin-
ion will carry little or no weight. For instance, no lawyer would
want to introduce as expert a witness who had no reputation for
competence in his particular field. The manufacturer of athletic
supplies wants a champion, not a dud, to endorse his tennis racquet,
and the manufacturer of cosmetics wants a lady of fashion or a
famous actress to give a testimonial for the facial cream. We should
be as sure as possible that any authority which we invoke in an
argument is a real authority: a second-rate navy is no navy, and a
second-rate authority is no authority, when the moment of combat
comes.
TESTS OF AUTHORITY
How do we find out if an authority is real authority? "Ask the
man who owns one," a famous advertising slogan suggests; and the
maker of a washing machine shows the picture of a happy house-
wife standing by her prized contraption. The advertisers here appeal
to authority on the principle that the proof of the pudding is in
the eating: ask the eater, for he is an authority. This is a kind of
rough-and-ready authority based on experience, useful but very
limited in the degree of conviction which it can carry. Very prob-
ably the automobile buyer has not used many different makes of
152 ARGUMENT
cars and the housewife has not used many different kinds of wash-
ing machines. The opinion of an impartial technical expert who
had tested many makes of car or washing machine for efficiency,
durability, and so forth, would carry much more authority. Here
we appeal to experience too, but to the experience of the expert.
Authority is very often based on an appeal to success. The rich
man is supposed to know how to make money, the famous painter
how to paint pictures, the heavyweight champion how to fight.
Success carries prestige and predisposes us to accept the pronounce-
ment of the successful man. But we should still scrutinize each case.
Perhaps the rich man got rich by luck—he happened to get into
business at a time of expansion and rising markets. No doubt he
himself attributes his success to his own sterling character, shrewd-
ness, and indefatigable industry, but we may be more inclined to
trust the evidence of the economic situation of his time. Or the
famous painter may have struck a prejudice and a fashion of his
time, and history is littered with the carcasses of artists of all kinds
whose success was the accident of the moment. The heavyweight
gives us a better case, for it is a simpler case— he merely had to
square off with one man at one moment and slug it out. But perhaps
a granite jaw, a fighting heart, and an explosive punch gave him
the championship, and all that he has to say about training, foot-
work, and strategy may be wrong. He didn't succeed by luck, like
the businessman or the painter— he really did flatten the opponent
by his own force— but he may give the wrong reasons for his suc-
cess. The fact of success doesn't mean that the successful man really
knows the conditions of his success. And he can speak with author-
ity only if at that point he knows. Many successful people are like
the man who lived to be a hundred and revealed his secret for
long life: "I never read less than one chapter of the Holy Writ a
day or drink more than three slugs of likker a night/'
Not infrequently we encounter an appeal to what, for lack of a
better phrase, we may call authority by transference. Because a
man is considered an authority in one field, it is assumed that he
is an authority on anything. The famous musician is used as an
authority on statesmanship, the great mathematician is appealed to
as an authority on morality, and the great physicist on religion;
the All-America fullback endorses a certain breakfast food, and a
debutante prefers such-and-such a cigarette. This sort of reasoning
KINDS OF EVIDENCE: FACT AND OPINION 153
is obviously nonsensical and pernicious, for it is simply a means
of imposing on the gullibility of the audience. And because it is a
means of imposing on gullibility, it is very common.
Authority, too, has some relation to time. What was acceptable
as authority at one time may not be acceptable at another. In any
field where the body of knowledge is constantly being enlarged
and revised, timeliness is very important. A book on chemistry or
physics written ten years ago may now lack authority in certain
respects, or a history of the American Civil War written in 1875
may now be considered very misleading. Or should George Wash-
ington's views on foreign policy influence our own? We want the
best authority of our time.
What tests, in the end, can we apply? There are no ready-made
tests. We must, in the end, use our own judgment to select the
authority by which we wish to support our argument. This seems
to leave us where we started; but that is not quite true. Finding
the man who might know is, after all, different from finding out
for ourselves what he knows. If we are dealing with authority pre-
sumably based on experience, we can ask about the nature of the
experience (one washing machine or ten washing machines?) and
the intelligence and training of the person who has had the experi-
ence. If we are dealing with authority based on success, we can
inquire into the nature of the success (how much was luck?) arid
into the capacity of the successful person for analyzing the means
to success. And we should not forget to ask if the authority of the
successful man is being used as authority by transference. Further-
more, we have to ask if our authority is timely.
Let us suppose that we wish to find an authority on some point
of American history. It will not do to go to the library and take
down the first book on the subject. The mere fact of print bestows
no authority, for every error is somewhere embalmed between
boards. We have to find out something about the author. Is he of
recent date? (That is, would he have available the latest research
on the subject?) Does he have any special bias or prejudice which
must be discounted? Does he occupy a responsible position or has
he had other professional recognition? (That is, is he on the faculty
of some important university, have his works been favorably re-
viewed, and so forth?) How do his views compare with the views
of some other historians of recognized importance? And all this
154 ARGUMENT
means that we have to find out something about the field of Ameri-
can history, even if we are not capable of settling the particular
point in question by our own investigation.
AUTHORITY AND THE AUDIENCE
One more thing must be considered. The authority is going to
be used for a particular audience, and is intended to be effective
for that audience—if not the opponent, at least some listener. Effec-
tive authority is authority which is acceptable to the particular
audience. The Mohammedan Koran carries no authority to a Cath-
olic, the Pope carries no authority to a Methodist, and the first
chapter of Genesis carries no authority to a geologist. If we can use
an authority our audience already knows and respects, we have an
initial advantage. If this is not possible, then we must establish the
prestige of the authority. We can sometimes do this merely by
informing the audience, but sometimes we must resort to persua-
sion. And, as we have said, the discussion of persuasion will be
postponed.
REASONING
Once we have our evidence we must know how to reason about
it if it is to support our position. So reasoning is essential to argu-
ment.
The whole process of living, from first to last, is a long education
in the use of reason. Fire burns, cats scratch, pulling things off
tables brings a frown or a spanking-^we learn these great truths
early. Later on we learn other truths-ja stitch in time saves nine,
honesty is the best policy, to be good is to be happy. We say we
learn from experience (or from somebody else's experience), but
that is not quite true. Experience would teach nothing if we could
not reason about experience. ;
Reasoning, therefore, is not something which we learn from books)
The race learned it the hard way over a long time: if your powers
of reason failed you too often you were liquidated by the falling
tree, a saber-toothed tiger, or a neighbor who had reasoned out
that a sharp stone tied to the end of a stout stick gave him certain
advantages in a dispute. (But we can train our powers of reason by
learning something about the reasoning process.)
REASONING 155
SUBJECT AND ATTRIBUTE
^Reasoning is the process by which the mind moves from certain
data (the evidence) to a conclusion which was not giveii) We can
make this progress from data to conclusion because we recognize
some regularity in the world we are dealing with.^ We recognize a
regularity of cause and effect, and a regularity of subject and
attributed)
The cause-and-effect relationship has already been discussed at
some length in the chapter on Exposition.7 We continually use the
cause-and-effect relationship in our ordinary reasoning. But we also
continually use the subject-attribute relationship.(For instance, we
know that green apples are sour. Therefore we do riot eat the green
apple we find on the bough. Here green apples (subject) are affirmed
to have a certain attribute (sour), and when we encounter the sub-
ject we conclude that the attribute is present. Or we believe that
a sales tax is unfair. So we vote against such-and-such a tax because
it is a sales tax. ]
INDUCTION: GENERALIZATION
Let us examine two examples of reasoning, examples of [the kind
of reasoning called INDUCTION.! A businessman has hired five boys
at different times from the Hawkins School and has found them all
honest, well mannered, and well educated. Therefore, when the
sixth boy comes along for a job the man will be inclined to hire him.
In other words, the man has generalized from the five instances
to the conclusion that all boys from Hawkins School are honest,
well mannered, and well educated. The man has made a GENERAL-
IZATION, moving from a number of particular instances to the
general conclusion that all instances of the type investigated will
be of this same sort^
To take a second example of generalization, after long observa-
tion men have concluded that water always freezes at a certain
temperature, 32 degrees. Behind this conclusion, as behind the con-
clusion about the boys of. Hawkins School, lies the assumption that
a certain regularity exists. In regard to the water, we assume that
7 Pages 111-119. A further discussion appears in the Appendix on Cause (pp.
475 ff.).
156 ARGUMENT
the same kind of thing in nature always behaves the same way
under the same conditions— metal expands when heated; in a
vacuum falling bodies, no matter what their mass, move at the
same rate. Without this assumption of regularity we could not
accept the conclusion we arrive at from examining the individual
instances, and in fact, all science is based upon this assumption.
The principle of regularity also applies in the reasoning about
the boys from Hawkins School. We assume that certain intellectual
standards are maintained, that certain manners are insisted upon,
that honesty is inculcated, and that the stupid, idle, boorish, or dis-
honest boy is not graduated. It does not matter that the conclusions
we reach in these two instances compel different degrees of assent.
We scarcely doubt that the next pail of water we leave out will
freeze at a certain temperature, but we do doubt that absolutely
all graduates of Hawkins School are models of education, manners,
and honesty. We recognize here that the principle of regularity
(Hawkins' standards) in human nature is scarcely as dependable
as the principle of regularity in nature. The school has tried to
weed out the incompetent, the boorish, and the dishonest, but
human nature is very complicated and human organizations are
very fallible.
THE INDUCTIVE LEAP
We recognize that the conclusion we reach about the boys from
Hawkins School is only a probability, but students of logic tell us
that from the strictly logical standpoint the conclusion that water
always freezes at 32 degrees is also a probability. This is true be-
cause no argument which moves from some to all can give more
than a probability. Undoubtedly millions of instances of water
freezing at 32 degrees have been observed, but all instances— past,
present, and future— have not been observed. After examining a
certain number of instances we take the leap from the some to
the all, the INDUCTIVE LEAP. We cannot be sure about the all. It does
no good to appeal to the principle of regularity in nature by saying
that water is water and will always behave the same way, for that
principle is itself simply derived from the inspection of a number
of instances and itself represents a leap from some to all.
What tests can we apply to reduce the risk of error in making
the inductive leap?
INDUCTION: GENERALIZATION 157
TESTS FOR GENERALIZATION
First, a fair number of instances must be investigated. An instance
or two proves nothing. Somebody says: "All Chinese are short and
slender. Why, I used to know one out in Wyoming, and he wasn't
more than five feet tall and I bet he didn't weigh more than a
hundred pounds." Or: "All boys from St. Joseph's College are snobs.
There was a fellow from home. . . ." We all know this type of
reasoning, and can see that it proves nothing. A fair number of
instances have not been examined. But there is no way to determine
certainly what is a fair number of instances. We simply have to
use the evidence possible to us under the given circumstances and
remember that only the untrained mind is rash enough to leap with-
out looking.
Second, the instances investigated must be typical. In a labora-
tory the scientist may be able to test a substance to be sure it is
typical of its kind. He could detect alcohol in a sample of water
and would, therefore, not use that sample in an experiment to
demonstrate the freezing point of water.
But sometimes we have to assume, without testing the fact, that
the instances available are typical. For example, the businessman
who has hired five boys from Hawkins School assumes that they
are typical—that other boys from the school will be like them. At
other times, however, when we are making out a case, we can
choose from among a number of instances for our investigation; in
such a situation we should be sure that the instances chosen are
representative. Let us consider the problem of a sociologist who,
for some purpose, wishes to give a description of the life in the
southern Appalachians. The sociologist picks three settlements, in-
vestigates the pattern of life there, and concludes that life (in
general) in the southern Appalachians is such-and-such. But an
opponent may point out that the settlements chosen are not typical,
that the people are of Swiss descent and maintain a good many
Swiss customs. The sociologist's generalization, then, may be worth-
less because his instances are not typical.
Third, if negative instances occur they must be explained. Obvi-
ously, any negative instance occurring among those which we are
using as a basis for a generalization will reduce the validity of the
generalization unless we can demonstrate that the negative instance
158 ARGUMENT
is not typical, and therefore need not be considered. For example,
if the businessman who has hired five Hawkins boys and found
them all honest, hires a sixth and finds that he is pilfering in the
stock room, the businessman may decide that he must give up the
generalization that the Hawkins graduates are desirable employees.
But he discovers that the boy who did the pilfering is a very special
case, that he is really unbalanced, is a kleptomaniac, and conse-
quently cannot be taken as typical. Therefore, the businessman
returns to his generalization that Hawkins graduates are desirable
employees. ^
To summarize^ the tests for making a generalization are:
1. A fair number of instances must be investigated.
2. The instances investigated must be typical.
3. All negative instances must be explained, j
INDUCTION: ANALOGY
^Another type of induction is by ANALOGY.\ This type of reasoning
is based on the idea that if two instances are alike in a number of
important points they will be alike in the point in question. For
example, a board of directors might argue that Jim Brown would
make a good corporation executive because he has been a colonel
in the army. The analogy here is between the requirements for a
good army officer and a good business executive. The points of
similarity might be taken as the ability to deal with men, the ability
to make and execute policy, the willingness to take responsibility.
Then if Brown has been successful as a colonel it may be assumed
that he will be successful as a business executive.
We can arrive at certain tests for analogy similar to those for
generalization:
1. The two instances compared must be similar in important
respects.
2. Differences between the two instances must be accounted for
as being unimportant.
In addition to these tests, we must remember that increasing the
number of similar instances tends to strengthen our argument. For
example, if Brown, the man being considered for an executive posi-
tion in the corporation, has been a successful division chief in a
government bureau as well as a successful colonel, his case is
INDUCTION: GENERALIZATION 159
strengthened in the eyes of the board. But in the case of analogy,
as of generalization, we can arrive only at probability.
DEDUCTION
On this point of probability we can distinguish the two types
of induction (generalization and analogy) from the type of reason-
ing known as DEDUCTION. Deduction does not give probability; it
gives certitude.
The most familiar example of deduction is found in ordinary
geometry, the geometry we studied in high school. The system
starts with certain axioms. For instance: "Things that are equal to
the same thing are equal to each other.'* Or: "If equals be added
to equals the wholes are equal."
There is no attempt in the system of geometry to prove these
axioms. They are the starting point we accept. (They are LOGICALLY
PRIMITIVE in the deductive system of geometry.) Once we accept
them, the whole system necessarihj follows. Accepting the axioms
we can deduce our first theorem. Then, having thus obtained the
first theorem, we can prove the second, and so on throughout the
system generated by the axioms. Once we have the axioms the sys-
tem must necessarily follow. It cannot be otherwise.
THE SYLLOGISM
Deductive reasoning appears, however, in other forms than ge-
ometry. Let us take an example of the type of reasoning called the
SYLLOGISM:
All men are mortal.
Socrates was a man.
.". Socrates was mortal.
We are reasoning here about a relation among three classes,
mortal creatures, men, and Socrates. It may help us to think of the
matter as a series of concentric circles, one small (Socrates), one
medium-size (men), and one large (mortal creatures). We put the
medium-size circle in the large one, and then the small circle in
the medium-size circle. Then, obviously, the small circle is included
in the large circle. We see this from the following chart:
160
SOCRATCSi MINOB TttM
Each class is indicated by a TERM in the syllogism, the small class
by the MINOR TERM, the medium-size class by the MIDDLE TERM,
and the large class by the MAJOR TERM. The syllogism itself is com-
posed of three propositions, the first two called PREMISES, and the
third called the CONCLUSION. The proposition containing the major
term is called the MAJOR PREMISE and that containing the minor
term the MINOR PREMISE.
All men are mortal, (major premise)
Socrates was a man. (minor premise)
.*. Socrates was mortal, (conclusion)
The minor term is, we see, the subject of the conclusion, the
major term the predicate of the conclusion, and the middle term
the term that has made their relation in the conclusion possible.
Let us take another piece of reasoning that seems to have the
same form:
Some soldiers are corporals.
All sergeants are soldiers.
.'. All sergeants are corporals.
We sense immediately that there has been a slip in the reasoning.
And we can see why if we chart the relations among the classes in
the syllogism:
The major premise (Some soldiers are corporals) says that the
class corporals falls within the class soldiers, but the word some
tells us that part of the class soldiers falls outside the class corporals.
So for this premise we get Fig. 1.
The minor premise (All sergeants are soldiers) says that the class
sergeants falls within the class soldiers, but this means that some
of the class soldiers falls outside the class sergeants. So we get Fig. 2.
DEDUCTION
161
The conclusion (All sergeants are corporals) says that the class
sergeants falls within the class corporals. It pretends to make the
same kind of figure we had for Socrates in the end, but it cannot do
so. For it is clear that the premises have given us no ground for any
relation between the class sergeants and the class corporals. The
premises have merely put the two classes within the third class
soldiers. So the only figure we could reasonably get would be Fig. 3.
Fig. 1
Fig. 2
Fig. 3
The argument is not VALID. There has been a slip in the reasoning.
This is not the only kind of slip in reasoning that we may make
in dealing with classes. Let us take another example:
All banks are financial institutions.
Some building and loan companies are not banks.
.*. Some building and loan companies are not financial institu-
tions.
The major premise (All banks are financial institutions) says that
the class banks falls within the class financial institutions. So we
get Fig. 4.
The minor premise (Some building and loan companies are not
banks) says that part of the class building and loan companies falls
outside the class banks. This gives Fig. 5.
Fig. 4
Fig. 5
162 ARGUMENT
The conclusion (Some building and loan companies are not finan-
cial institutions) tells us that some of the class building and loan
companies falls outside the class financial institutions. But this does
not follow. We know that the class banks falls inside the class
financial institutions, and the part of the class building and loan
(and not)
Fig. 6
companies which falls outside of the class banks may still fall inside
the class financial institutions, as would be the case with Fig. 6.
In either one of the faulty arguments given above we know at a
glance that the conclusion is wrong, because we know the facts of
the case. We know that sergeants are not corporals and that all
building and loan companies are financial institutions. But some-
Fig. 7
times we may not know the facts; then we have to depend on the
correctness of the reasoning. For instance, are we impressed by the
following argument of a political candidate?
"Every Congressman who voted for the Jones-Higgins Bill be-
trayed this state. But I did not vote for it. Therefore, I am no traitor
to your interests, but will fight to the death for them. . . ."
DEDUCTION 163
We are not impressed, for the candidate has not offered any
finally convincing argument that he is not a traitor to the public
interest. Voting for the Jones-Higgins Bill is not the only way a
Congressman can betray the public interest.
What he wants his conclusion to look like is represented in Fig. 7.
But all we are sure of is that the candidate belongs outside the class
of those who voted for the Jones-Higgins Bill. For all he has proved,
he may still be inside the class of traitors to the public interest, and
we may have Fig. 8.
In any reasoning about relations among classes, it is necessary
for us to look behind the words and see what and how much is said
to be included within what. And it is some-
times helpful to use charts such as we have
made above, at least until one is experi-
enced in dealing with this type of reason-
ing. And when we make a chart if, in
diagramming the second premise, we auto-
matically diagram the conclusion, then the
argument is valid. This is the case, we
recall, with the chart about Socrates. We
diagram the major premise by putting the pjg g
class men into the class mortal creatures.
Then when we diagram the minor premise by putting the class
Socrates into the class men we find that we have automatically
diagrammed the conclusion: Socrates was mortal. Socrates is put
into the class of mortal creatures.8
VALID SYLLOGISM AND TRUE CONCLUSION
We have spoken of valid syllogisms, those in which the process
of reasoning is correct. But we may reason correctly and still not
have a true conclusion if we start with a mistaken assumption, a
premise which is not true. For instance, let us look at this syllogism:
All legless creatures that crawl are snakes.
Worms are legless creatures that crawl.
.'. Worms are snakes.
In this the reasoning is correct: // all legless creatures that crawl
were snakes, then worms, which are legless, crawling creatures,
8 For a more detailed discussion see the Appendix on the Syllogism, p. 481.
164 ARGUMENT
would be snakes. But we know that the major premise (All legless
creatures that crawl are snakes) is not true. Therefore, no matter
how correct the reasoning may be, we cannot depend upon it to
give us a true conclusion.
In other words, a syllogism may be valid (correct in its reasoning)
and its conclusion may be untrue. But we always want true conclu-
sions. Therefore, we must be careful to inspect our premises. Truth
of the premises is as necessary as correct reasoning.
KINDS OF PROPOSITIONS
We can make four basic kinds of propositions about relations
among classes:
1. All X is in Y. All men are mortal
2. All X is excluded from Y. (Or: No X is in Y.) No whales are
fish.
3. Some X is in Y. Some women are cruel.
4. Some X is excluded from Y. Some heroes are not recognized.
Many propositions about relations among classes do not come to
us, however, in such simple forms. When that is true, our first step
must be to see into which of these basic kinds the proposition is
translatable. Often we can do this almost instinctively. There is no
difficulty, for instance, in seeing that the proposition, "Warm gases
ascend," can be translated into the form, "All warm gases are in the
class of things that ascend." But some instances are more difficult
and require careful analysis. Propositions containing restrictive and
exclusive terms such as all but, only, and all except are especially
apt to give trouble.
For example, the proposition, "None but the brave deserve the
fair," seems at first glance to mean, "All the brave deserve the fair."
But a little reflection shows us that such is not the case, and that
it really means, "All who deserve the fair are some of the brave,"
and is an example of type 1. Or to take another proposition, to say,
"Only students willing to work will pass this course," does not mean,
"All students willing to work will pass this course." Rather, it means,
"All who pass this course will be in the class of those who are
willing to work." Students who are badly prepared or are stupid
may not pass even if they are willing to work.
DEDUCTION 163
REASONING BY F/THFR-OR
In addition to the ordinary syllogism, there are two kinds of
syllogism which we shall look at briefly. The first we shall call rea-
soning by either-or, though it has a technical name, the DISJUNCTIVE
SYLLOGISM.
Let us set up an example. Upon going into the kitchen and find-
ing the steak off the table and on the floor under the sink, we think
that either the cat or the dog has pulled it down. Then we discover
that the cat is locked in the barn to catch rats. Therefore the dog
must have committed the crime. The formula is simple. We decide
on two possibilities. We exclude one. Naturally the other becomes
our conclusion.
To get a true conclusion, we must be sure, as with the ordinary
syllogism, that our starting point is dependable.
First, the either— or premise must really cover the case. The al-
ternatives must be exhaustive. In the example of the cat and dog,
if the cat was locked in the barn and the dog was out chasing rab-
bits, the premise simply does not cover the case. We have to investi-
gate further to cover the possibilities. We find that, after all, it was
curly-headed little Willie who pulled the steak off the table and
deserves the licking.
Second, we must really mean the either— or. The possibilities must
be distinct with no overlap between them. They must be exclusive.
Let us examine a piece of reasoning which may be faulty because
there is an overlap between the possibilities set up.
To maintain peace we must have either the United Nations or a
system of international police.
But a system of international police is undesirable.
.'. We must have the United Nations.
If we take it in fact that the United Nations does not involve a
basic system of international police, then the conclusion is valid.
But if we take it that the United Nations does involve a system
of international police, then the conclusion is not acceptable. It is
not because the two items of the either-or are not distinct: interna-
tional police occurs in both, of them, stated in one and implied in
the other. The result is that in one premise we say that international
police is undesirable, and then say it is desirable (under another
name) in the conclusion. But this makes nonsense.
166 ARGUMENT
To be sure that our starting point for reasoning by either-or is
satisfactory we have to know what we are talking about. We must
examine the facts and use our common sense to be sure that the
either-or covers the case and that there is no overlap between the
items.
REASONING BY IF-THEN
Reasoning by if-then deals with a condition and a result. The
condition being fulfilled, the result follows. The technical name of
this kind of reasoning is the HYPOTHETICAL SYLLOGISM.
We constantly use reasoning of this kind, as in the statement, "If
you had banked the furnace, we would have had heat this morn-
ing." Fully stated, the argument would go like this:
If you do not bank the furnace, the fire will die.
But you did not bank the furnace.
/. The fire died.
The reasoning above is correct. We have affirmed the if, the con-
dition, and therefore the result necessarily follows. But the reason-
ing is also correct if we deny the then, as in the following instance:
If you do not bank the furnace, the fire will die.
But the fire has not died.
.'. You did bank the furnace.
The following example does not, however, give us correct reason-
ing:
If you do not bank the furnace, the fire will die.
The fire died.
.'. You did not bank the furnace.
The conclusion here is not necessarily acceptable. The fire may
have died because the furnace was not banked, but it also may
have died from other causes. For instance, there may not have been
enough fuel. That is, not banking the furnace is a sufficient but not
a necessary condition of the fire's going out. (See the discussion
of sufficient and necessary conditions, p. 115.) For the reasoning
in this last example to be valid, the if would have to mean only if.
Most errors in reasoning of the type of if-then come about because
DEDUCTION 167
we interpret an if as an only if. Of course, there are instances where
the if is legitimately to be interpreted as only if. But this is a matter
of the truth of the premise with which we start, and if we mean
only if we should say so in the premise.
FALLACIES
In discussing each type of reasoning, inductive or deductive, we
have tried to indicate the characteristic errors into which we may
fall. An argument that does not follow the course of reason—an
argument that involves such an error—is called a FALLACY. In induc-
tion a generalization based on too few instances is a fallacy (p. 157).
Or an analogy based on instances different in important respects
is a fallacy (pp. 157-58). And again, in deduction when the major
and the minor terms are not properly related in the syllogism we
have a fallacy (pp. 159-63).
There are fallacies which we have not touched on, at least not
directly, which are all too common in argument. They are EQUIVO-
CATION, BEGGING THE QUESTION, IGNORING THE QUESTION, and NON
SEQUiTUR (Latin for "it does not follow").
EQUIVOCATION
Equivocation is the fallacy of using the same term in different
meanings in the same argument. Here is a well-known example:
Even scientists recognize a power beyond nature, for they speak of
"natural law"; and if there is law, there must be a power to make the
law; such a power beyond nature is called God; therefore scientists
believe in God.
Here the word law is used equivocally, in two meanings. In the
sense in which scientists use it when they speak of "natural law"
it means the recognition of regularity in natural process— the law
of gravity, for example. Here the sense is descriptive. But in the
second sense it means what is ordinarily meant in government, a
command given by a superior authority. Here the sense is prescrip-
tive. Since the whole argument is based on the word law, it does
not make sense as an argument if the word shifts its meaning. It
may be true that a number of scientists do believe in God, but that
does not make this a good argument.
168 ARGUMENT
BEGGING THE QUESTION
Begging the question occurs when the arguer assumes something
to be true which really needs proof. We have already seen (p. 134)
how this occurs in prejudiced propositions, such as "This unjust
tax should be repealed." To say that the tax is unjust is equivalent
to saying that it should be repealed. Yet the repeal is what the
argument is supposed to be about. The word unjust smuggles into
the proposition as already accepted what is supposed to be at stake
and under debate.
The same principle appears on a larger scale whenever we argue
in a circle. For example:
A: I admire Rembrandt's painting "The Night Watch."
B: Why?
A: Because it is a great painting.
B: How do you know?
A: All the best critics say it is.
B: How do you know who are the best critics?
A: Why, the best critics are those who recognize great painting.
Here speaker A gives a circle in the proof. He sets out to prove
that the painting is great by appealing to the best critics, and then
identifies the best critics as those who recognize great painting. This
instance is very simple, but sometimes the begging may be con-
cealed in a very elaborate argument. We must always be on the
watch for it, for such question-begging is an attempt to establish
a thing by itself.
IGNORING THE QUESTION
An arguer ignores the question when he introduces any consid-
eration that will distract from what is really at stake. There are
numberless ways of doing this. A competing question may be set
up so that argument is shifted to new ground. Or an appeal may
be made to some emotional attitude having nothing to do with the
logic of the case. For instance, if a man arguing for a Republican
candidate shifts the issue from the candidate's qualifications to the
praise of Lincoln, the great hero of the party, he is ignoring the
question. Or if a Democrat leaves a present question and begins
to discuss the glorious achievements of Thomas Jefferson, he is
ignoring the question. Or if a lawyer defending a man accused of
FALLACIES 169
murder does not deal with the question of guilt, but argues that
the victim was a wicked man or that the family of the accused is
worthy of pity, we have the same situation.
One of the commonest forms of ignoring the question is to shift
from the question to the character or personality of the opponent.
We get an instance when the husband criticizes his wife and she
replies, "Well, you aren't so perfect yourself 1" She has ignored the
rights and wrongs of the question, her own burnt bread or bad
arithmetic or overbid at bridge, and has begun to discuss his short-
comings. Or we get an instance when we argue that we cannot
endorse a certain political measure because the Congressman who
proposes it is divorced or drinks. We have shifted from the measure
to the man. )
NON SEQUITUR
Non sequitur, as we have said, means, "It does not follow." In
one sense, of course, any fallacy is a non sequitur, because by the
very nature of the case the conclusion does not follow from fal-
lacious reasoning. But here we shall use the term to cover certain
more special kinds of argument.
For instance, it may be argued: "William Brown doesn't drink
or smoke, and so he ought to make a good husband." But it is obvi-
ous that a man who does not drink or smoke may still make a bad
husband. He may gamble, or loaf, or beat his wife. Or it may be
argued: "Harry Thompson would make a good governor, because
he belongs to the upper classes." We know, however, that belong-
ing to a certain social class proves nothing about a man's ability
or integrity. So the conclusion that Thompson would make a good
governor does not follow. A connection has been asserted which
does not exist.
A somewhat more complicated form of non sequitur appears in
a piece of parental reasoning like this: "As soon as I increased
Billie's allowance, his grades at school began to fall. Therefore we
ought to reduce his allowance since having extra money makes him
idle." But Billie may have been suffering from eye strain, or may
have fallen in love, or may now be taking up a subject for which
he is badly prepared. Or let us take another example: "Just after
Herbert Hoover was elected President we had the greatest depres-
sion in history. How can you respect a man like that?"
170 ARGUMENT
In the argument about Billie and the argument about Hoover the
same thing has happened. It is argued that because A (an increase
in Billie's allowance or the election of Hoover) precedes B (Billie's
bad grades or the depression), A must necessarily be the cause of B.
This occurs when the arguer does not understand the nature of a
cause (pp. 117-19) or does not take the trouble to analyze the situa-
tion. He simply assumes that if one thing precedes another, it is the
cause of that other.)
FALLACIES AND REFUTATION
Some understanding of fallacies is useful to help us reason
straight, but it is also useful to help us locate defects in an opposing
argument. If we can point out a fallacy in an opposing argument,
we can REFUTE that argument, and REFUTATION is a powerful sec-
ondary weapon for maintaining our own position. Even if we are
not engaged in a debate but are simply writing a piece of argument,
we often find that we have to refute certain arguments— arguments
which we can anticipate. Or we may want to refute certain argu-
ments already made in order to clear the ground for our own views.
It is npt necessary to memorize a list of fallacies to discover de-
fects in reasoning or to reason straight. Many people who have
never heard the word fallacy can reason straight or locate defects
in the reasoning of another person. When we meet the example of
a fallacy in cold type on the page of a textbook, we are inclined
to say, "Nobody with common sense would commit such an error."
That is true. But common sense is not so common, after all, and
sometimes we have to work for it.
THE IMPLIED SYLLOGISM
When we first study the syllogism we are inclined to feel that
to do so is a waste of time because in actual practice we rarely use
or encounter it. It seems so remote from the texture of living argu-
ment and reasoning that we think it impractical, nothing but a
schoolbook exercise.
Now it is true that we rarely encounter the syllogism in the form
which we have treated here. But that does not mean that it may
not lie behind manv arguments which we make or attend to. As a
THE IMPLIED SYLLOGISM 171
matter of fact, syllogistic reasoning is often embedded in the body
of a discourse like the bones in the flesh— and it may serve the same
purpose as the bones. This may be so even when part of the syl-
logism is never stated at all, when it is assumed that the audience
will supply the unstated part. We may say that such a piece of
reasoning is an implied syllogism. But it has a technical name,
ENTHYMEME ("in the mind").
A hunter says: "This setter has not been well trained. It is gun-
shy/' Behind his remark lies a syllogism, which we can formally
set up:
A gun-shy setter is not well trained, (major premise)
This setter is gun-shy, (minor premise)
.". This setter is not well trained.
We see immediately that in the hunter's remark the major premise
does not appear. It is assumed that his audience has it in mind. So
in his statement we have an implied, and not a developed, syllogism.
Similarly, a minor premise or a conclusion may be suppressed.
In the following example the conclusion is suppressed: "A girl who
is selfish with her mother and father probably won't make a good
wife, and Susie certainly imposes on her parents. Now that ought
to give you something to think about if you continue to go around
with her.*' Set up formally, the syllogism appears:
A girl who is selfish, etc., probably won't make a good wife.
Susie is selfish (imposes on her parents).
.". Susie will not make a good wife (what you had better think
about).
These examples are very simple, and we seize on their meaning
in a flash without the necessity of framing the argument in full.
But sometimes the basic argument is more deeply embedded in the
midst of evidence, examples, and other material. Here is a para-
graph from an editorial:
Nobody denies that our economic situation is desperate and that we
are facing a crisis, and nobody denies that there is great need for wise
legislation in all matters affecting the business of the nation. We must
scrutinize with redoubled attention every bill which comes before
Congress and try to see what its effect will be in this sphere of activity.
This is undoubtedly necessary with the present bill to lower taxes. If it
172 ARGUMENT
is passed it will have an inflationary effect. What attitude shall we take
toward the present bill?
The main point here concerns the tax reduction bill. It is assumed
that the present situation is desperate and that good legislation is
needed. All of that is background. The argument to follow can
really be divided into two syllogisms linked together:
Tax reduction promotes inflation.
The present bill would reduce taxes.
.'. The present bill would promote inflation.
The conclusion of this syllogism provides a premise for the next
one, the link in the argument.
Whatever produces inflation is bad.
The present bill would promote inflation.
.". The present bill is bad.
Neither the major premise nor the conclusion of this syllogism
is stated in the editorial. The editorial writer feels that his reader
knows that inflation is bad, and he feels that the conclusion about
this particular bill will strike the reader more powerfully if the
reader is forced to come to it himself. The reader will himself
answer the question: "What attitude shall we take toward the pres-
ent bill?"
An extended argument may be a tissue or chain of implied syl-
logisms, the conclusion of one becoming a premise in the next. The
writer trusts his reader to grasp the line of reasoning without the
full statement. But a chain is no stronger than its weakest link, and
if we are making an argument we must be careful not to insert a
link that will not bear the strain of the argument. A good way to
avoid this danger is to go back over an argument to inspect each
implied syllogism and to make sure that in its developed form
it would be valid.
EXTENDED ARGUMENT: THE BRIEF
The composition of an extended argument calls for very careful
planning. One point must lead to another, effect must be traced
to cause, premise must give conclusion. Random thoughts, no mat-
EXTENDED ARGUMENT: THE BRIEF 173
ter how important in themselves, will not carry conviction. There-
fore it is a good idea to think through an argument before begin-
ning the actual writing. To prepare a systematic outline of the argu-
ment is the best way to be sure that the subject is covered and the
relationship among the parts is clear.
When a lawyer prepares the BRIEF of a case, he does just this.
The brief is not a set of jottings and suggestions. It is the full out-
line of an argument. The brief is the arrangement in logical se-
quence and in logical relationship of the evidence and the argument
on one side of the dispute. The brief makes complete sense in itself,
even to a reader who is not previously familiar with the dispute.
The process of drawing a brief in the law or for a formal debate
of any sort is a very complicated one. But for ordinary purposes
we can dispense with some of the subtleties and refinements useful
to the lawyer or debater. We cannot, however, dispense with the
requirements listed above: logical sequence, logical relationship,
completeness.
PARTS OF THE BRIEF
The brief is divided into three general sections: INTRODUCTION,
ARGUMENT Or DISCUSSION, and CONCLUSION.
The introduction should give whatever information is necessary
for an understanding of the situation: proposition, definition of
terms, history of the question, immediate occasion of the dispute,
statement of admissions and issues. Not all of these items are neces-
sary in all briefs, but the proposition and the statement of issues
are always demanded. In any event, nothing not acceptable to both
sides should appear in the introduction. The argument presents all
the evidence and the inferences drawn from that evidence step by
step to lead to the single conclusion desired. When such are de-
manded it also presents refutations of opposing views and answers
possible objections to its own. The conclusion summarizes the fun-
damental points of the argument and when necessary shows how
they relate to the question at stake.
ORGANIZATION OF THE BRIEF
It is important so to arrange the items of the brief on the page
that the relationship among them is immediately clear. Each of the
three main sections should be treated independently, with a system
174 ARGUMENT
of numbering complete under that section. Main headings under a
section should be given Roman numerals, the subdivisions scaling
down in importance marked A, 1, a. A dummy form will make the
system clear.
I.
A.
1.
a.
a.
B.
A. etc.,
It is important to keep the indentations on the left margin con-
sistent in each class and to be sure that a class of lower importance
is more deeply indented than the class just above it. If more sub-
divisions are needed than are indicated here, the system can be
begun over again with the key numerals and letters in parentheses.
For instance, if subdivisions are needed under a, we can use (/),
(A), (1), and so forth. But for ordinary purposes such an extension
is rarely necessary.
In the second section of the brief (the argument), a new ele-
ment is introduced that is not shown in the dummy above. Here we
have to indicate the relation of evidence to the inferences drawn
from the evidence. That is, / is true because of A, and A is true
because of 1 and 2, and 1 is true because of a and b. We give the
conclusion (as I) and work back through a chain of reasons.
So for the argument we can fill out the dummy thus:
I. because (or for) 9
A. because
1. . because
a. and
b.
9 We may make a distinction for this purpose of a brief between because
EXTENDED ARGUMENT: THE BRIEF 175
Thus all the relationships are indicated as a chain of proof. If we
need to interrupt the chain of proof to refute an opposing view or
to answer an objection, we can do it as follows:
c (following b above). The view that (so-and-so) is true
can be refuted because
(I) _ and
(II) --
or:
c. The objection that (so-and-so) is not valid because
(II) ----
Such a form can be used at any necessary level, and not merely
at the level of a, b, and so on.
EXAMPLE OF THE BRIEF
Let us see how we would go about using a brief in preparing a
theme. Suppose we have been given the proposition: "Scientists
should refuse to participate in research which may lead to the
production of military weapons/'
We may have an immediate, almost instinctive reaction to the
proposition, either for or against it, or we may not be able to reach
a conclusion without further consideration. In either case, we feel
it worth while to get some acquaintance with the literature on the
subject. If we have not made up our own mind, the arguments by
others may help us. If we have made up our own mind, we may
and /or, using because to mean the cause of, and for to mean the reason for
believing the truth of. Let us take a simple example:
Because:
I. Three people died in Morgansville in traffic accidents this week, because
A. The driver, in one instance, was intoxicated, and
B. The streets, in the other instances, were slick with ice.
For:
I. Three people died in Morgansville in traffic accidents this week, for
A. I saw one person die, and
B. The Morgansville Herald reported the deaths of two other persons in
the issue of May 21.
The point here is to indicate clearly what is being asserted, the cause of an
event or the reason for believing the event to have occurred.
176 ARGUMENT
find arguments in support of our view, and we shall certainly en-
counter arguments against our view which we should be prepared
to refute.
If we went to the library to investigate the question we might
find a considerable body of material on the subject. After reading
such material we might have reached an opinion of our own. Let
us suppose that we wish to attack the proposition, to take the
negative side.
Sometimes the history of a question is important, and that is true
here. The events of the past war make the question very important.
So we may begin our brief with the "History of the Question."
Then we may move on to a statement of the "Occasion for Discus-
sion." That is, the immediate discussion is provoked by a general
debate going on over the country. Then we want to be sure that
we know exactly what the real issues are. So we set up a section
on "Issues." Then we are ready to give the body of the argument.
We might make a brief like the following:
Introduction:
I. Proposition: Scientists should refuse to participate in research which
may lead to the production of military weapons.
II. History of the Question
A. The atomic bomb made clear the destructive power of modern
science.
1. Scientists realize this power.
a. Dr. Kistiakowsky, who witnessed the Alamogordo ex-
plosion called it "the nearest thing to doomsday."
(William L. Laurence, Dawn over Zero: The Story of
the Atomic Bomb, New York, Alfred A. Knopf, 1946,
p. 11)
b. Albert Einstein says that atomic war might destroy two-
thirds of mankind. ("Einstein on the Atomic Bomb," as
told to Raymond Swing, Atlantic Monthly, CLXXVI,
November 1945, 43)
2. Laymen realize this power.
a. The press has been full of information on this point, and
there have been numerous articles and books, like John
Kersey's Hiroshima (New York, Alfred A. Knopf, 1946),
and Norman Cousins's Modern Man is Obsolete (New
York, Macmillan, 1946).
EXTENDED ARGUMENT: THE BRIEF 177
B. Efforts have been made to curb the use of atomic energy for war.
1. The Atomic Commission has been set up in this country.
2. The United Nations are trying to reach an agreement to
bar the bomb.
III. Occasion for Discussion
A. There has been debate among scientists about their responsi-
bility.
1. Norbert Wiener refused to give information about research
having military significance. ("A Scientist Rebels," Atlantic
Monthly, CLXXIX, January 1947, 46)
2. Louis N. Ridenour attacked Dr. Wiener's position. ("The
Scientist Fights for Peace," Atlantic Monthly, CLXXIX,
May 1947, 80-83)
3. The American Scholar published a forum on the relation of
scientists to war (XVI, Spring 1947, 213-225) and a set of
letters in reply ("Should the Scientists Resist Military In-
trusion?" XVI, Summer 1947, 353-360).
IV. Issues
A. Does the scientist behave morally by refusing to participate?
B. Does the refusal to participate practically serve the cause of
peace?
Argument:
I. To refuse is not moral, for
A. In so far as the scale of war is a determining factor, the refusal
is morally meaningless, for
1. The fact of killing constitutes the moral question without
reference to the number of victims. (Louis N. Ridenour,
op. cit.y p. 82)
B. The scientist who refuses neglects some of the broader moral
issues, for
1. If he believes that this system of government has moral
value, it is worth defending in war, and
2. If in case of such a war he had not assisted in preparation
or refused to participate in research, after the com-
mencement of war, he would want victory at somebody
else's expense.
II. To refuse is not practical, for
A. No distinction can nqw be drawn between research which may
have a military value and research which may not, for
1. Scientific advance depends on a number of individual dis-
coveries and ideas, the importance of no one of which
by itself can be predicted, for
178 ARGUMENT
a. No one scientist or discovery made the atomic bomb pos-
sible. (William L. Laurence, op. cit.)
2. A scientific discovery may lead to both a peaceful and a
warlike purpose, for
a. An airplane may drop a bomb or carry serum.
B. In total war the "whole range of industrial and technical know-
how in the world becomes a military factor." (William Yandell
Elliott, "Facts and Values," American Scholar, XVI, Summer
1947, 358)
C. The idea that the scientist is a special case to be distinguished
from the farmer, factory worker or manager, mother, and so
forth, can be refuted, for
1. Food, manufactured goods, and manpower are all necessary
in war.
D. If scientists did refuse to participate, the cause of peace would
not necessarily be advanced, for
1. If the scientists in this country should refuse, the policy in
other countries would not be affected, and
2. If scientists everywhere refused to work, war could still be
carried on with the weapons which can now be manu-
factured.
E. The problem of maintaining peace is not a scientific one, for
1. Science does not define values (Christian Gauss, "The Threat
of Science," Scribners, LXXXVII, May 1930, 467-478), and
2. Peace must be maintained at the practical level of applied
values, for
a. World-wide economic adjustments would promote peace,
and
b. Political arrangements are necessary to set up the ma-
chinery of peace.
Conclusion:
I. It follows that the scientist would serve no moral or practical pur-
pose by refusing to continue his research.
We notice that in such a brief every item is a complete sentence
making its own point, and that if we read the argument through
the relationship of each item to the chain of proof is clear. Further-
more, whenever a reference is given for some printed piece of evi-
dence, the reference is given full bibliographical form.10
10 See Appendix 3, pp. 486-516 for information about bibliographical forms.
EXTENDED ARGUMENT: THE BRIEF 179
When such a brief has been completed, most of the work for an
argument has been done. All that remains is to develop the material
so that it will be attractive reading. Here is a theme developed from
the preceding brief.
SHOULD THE SCIENTISTS STRIKE?
INTRODUCTION The scientists of the world are in a peculiar position.
For a long time, almost ever since the beginning of
modern science, people have been looking to the scien-
tists for a better world for them to live in. And in our
time we were all taught from childhood that the scien-
tists would not only bring plenty to the world but would
also bring peace. Many of the scientists themselves
must have believed this too. But now science has just
shown everybody how powerful it is to destroy as well
as to create, and some of the scientists are afraid of
1 1 what they have done. l Some of them have gone so
far as to say that they will refuse to engage in any re-
search leading to the invention of military weapons.
2 n, A. 2 The day the atomic bomb fell on Hiroshima science
became the central fact for warfare. Science has always
been used to improve weapons, but this time it provided
the weapon which in a single instant destroyed a city
and conquered an empire.
3 n, A, 1 8 The scientists were the first to realize that this was
a new period in history. William L. Laurence in his book
Dawn over Zero: The Story of the Atomic Bomb * tells
4 n, A, 1, a how 4 Dr. Kistiakowsky, one of the scientists watching
the trial explosion at Alamogordo, New Mexico, said it
was "the nearest thing to doomsday that one could pos-
5 n, A, 1, b sibly imagine." And 5 Albert Einstein, the great scientist
whose work made the bomb possible, has said that the
bomb may destroy two-thirds of mankind.!
6 n, A, 2 6 Ordinary people, too, are aware of the danger as we
can tell by picking up any newspaper or magazine. Al-
7 n, A, 2, a most everybody has read 7 John Kersey's story of Hiro-
shima J and the horrible effects of the bomb, and many
0 New York, Alfred A. Knopf, 1946, p. 11.
f "Einstein on the Atomic Bomb/' as told to Raymond
Swing, Atlantic Monthly, CLXXVI, November 1945, 43.
f New York, Alfred A. Knopf, 1946.
180 ARGUMENT
people have read the book by Cousins called Modern
Man is Obsolete*
8 n, B 8 Some things have been done to curb the use of
9 n, B, 1 atomic energy for war. For example, 9 the Atomic Com-
10 11, B, 2 mission has been set up in this country, and the 10 United
Nations are trying to control the use of atomic energy.
11 m, A n It is only natural that scientists, who made the
bomb, should try to do something about the use of
12 in, A, 1 science for war. When 12 Norbert Wiener, who is a
prominent mathematician and who did research for
World War II, was asked for some information about
his work, he wrote a letter refusing to have anything
more to do with creating armaments. His letter was pub-
lished under the title "A Scientist Rebels." f This letter
caused a long debate among scientists which is still going
on. The scientists cannot agree about Dr. Wiener's course
13 in, A, 2 of action. For instance, 13 Louis N. Ridenour \ attacked
14 m, A, 3 Dr. Wiener's position, and the 14 American Scholar §
published a forum on the relation of scientists to war
with letters in reply in a later issue.
15 iv 15 Since this is a problem that concerns everybody,
we should all think about it. I am not a scientist or a
politician, but I do have my views on the subject for
what they are worth. It seems to me that Dr. Wiener is
wrong. I shall try to argue my views on two main points.
16 iv, A 16 First, is the refusal of a scientist to participate in
any research that may be used for military purposes
17 iv, B morally good? 17 Second, if he refuses, does he really
serve the cause of peace? I do not mean to say that
these two questions can be completely separated, but
for the sake of this discussion I shall tiy to keep them
separate.
ARGUMENT There are several objections to the idea that a refusal
18 1, A to participate in such research is morally good. 18 First,
it seems clear to me that on moral grounds there is no
difference between an old-fashioned war and a new-
0 New York, Macmillan, 1946.
f Atlantic Monthly, CLXXIX, January 1947, 46.
| "The Scientist Fights for Peace," Atlantic Monthly
CLXXIX, May 1947, 80-83.
§XVI, Spring 1947, 213-225, Summer 1947, 353-360.
EXTENDED ARGUMENT: THE BRIEF 181
19 1, A, 1 fashioned one. 19 The number of people killed, and
whether they are soldiers in the field or civilians in
cities, does not change the moral question. That has
been there all the time. I shall quote from the article
by Louis N. Ridenour, who has written an answer to
Dr. Wiener. On this point he says: "God told Moses,
'Thou shalt not kill'— not 'Thou shalt not kill with atomic
energy, for that is so effective as to be sinful/ " *
20 1, B 20 Second, the scientist who refuses research on Dr.
Wiener's grounds does not see some of the broader moral
21 1, B, 1 issues. 21 If he believes that this country gives a moral
way of life, with more liberty than some other, he might
have to admit that war would be necessary under some
circumstances to defend it. But this would contradict his
22 1, B, 2 other opinion. 22 And if he still held to his refusal to par-
ticipate in research, he would still want to share in the
benefits of victory in such a war. This means that he
would want somebody else to do the scientific work and
the fighting so that he could keep his own hands clean
and his conscience clear. But that does not seem moral
to me, to make somebody else do the dirty work for you.
23 ii 2S I shall turn now to the question, does the scientist's
refusal do any practical good? Does it serve the cause of
peace? I believe that Dr. Wiener has made this matter
appear too simple just as he has made the matter of
morality appear too simple. There are several objections
that occur to me.
24 n, A 24 First, how can the scientist tell which piece of re-
search may serve a military purpose and which will not?
25 n, A, 1 25 Scientific advance depends on a number of individual
discoveries and ideas. Anybody who reads Dawn over
20 n, A, 1, a Zero, which I have already mentioned, 20will see how
many single pieces of research lay behind the atomic
bomb. And nobody could have guessed that many of
27 n, A, 2 them would ever be used to kill human beings. 27 Further-
more, when the scientific discovery does lead to a ma-
chine or a process, that machine or process may be used
28 n, A, 2, a for either a peaceful or a warlike purpose. 28 An airplane
dropped the bomb on Hiroshima and an airplane may be
used to carry serum to a baby dying of diphtheria.
* Ridenour, op. cit, p. 82.
182 ARGUMENT
29 n, B 29 When we think about what is required to carry on
a modern war, we see another objection. Food, all sorts
of manufactured goods, and man power are necessary,
as well as weapons. The farm, the factory and the
nursery are just as important from one point of view as
the laboratory. William Yandell Elliott, Professor of
Government at Harvard University, has made this point
in writing about science and war: * "The whole range
of industrial and technical know-how in the world be-
80 n, c comes a military factor." 30 Would Dr. Wiener want
every farmer to quit raising corn, every worker to quit
making automobiles or playing cards, and every woman
31 n, c, 1 to stop having children? 31 To be consistent he would
have to demand that, for food, manufactured goods, and
man power are all necessary in war.
82 n, D 32 For a third objection, I can suggest that even if Dr.
Wiener's view were adopted by all the scientists in this
33 n, D, 1 country peace would not be guaranteed. 33 There is no
reason to believe that all other nations would stop re-
34 n, D, 2 search. 84 Furthermore, even if all scientists everywhere
refused to work, war could still be carried on with the
weapons which people already know how to make.
35 n, E 85 This leads to my last objection, that the problem of
maintaining peace is not a scientific one at all. Science
gives us the technical know-how, as Dr. Elliott calls it,
but it does not tell us what to do with that know-how.
36 11, E, 1 30 We have to figure out the good and the bad for our-
selves. I can refer to an essay by Christian Gauss on this
point. He says: "Quite evidently there are certain ques-
tions which the scientist can answer and certain others
which he cannot. Among these latter are questions as
important as the following: Is this holy or is this obscene?
Is this beautiful or is this ugly? Is this good or is this
evil?" f
87 n, E, 2 37 When we get around to figuring out the good and
bad for ourselves, we find that we are involved in things
38 H, E, 2, a like economics and politics and not in science. 38 If
scientific methods were applied to producing food and
goods all over the world, many of the causes for war
0 "Facts and Values/' American Scholar, XVI, Summer
1947, 358.
f"The Threat of Science," Scribners, LXXXVII, May
1930, 470.
EXTENDED ARGUMENT: THE BRIEF 183
would be removed. But that is an economic problem.
89 n, E, 2, b so And it is by political arrangements at home and
abroad that we can set up the actual machinery for
peace.
CONCLUSION If my line of argument is sound, then the refusal of a
scientist to participate in any research which might have
military value is not admirable morally and does no
practical good. And if that is true, the scientist should
continue to follow his chosen occupation. He can work
for peace in other ways which we hope will be more
effective than his laboratory strike.
ORDER OF THE BRIEF AND ORDER
OF THE ARGUMENT
We notice that the author of the theme has very closely followed
the brief, step by step. This is not always necessary. Sometimes
the author may want to plunge into the very middle of his argu-
ment, at what he considers the crucial point, and then later set up
the background of the question. Or he may move to the question
by anecdote or illustration and thus catch the interest of his audi-
ence. Or he may state his conclusion first, and then give his reasons.
We rarely find an article or essay which sticks slavishly to the line
of the brief.
But the ability to draw up a brief remains important, It is a very
good way for the author to clear his own mind. After he has cleared
his own mind, he can then more readily adapt his method to his
audience. And in any event, it is advisable for the inexperienced
writer to follow very closely the line of the brief when he comes
to the actual composition of his argument.
The theme given above is rather elaborate and runs to nearly
2,000 words. It is really a "readings" theme in the form of an argu-
ment. But the same method can be used on a theme of any scale.
Even in a very short theme involving an argument, it is well to brief
the material before beginning the actual writing.
PERSUASION
In the beginning of this chapter we said that, though argument
makes the appeal to reason and aims at conviction, the appeal to
the emotions, persuasion, may be very important as the strategy
184 ARGUMENT
of presenting an argument. The appeal to reason and the appeal to
emotion can be distinguished, but both may appear in the same
discourse.
The human being is a unit, after all, and his reason and his emo-
tions are but different aspects of that unity. Even the most rigor-
ously impersonal and logical mathematician is driven to his work
by some desire—he feels that knowledge is good in itself, that using
his faculties is good, that to satisfy his curiosity is good. He is not
thinking what his work is good /or, merely that it is good.
Though all our reasoning is undertaken in the broad context of
our emotional life and in the end we want it to lead to satisfactions
of the emotional life, the emotions may locally, at a given moment,
get in the way of the exercise of reason. Then we get a kind of short
circuit, and the short-range satisfaction of the emotions will defeat
the long-range satisfaction. So Tom Smith votes Republican (or
Democratic) against his long-range interests, just because his grand-
father fought under General Sherman (or General Lee). So Jack
Brown hits the bottle to avoid a problem instead of facing the
problem and trying to solve it. So Susie Perkins makes a joke at the
expense of a friend just to please her own vanity in her wit, and
loses a friend.
Reason should serve to show us the way to long-run satisfaction;
but sometimes, human nature being what it is, we have to appeal
to short-range satisfactions in order to lead someone to see the long-
range satisfaction. We have to make a person feel that the immedi-
ate effort is worth while. Our problem is to find the way to establish
fruitful contact with him. That is the problem of persuasion in
argument.
We cannot expect our ideas, no matter how good they are, to
make their way readily if we do not know how to present them.
Even the scientist is irritated and put off if he does not find clarity
in the discussion he is attending to— no matter how valuable the
ideas may be in that discussion; and mathematicians talk about
"elegance" in a proof just as a woman might speak of style in a
dress or a painter about the execution of a picture. And when we
get away from the cold, accurate language of mathematics and
science into the warm and confused language of the ordinary world,
the way of presenting an idea becomes even more important. The
PERSUASION 185
right way may predispose our audience to hear us out, to listen
with sympathy, to give us the benefit of the doubt.
THE OCCASION AND THE "RIGHT WAY"
What is the "right way"? There is no single right way, for what
is right for one subject and one audience is wrong for another.
But the right way always accomplishes one basic thing: it catches
the attention of the audience, and it defines a common ground for
speaker or writer and audience.
The good writer or speaker is aware of his occasion (p. 3), and
the occasion involves (1) the speaker, (2) the subject, and (3) the
audience. All three are interrelated, and we have to ask several
questions about them:
1. What is the attitude of the audience toward the subject?
2. What is the speaker's attitude toward the subject?
3. What kinds of treatment will the subject permit?
4. What is the audience's attitude toward the speaker?
5. What is the speaker's attitude toward his audience?
The right way to catch and hold the attention of the audience
and to find common ground with them depends on the answers
to these five questions.
If we are addressing an audience already specially interested in
our subject, half our battle is won. The writer of an article in a
scientific journal can assume that his reader is interested; he is
addressing the specialist. The speaker addressing a mass meeting
to protest a particular tax bill can depend on his audience. But the
writer of an article on a scientific subject or on some theory of
taxation in a popular magazine like the Atlantic Monthly or Colliers
has to capture his audience, and capture it quickly.
What catches the eye? The moving object or the bright object,
not the fixed or the dull. And what catches the eye catches the
mind. So drama and vividness are important. The sharp anecdote,
the interesting or shocking scene, the memorable phrase, the dis-
turbing question—all of these devices may be used to catch the
attention. We know them all from the pages of magazines, the
platform, and the pulpit. When they are really relevant to the topic
under discussion— when the anecdote makes a point or the question
truly leads into the discussion— such devices are effective. When
186 ARGUMENT
they are not relevant, the audience may feel that it is being patron-
ized and imposed upon.
Sometimes, however, the writer can dispense with devices like
scenes or anecdotes, and catch the attention of the audience by
showing immediately that the topic which the audience had felt
was very remote from its concerns is really of great importance.
For instance, Tibet is fairly remote from the concerns of the ordi-
nary citizen, but if the writer can show that Tibet may become very
significant in the general political picture of the Orient and that
world stability depends on stability in the Orient, then the ordinary
citizen realizes that he has some interest in Tibet. The problem,
then, is to move fast enough; you have to prove to the reader im-
mediately that what you are talking about really concerns him and
may affect his life.
Once the audience's attention has been caught, the game is
merely begun. Vividness remains important, even though the vivid-
ness may no longer concern scenes or anecdotes but phrasing or
apt similes and metaphors, and the drama may not involve people
but the clash of ideas and opinions. The audience must be con-
stantly aware of what is going on, what issues are at stake, how
the argument moves from one point to another, and that ground
has been gained. It must catch the sense of impending climax, the
sense of an objective. Without clarity of language and organization
this is not possible: we cannot then hold the attention of the
audience.
These considerations are relative to a particular situation— to the
answers we would have to give to our first three questions in the
particular situation. We might, for instance, catch the attention of
an audience which had a neutral attitude toward our subject, but
then find that in doing so we had falsified our own attitude toward
the subject. The anecdote that might be right for a political article
might be wrong for the pulpit simply because in the pulpit it would
falsify the basic attitude of the speaker toward the subject. If the
speaker is urgent and serious about his subject and wants to impress
that fact upon his audience, he cannot use devices which contradict
his own basic attitude, or if he does so he must use great skill in
making the transition back to the effect he fundamentally desires.
And for some subjects certain methods of treatment are inappli-
cable. Even clarity is a relative matter, for what is clear to some
PERSUASION 187
people is not clear to others, and some subjects cannot be simplified
beyond a certain point. The question is always, "Clear for whom
and clear about what?"
THE COMMON GROUND
So far we have been concerned with the problem of catching
and holding the attention of the audience. But there is the problem
of finding the common ground. This is the final problem, for if we
do not find this common ground, everything else is meaningless.
We have already touched on this question in speaking of the possi-
bility of catching the interest of the audience by showing that a
subject— like Tibet— which had seemed to be of no concern is really
of great concern. In such attempts we try to find the common
ground between the audience and the subject.
But there remains the problem of finding the common ground
between audience and speaker or writer. Without finding this, it
is impossible to convince the audience. As we have said earlier, in
the most impersonal and technical piece of argument, it is assumed
that there is the common ground of definition and reason. This
common ground must always be found, but most often this is not
enough. We have to overcome prejudices, personal hostilities, habits
of feeling and thinking, inherited attitudes. And to do this we must
find a starting point acceptable to the audience. Let us take an
example.
Suppose Mr. Brown has a strong anti-Semitic attitude and Mr.
Smith is arguing against that view.
SMITH: Look here, I know how you feel, but I'm just curious to know
how it squares with your other views. It just doesn't seem
consistent with what I know about you.
BROWN: What do you mean?
SMITH: Well, just the way you manage your affairs, the way you treat
people.
BROWN: What's that got to do with it?
SMITH: Well, nobody ever said you aren't a straight shooter, or didn't
believe in justice, or any of these things. Like that time when
you—
BROWN: That hasn't got anything to do with it.
SMITH: You don't deny that you believe in people getting justice.
BROWN: Sure, I don't deny that, but—
188 ARGUMENT
Smith has tried to locate the common ground. He has made Brown
admit that he has a notion of justice. Now he has the job of making
Brown see what justice would mean in a particular situation. That
may be a hard job, but at least there is a starting point in the com-
mon agreement that justice is desirable. But suppose that Brown
denies that he is interested in justice.
BROWN: Look here, I know justice is all right, by and large. But, buddy,
this is a tough world and a man's got to look out for himself.
He's got to watch his interests.
SMITH: OK, let's forget that justice stuff. A man's got to walch his
own interests. That's right. It's a good practical point of view.
BROWN: I'm a practical man.
SMITH: Well, the question just boils down to what a man's interests are,
doesn't it?
BROWN: Sure.
SMITH: Now on the Jewish question, maybe our interests aren't as
simple as they sometimes seem—
Smith has here accepted the common ground of practical self-
interest. Now his job is to show that in the light of self-interest
anti-Semitism may be a short-sighted policy in any society. Again,
he may not convince his friend, but at least he has a starting point.
We have to find the starting point. If there is no starting point
possible, argument is not possible. There remains only the resort
to force if a question is to be resolved.
To find the common ground we must know our audience and
know ourselves. And when we are sure about what we do agree on
we must say to the audience: "We disagree about the question
before us, but we really agree on something more important than
the question before us, something that lies deeper than the ques-
tion. And since we do agree on that deeper question, I can show
you that we ought to agree on the present question/* We do not
say that in so many words, but that is what we mean to convey.
We must convey this if we are to overcome the hostile attitude
of the audience. By and large, we must convince the audience that
our own attitude toward it is friendly. There are times when a
brutal shock may bring an audience to its senses and may startle
it into thought, but even then the audience, in the end, must come
to feel that the motive behind giving the shock is a responsible one.
Hard words mean nothing to a man unless he respects or likes the
PERSUASION 189
speaker of the hard words. So tact, fair-mindedness, patience, and
respect for the audience are essential. They are not only essential
for persuasion in argument. They are important for many kinds of
writing. And all of this comes down to a matter of TONE. The chap-
ter on Tone will discuss this subject at length.
SUMMARY
x
f Argument is the kind of discourse used to make the audience
(reader or listener) think or act as the arguer desires. It appeals to
the understanding, and aims to CONVINCE. It differs from the other
forms of discourse in that it arises, directly or indirectly, from a
situation of conflict in ideas or attitudes.
VAn argument cannot be about a subject considered as a vague
generality, or about a question of mere taste. An argument must
be about a PROPOSITION, a statement that can be believed, doubted,
or denied. A proposition represents a judgment.
^There are two kinds of propositions, Propositions of FACT and
propositions of POLICY. /The proposition of fact asserts that some-
thing is true. The proposition of policy asserts that a certain line
of action is desirable. ^
/~ X V
(A proposition should be SINGLE) It should not express more than
one idea for argument. Even thoiigh an extended argument involves
several propositions, each one must still be single, and must be
argued individually.
^ A proposition should be CLEAR) That is, it should not contain
terms which are not understood, and the accepted terms should be
understood in a single sense for the purpose of that argument. An
argument cannot proceed unless all concerned accept the definition
of the terms involved.
(A proposition should be UNPREJUDICED} The wording should not
smuggle in anything which would imply a foregone conclusion to
the argument, anything that "begs the question."
(Some propositions can be understood immediately, but for some
we must know the HISTORY OF THE QUESTION in order to know ex-
actly what is at stake. And for similar reasons it is sometimes neces-
sary to know the OCCASION OF THE DISCUSSION. The particular circum-
stances may modify the meaning.
The single idea of the proposition may raise several reasons for
190 ARGUMENT
and against it. We should study the proposition to determine what
are the points on which controversy may focus. An essential point
is called an ISSUE.
A point is essential if its defeat means the defeat of the proposi-
tion. The supporter of a proposition must win on all the issues to
win on the proposition. (A whole argument can hinge on one point,
(There are two kinds of issues, ADMITTED and CRUCIAL. An issue on
which both parties to an argument are in agreement is admitted.
The issue (or issues) on which they are not in agreement is crucial.)
We arrive at the issues by making an ANALYSIS of the proposition.
To analyze a proposition, all possible arguments on both sides are
listed, the affirmative facing its negative, when such pairing is pos-
sible. There is no pair for an admitted issue. That is, there is nothing
on the opposing side against it. The next step is to reduce the points
of .argument to the fundamental ones.
^When the proposition is one of policy certain STOCK QUESTIONS
may help to reduce the arguments to order.) These stock questions,
which can be applied to the individual points, are:
1. Is there a need for change?
2. Will the policy suggested be effective?
3. Are the possible benefits of the suggested policy greater than
any new disadvantages?
4. Is there any alternative policy better than the proposed one?
In a proposition of fact the location of the issues becomes a
problem of defining the fact, or facts, by which the proposition
stands or falls. )
(The actual process of argument involves EVIDENCE, whatever can
be offered as support for an argument. Evidence is of two kinds,
FACT and OPINION. -,
(To be acceptea as fact a piece of evidence must be VERIFIABLE
or ATTESTED by a reliable sourceA
Verifiable evidence, as we use the phrase here, is the kind
that can be established by referring to some regularity in nature.
For instance, it can be verified by a test that a certain cord will
support a certain weight or that water will freeze at a certain tem-
perature. Or it can be verified that the moon was full on a certain
night
SUMMARY 191
Evidence by testimony can be subjected to the following tests:
1. Was there opportunity for the witness to observe the event?
2. Was the witness physically capable of observing the event?
3. Was the witness intellectually capable of understanding and
reporting?
4. Was the witness honest?
But neither verifiable evidence nor attested evidence is valuable
if it is not truly relevant to the issue in question.
The reliability of evidence of opinion depends on the AUTHORITY
of the person giving the opinion. Experience and success are gen-
erally taken to signify authority, but neither is reliable unless the
person who is experienced or successful is capable of analyzing his
experience or the means of his success. Authority, too, must be
considered in relation to time. What is acceptable as authority at
one time may not be accepted at another. The authority of a physi-
cist of 1850 would not necessarily be accepted today. Furthermore,
what is acceptable as authority for one audience may not be accept-
able for another.
In evidence of opinion, as in evidence of fact, the question of
relevance must be considered.
Once evidence is available it must be reasoned about in an argu-
ment. Reasoning is the process by which the mind moves from
certain gjven data (evidence) to a conclusion that was not given.
There are two types of reasoning, INDUCTION and DEDUCTION.
There are two types of induction, GENERALIZATION and ANALOGY^
Generalization is the process of moving from a number of particu-
lar instances to a general conclusion that all instances of the type
being investigated will be the same; For example, if five boys from
the Hawkins School prove honest we generalize that all boys from
that school will prove honest. But there is always a risk in general-
ization. At the best it can only give probability. There is an INDUC-
TIVE LEAP.
To reduce the risk of error, the following rules can be applied:
1. A fair number of instances must be investigated. One or two
instances indicate nothing.
2. The instances investigated must be typical of the class being
investigated.
J$. If negative instances occur they must be explained.
( Analogy is the type of reasoning based on the idea that if two
192 ARGUMENT
instances are alike in a number of particulars they will be alike in
the point in question!) For example, it may be reasoned that a man
who has made a success as a high officer in the army will make a
success as a business executive, for both things involve the ability
to organize and to command.
As in generalization, there is always a risk in analogy. To reduce
the risk, the following rules can be applied:
1. The two instances compared must be alike in important re-
spects.
£ Differences between the two instances must be accounted for.
(^ Whereas induction can give only probability, deduction can give
certitude) A deduction starts from certain assumptions, like the
axioms in geometry, which if accepted necessarily generate the
system that follows.
fbeductive reasoning appears in the SYLLOGISM. The syllogism
consists of two propositions, called premises, and a conclusion, as
follows:
All men are mortal, (major premise)
Socrates was a man. (minor premise)
.'. Socrates was mortal, (conclusion)
The premises involve three terms, the MAJOR TERM, the MINOR
TERM, and the MIDDLE TERM. The major term is the term that consti-
tutes the predicate of the conclusion (mortal), the minor term the
subject of the conclusion (Socrates), the middle term the link
between the major and minor terms (man, men). The process estab-
lishes relations among classes. We can chart the syllogism above
by thinking of a nest of boxes: a small box (Socrates) placed in a
medium-size box (men), and that placed in a large box (mortal
creatures).}
When the process of reasoning is correct in a syllogism, the syl-
logism is said to be VALID. But a valid syllogism may not give a true
conclusion if the premises are not true. Therefore, to be sure of
getting a true conclusion the premises must be inspected.
In addition to the ordinary syllogism there are two other types,
the EITHER-OR (called the DISJUNCTIVE) syllogism, and the IF-THEN
(called the HYPOTHETICAL) syllogism.}
i In reasoning by either-or, two possibilities are set up, one is ruled
out, and therefore the second must be accepted. The two items of
SUMMARY 193
the either-or must really cover the case— cover all possibilities. And
the two items must not have any overlap.
Reasoning by if-then deals with a condition and a result. If the
condition is fulfilled, the result follows. Most errors in this form of
reasoning come from misinterpreting the if of the condition to mean
onZi/t£)
• An argument, either inductive or deductive, that does not follow
the course of reason is called a FALLACY. There are numerous
fallacies, but four of common occurrence are EQUIVOCATION, BEG-
GING THE QUESTION, IGNORING THE QUESTION, and NON SEQUITUR
(Latin for "it does not follow").
Equivocation occurs when a significant word in an argument is
used in two senses.^
Begging the question occurs when the arguer assumes something
to be true which really needs proof, as in a prejudiced proposition
or in arguing in a circle.;
/An arguer ignores the question when he introduces any consid-
eration which will distract from what is really at stake, as when
he shifts the interest of the argument or makes an appeal to the
emotions and prejudices of the audience^)
(Non sequitur occurs when an arguer asserts a connection between
two items which does not exist; for example, when a thing is taken
to be the cause of another simply because it comes before it in
time or is associated with ity
\Some understanding of fallacies is useful to straight thinking, but
it is also useful for REFUTATION, the attack on an opposing argument.
Syllogisms in developed form rarely appear in extended argu-
ment, but the implied syllogism, called ENTHYMEME, is common.
A syllogism is implied when one of the three elements, major
premise, minor premise, or conclusion, is suppressed, and it is
assumed that the audience can supply it. Often an extended argu-
ment is a chain of enthymemes.
\^The composition of an extended argument calls for careful plan-
ning. The systematic outline for an extended argument is called a
BRIEF. It is the arrangement in logical sequence and in logical rela-
tionship of the evidence and the argument on one side of a dispute.
The brief makes complete sense in itself, even to a reader who is
not previously acquainted with the dispute.
(The brief is divided into three parts, INTRODUCTION, ARGUMENT
194 ARGUMENT
or DISCUSSION, and CONCLUSION^ The introduction gives whatever is
necessary for an understanding of the situation, certainly the propo-
sition and the statement of admissions and issues, and sometimes
the definition of terms, the history of the question, and the immedi-
ate occasion of the dispute. Each of the three main sections of the
brief is to be treated independently. Within the section, main
headings are indicated by Roman numerals, with subdivisions indi-
cated in descending importance by A, I, a. In the section of argu-
ment the relation between evidence and inference is indicated. For
example, Z is true because of A, and A is true because of 1 and 2,
and 1 is true because of a and b. The brief moves down from state-
ment through a chain of proof.
After the brief is made, the arguer may not necessarily follow its
order. He may, for instance, begin his actual presentation at what
he considers a crucial point. But the brief does provide him with
the skeleton of the argument.
(it has been said that argument, strictly considered, appeals to the
reason. But PERSUASION, the appeal to the emotions, is very useful in
leading the audience to the content of the argument.
Persuasion depends to a large extent upon VIVIDNESS of presenta-
tion and upon discovering the COMMON GROUND between the arguer
and his audience7)The quality of vividness catches interest, and the
discovery of a common ground overcomes hostility or indifference.
For persuasion, it is necessary to exhibit tact, fair-mindedness,
patience, and respect for the audience.
CHAPTER
Description
DESCRIPTION, as we shall understand the word in this discus-
sion, is the kind of discourse concerned with the appearance of
the world. It tells what qualities a thing has, what impression it
makes on our senses. It aims to suggest to the imagination the thing
as it appears immediately before an observer. We call this kind of
description SUGGESTIVE to distinguish it from another kind, exposi-
tory description, or technical description, which is really a form
of exposition, and has already been discussed.1
RELATION OF SUGGESTIVE DESCRIPTION
TO OTHER KINDS OF DISCOURSE
Even suggestive description may appear in close association with
other kinds of discourse. It may be used in connection with exposi-
tion 2 or with argument,8 but more often, in fact quite commonly,
it appears in connection with narration. When we are telling a
story, we must, if we wish our audience to grasp it as real, give
some impression of the scene and of the persons involved. In neither
conversation nor writing do we ordinarily set up the necessary de-
scription as a long, separate, preliminary part of the whole composi-
tion; instead, we tend to weave it into the body of the narrative as
the occasion demands. The vivid stroke of description, small in itself
1 Page 42. Review the section on the distinction between suggestive descrip-
tion and technical description.
2 See Chap. 3, p. 61.
a See Chap. 4, p. 185.
196 DESCRIPTION
and apparently unimportant, may lend the touch of reality and may
stir the imagination so that the reader is ready to accept and re-
spond to the whole composition.
Here is a piece of narrative which has been stripped of all its
descriptive elements:
The other waved the cigar, the other hand in Horace's face. Horace
shook it, and freed his hand. "I thought I recognized you when you got
on at Oxford/' Snopes said, "but I— May I set down?" he said, already
shoving at Horace's knee with his leg. He flung the overcoat on the seat
and sat down as the train stopped. "Yes, sir, I'm always glad to see any
of the boys, any time . . ." He leaned across Horace and peered out
the window at a station. " 'Course you ain't in my county no longer, but
what I say a man's friends is his friends, whichever way they vote.
Because a friend is a friend, and whether he can do anything for me
or not ..." He leaned back, the cigar in his fingers.
Here is the passage in its original form, with the descriptive ele-
ments italicized. Notice how they give the sense of reality, or the
immediately observable world, to what otherwise would be a bare
synopsis of events.
The other waved the cigar, the other hand, palm-up, the third finger
discolored faintly at the base of a huge ring, in Horace's face. Horace
shook it and freed his hand. "I thought I recognized you when you got
on at Oxford," Snopes said, "but I— May I set down?" he said, already
shoving at Horace's knee with his leg. He flung the overcoat— a shoddy
blue garment with a greasy velvet collar— on the seat and sat down as the
train stopped. "Yes, sir, I'm always glad to see any of the boys, any
time . . ." He leaned across Horace and peered out the window at a
5777 all dingy station with its cryptic bulletin board chalked over, an
express truck bearing a wire chicken coop containing two forlorn fowls,
at three or four men in overalls gone restfully against the wall, chewing.
" 'Course you ain't in my county no longer, but what I say a man's
friends is his friends, whichever way they vote. Because a friend is a
friend, and whether he can do anything for me or not . . ." He leaned
back, the unlighted cigar in his fingers.— WILLIAM FAULKNER: Sanctuary,
Chap. 19.4
It is clear that in the passage above description is subordinate
to narrative. As a matter of fact, description is usually subordinate
4 From Sanctuary by William Faulkner, copyright, 1931, by Random House
Inc.
SUGGESTIVE DESCRIPTION 197
when it appears mixed with some other kind of discourse, and it
rarely appears alone in any very extended form. This is only to be
expected, for description, which has to do with the appearance of
the world, cannot satisfy us very long. We are constantly straining
beyond the appearance of things; we want to see what they do and
know what they mean, or we are interested in our own responses
to and ideas about them. Therefore, though description can present
us with the vivid appearance of things, it is constantly moving over,
in ordinary use, into narrative and exposition and, even, argument,
the kinds of discourse which express our fuller interests.
This is not to say, however, that a capacity for description is not
important for any writer. Without the resources of description most
kinds of composition would be very bare and unconvincing— fiction,
poetry, letters, feature articles, reporting, history, essays, biography,
speeches, and even certain kinds of philosophical writing. Descrip-
tion is far more important than its mere proportion in what we read
would seem to indicate. And furthermore, any attempt to under-
stand its principles will sharpen our own perceptions and increase
our pleasure in both literature and the real world we live in.
SUGGESTIVE DESCRIPTION AND THE SENSES
Description, and particularly suggestive description, is the kind
of discourse that has primarily to do with the appearance of the
world, with the way things present themselves to our sense. We say,
"The apple is red," and we refer to what the sense of sight tells us
about the apple. But we also say, "The tweed is rough," or "The
music is loud," or "The milk is sweet," or "The lilies are fragrant,"
and in so doing appeal to other senses, touch, hearing, taste, smell.
We are also aware of the world in terms of heat and cold, and
weight, pressure, and strain, and we have a language to describe
that awareness, too.
The descriptive sentences just given are crude and general. They
do not make us vividly aware of the thing described. A good writer
is not satisfied with such crude and general descriptions. He is
interested in making close discriminations and in indicating slight
differences. Therefore, he must be a good observer. Even if he is
writing a description of an imagined object rather than one really
before his eyes, he can be successful only if his mind is stored with
impressions drawn from actual experience.
198 DESCRIPTION
Therefore, a person who wants to become a good writer should
make some effort to train his powers of observation and to expand
his vocabulary, especially in words that indicate differences in per-
ception. He must tie his perceptions and his words together. The
loud noise must cease to be loud noise for him, and must become
the crash, the bang, the thud, the clatter, the clash, the boom, the
bong, the clang, the howl, the wail, the scream, or whatever most
vividly presents the thing he has heard. And the same for the other
senses, for all the senses are important to the writer who wants to
give a clear picture of the world.
Here are three bits of description, each one primarily concerned
with impressions of a single sense. Note the discriminations made
in each passage and the language used to record the close observa-
tion.
To tell when the scythe is sharp enough this is the rule. First the stone
clangs and grinds against the iron harshly; then it rings musically to one
note; then, at last, it purrs as though the iron and stone were exactly
suited. When you hear this, your scythe is sharp enough; and I, when
I heard it that June dawn, with everything quite silent except the birds,
let down the scythe and bent myself to mow.— HILAIRE BELLOC: "The
Mowing of a Field," Hills and the Sea.6
He knew the inchoate sharp excitement of hot dandelions in young
Spring grass at noon; the smell of cellars, cobwebs, and built-on secret
earth; in July, of watermelons bedded in sweet hay, inside a farmer's
covered wagon; of cantaloupe and crated peaches; and the scent of
orange rind, bitter-sweet, before a fire of coals .—THOMAS WOLFE: Look
Homeward, Angel, Chap. 8.
When I think of hills, I think of the upward strength I tread upon.
When water is the object of my thought, I feel the cool shock of the
plunge and the quick yielding of the waves that crisp and curl and
ripple about my body. The pleasing changes of rough and smooth,
pliant and rigid, curved and straight in the bark and branches of a tree
give the truth to my hand. The immovable rock, with its juts and warped
surfaces, bends beneath my fingers into all manner of grooves and
hollows. The bulge of a watermelon and the puffed-up rotundities of
squashes that sprout, bud, and ripen in that strange garden planted some-
5 From Hills and the Sea by Hilaire Belloc, copyright, 1935, by Charles
Scribner's Sons.
SUGGESTIVE DESCRIPTION 199
where behind my finger-tips are the ludicrous in my tactual memory and
imagination.— HELEN KELLER: The World I Live In, Chap. I.6
In the first of these selections the sense of hearing is dominant,
in the second the sense of smell, and in the third, the sense of touch.
But in the third selection, which comes from a remarkable book
written by a woman blind and deaf almost from birth, we also find
temperature and pressure and strain: the coolness of the water and
the "upward strength" of the hill.
As we can see from the quotations above, especially from the
first two, a single sense may be dominant in a piece of description.
But generally speaking, we may limit ourselves far too much if we
insist on making the impression of a single sense dominant. This is
certainly true if we think of description as a business of tying the
single adjective to the single sense impression, as we do when we
say, "The apple is red." When we observe the apple we observe
much more than the color, and if we describe only the color, even
if we find the exact word or phrase— such as "tawny-freckled" in-
stead of the general word red— we still leave out, as we have said
earlier, a great deal that we have observed.7
We have observed not only color. We are prepared to say that
the apple is, for example, "slick-looking," or "juicy-looking," and
many other things besides. Other senses than sight are involved
in our experience of the apple. Our past experiences with apples
are operating in our experience of the present apple. We are not
touching the present apple, but we are prepared to say that it is
slick-looking. And so on. We see the apple and sense the complex
of qualities which mean "appleness"— the color, the texture, the
fragrance, the juiciness. That is to say, our experience of the apple
is more massive than the response of one sense. A good writer often
tries to indicate something of the massiveness of perception.
Our ordinary use of language illustrates this massiveness. When
we say "slick-looking" of the apple, we are, in a way, fusing two
senses, sight and touch. Or when we look at a frozen lake and say,
"The ice is glassy," we evoke with the word glassy a whole com-
plex of qualities which are fused in the single word— slickness, hard-
6 From The World I Live In by Helen Keller, copyright, 1908, by the Cen
tury Company. Reprinted by permission of Appleton-Century-Crofts, Inc.
7 See p. 34 above.
200 DESCRIPTION
ness, transparency, brightness. Though description may sometimes
confine itself to the report of a single sense, it frequently tries to
fuse the report of several senses to give impression of the fullness
of the experience, the unity of perception.
THE DOMINANT IMPRESSION
We have already seen how the facts selected by Melville in his
description of the volcanic islands (p. 46), by Poe in his description
of the House of Usher (p. 52), and by Dickens in his description
of the Dedlock estate (p. 52) are all related to the single effect the
writer desires to create, Each writer wishes to leave his reader with
a single DOMINANT IMPRESSION, a single attitude, a single feeling.
A writer should try to select and organize his material so that
such a single impression is dominant. Vividness of detail is impor-
tant, for without that the reader does not really grasp the object
in his imagination, but vividness alone is not enough to insure a
good description. There must be the basic line of feeling, the unify-
ing idea, to make it memorable for him. Contradictory and irrele-
vant items in a description disturb the reader and leave him at a
loss. In such a case he may not even understand why the descrip-
tion is given in the first place.
For example, if Dickens had presented in some detail the roaring
fires on the hearths in the Dedlock mansion and the steaming
roasts and puddings on the table, he would have distracted from
the interpretation he wishes the scene to bear. Undoubtedly the
Dedlock family had roaring fires and steaming roasts, but that is
not the point. The point is what the writer wants a description to
work on the reader.
PATTERN AND TEXTURE IN DESCRIPTION
Even if a writer knows what dominant impression he wishes to
give and knows what items will contribute to his effect, he still has
to settle certain questions of method. No one can lay down formulas
that will assure the writer of success, but the understanding of
certain principles will help him avoid confusion and will sharpen
his effects.
PATTERN AND TEXTURE IN DESCRIPTION 201
We can consider the problem under two general heads: PATTERN
and TEXTURE. The first, pattern, has to do with the general organiza-
tion; the second, texture, has to do with the nature of the details,
and their interrelation.
PATTERN
Under pattern we are here concerned with the various principles
by which a piece of description may be organized. If one observes
a person, an object, or a scene, it has its proper unity— in a flash
we recognize a friend, a tree, a familiar room, a meadow with woods
beyond. But if, when we set out to describe one of these things,
we give a mere catalogue of unrelated details, a mere enumeration
of this, that, and the other, the sense of vital unity is gone.
The reason is not far to seek. In fact, when we look at something,
even though our attention is focused on some one aspect, we are
constantly aware of the totality; it is all there before us at one time.
In description, however, the details are presented to us one after
another; instead of the simultaneous presentation which we find in
fact, we now have presentation in sequence. Since simultaneous
presentation is impossible in description, the writer must provide
some pattern into which the reader can fit the details if he is to
give them a proper unity.
1. PATTERN FROM FIXED POINT OF VIEW
The most obvious method of ordering details is dictated by the
arrangement of the details in the object; we describe from left to
right, or from top to bottom, giving each item as it comes. But as
it comes to whom? There must be an observer, specified or implied.
And that observer occupies, as it were, a certain fixed point of view,
specified or implied, from which he can read off the details.
Study the following description of an English cathedral:
Let us go together up the more retired street, at the end of which
we can see the pinnacles of one of the towers, and then through the
low, grey gateway with its battlemented top and small latticed window
in the center, into the inner private-looking road or close, where nothing
goes in but the carts of the tradesmen who supply the bishop and the
chapter, and here there are little shaven grassplots, fenced in by neat
rails, tfefore old-fashioned groups of somewhat diminutive and exces-
sively trim houses, with little oriel and bay windows jutting out here
202 DESCRIPTION
and there, and deep wooden cornices and eaves painted cream colour
and white, and small porches to their doors in the shape of cockleshells,
or little, crooked, thick, indescribable, wooden gables warped a little on
one side; and so forward till we come to the larger houses, also old-
fashioned, but of red brick, and with gardens behind them, and fruit
walls, which show here and there, among the nectarines, the vestiges
of an old cloister arch or shaft; and looking in front on the cathedral
square itself, laid out in rigid divisions of smooth grass and gravel walk,
yet not uncheerful, especially on the sunny side, where the canons'
children are walking with their nurserymaids. And so, taking care not to
tread on the grass, we will go along the straight walk to the west front,
and there stand for a time, looking up at its deep-pointed porches and
the dark places between their pillars where there were statues once,
and where the fragments, here and there, of a stately figure are still
left, which has in it the likeness of a king, perhaps indeed a king on
earth, perhaps a saintly king long ago in heaven; and so higher and
higher up to the great mouldering wall of rugged sculpture and con-
fused arcades, shattered, and grey, and grisly with heads of dragons
and mocking fiends, worn by the rain and swirling winds into yet un-
seemlier shape, and coloured on their stony scales by the deep russet-
orange lichen, melancholy gold; and so, higher still, to the bleak towers,
so far above that the eye loses itself among the bosses of their traceries,
though they are rude and strong, and only sees, like a drift of eddying
black points, now closing, now scattering, and now settling suddenly into
invisible places among the bosses and flowers, the crowd of restless birds
that fill the whole square with that strange clangour of theirs, so harsh
and yet so soothing, like the cries of birds on a solitary coast between
the cliffs and sea.— JOHN RUSKIN: The Stones of Venice, Vol. I, Chap. 4.
In this passage, the author has very carefully specified the ob-
server, in this case the reader, who is invited to go with him.
And he specifies even more carefully the point in space from which
the cathedral is to be viewed; he even conducts the reader to that
point on the west side. The order of the details in the description
then follows the order in which the observer would meet those
details as he raised his eyes slowly upward. The items given us in
the earlier part of the passage belong to the ground level; the last
item is the birds above the tower.
2. PATTERN FROM MOVING POINT
Sometimes, however, the observer, specified or implied, does not
occupy a fixed point in space, but moves from one point to another.
PATTERN AND TEXTURE IN DESCRIPTION 203
Then another principle of sequence comes into play, a principle well
illustrated by the following passage:
Our path took us between the Sakhara and the Sukhur by a narrow
gorge with sandy floor and steep bare walls. Its head was rough. We
had to scramble up shelves of coarse-faced stone, and along a great
fault in the hill-side between two tilted red reefs of hard rock. The
summit of the pass was a knife-edge, and from it we went down an
encumbered gap, half-blocked by one fallen boulder which had been
hammered over with the tribal marks of all the generations of men who
had used this road. Afterwards there opened tree-grown spaces, collect-
ing grounds in winter for the sheets of rain which poured off the glazed
sides of the Sukhur. There were granite outcrops here and there, and a
fine silver sand underfoot in the still damp water-channels. The drainage
was towards Heiran.— T. E. LAWRENCE: Seven Pillars of Wisdom, Chap.
31.8
3. PATTERN OF FRAME IMAGE
Sometimes, however, the object of a description is too large or
unwieldy for unity of impression to be achieved by either of the
methods involving, as specified or implied, a "real" point of view.
In such a case, the writer may give unity by means of what we
may call a FRAME IMAGE; he can compare the whole object to some
smaller object which can be visualized, and which will serve as a
frame into which the reader's imagination can fit the necessary
details of the object being described. For instance, let us take the
following example:
The nether sky opens and Europe is disclosed as a prone and emaciated
figure, the Alps shaping like a backbone, and the branching mountain-
chains like ribs, the peninsular plateau of Spain forming a head. Broad
and lengthy lowlands stretch from the north of France across Russia like
a grey-green garment hemmed by the Ural mountains and the glistening
Arctic Ocean.— -THOMAS HARDY: The Dynasts, Part I.9
In this example, the writer has begun by providing the frame
image and then giving the details which are to be set in the frame.
But sometimes the writer will reverse the process; that is, he will
8 From: Seven Pillars of Wisdom by T. E. Lawrence. Copyright 1926, 1935
by Doubleday & Company, Inc.
9 From Thomas Hardy: The Dynasts. Copyright, 1904 by The Macmillan
Company and used with their permission.
204 DESCRIPTION
first give the details, perhaps a swarm of them which stimulate and
baffle the reader's imagination, and then give the frame image which
will suddenly reduce all to order. Here is a very simple example
of the method:
I studied M. de Charlus. The tuft of his grey hair, the eye, the brow
of which was raised by his monocle to emit a smile, the red flowers in
his buttonhole formed, so to speak, the three mobile apices of a con-
vulsive and striking triangle.— MARCEL PROUST: The Guermantes Wat/,
Part I, Chap. 1.
4. PATTERN BY MOOD
In the types of pattern thus far discussed, the position of an
observer, specified or implied, determines the organization of the
details, but his reactions and interests are irrelevant. We shall now
turn, however, to examples in which the emphasis is subjective, in
which the reactions and interests of the observer, specified or im-
plied, provide the basic principle for ordering and unifying the
details.
The first of these patterns based on the observer we may call
pattern by mood. We have already had examples of this. The pas-
sage from Foe's "The Fall of the House of Usher" (p. 52) gives
us an example with the observer specified, and the passage from
Dickens's Bleak House (p. 52) gives us an example with the ob-
server implied. In neither of these descriptions does the writer
follow a mechanical order. Instead, he arranges the items of the
scene to build toward the subjective effect desired. At the end Poe
describes the effect of his scene as the horrible dropping off of a
veil, and Dickens concludes with the general taste and smell of the
Dedlocks in their graves. In each of these passages the mood is
established very early and pervades the whole, though with mount-
ing intensity.
In some instances of effective description, however, the mood
does not so definitely pervade the whole passage. Rather, it may
appear early as a kind of lead and then be dropped or be presented
only by implication. Or the description may begin with an accumu-
lation of details which seem to be collected almost at random but
are brought to focus in the end by the emergence of a dominant
mood.
PATTERN AND TEXTURE IN DESCRIPTION 205
The following passage is an example of the last type of pattern:
Except for the Marabar Caves—and they are twenty miles off— the
city of Chandrapore presents nothing extraordinary. Edged rather than
washed by the river Ganges, it trails for a couple of miles along the bank,
scarcely distinguishable from the rubbish it deposits so freely. There are
no bathing-steps on the river front, as the Ganges happens not to be
holy here; indeed there is no river front, and bazaars shut out the wide
and shifting panorama of the stream. The streets are mean, the temples
ineffective, and though a few fine houses exist they are hidden away in
gardens or down* alleys whose filth deters all but the invited guest.
Chandrapore was never large or beautiful, but two hundred years ago it
lay on the road between Upper India, then imperial, and the sea, and
the fine houses date from that period. The zest for decoration stopped
in the eighteenth century, nor was it ever democratic. There is no paint-
ing and scarcely any carving in the bazaars. The very wood seems made
of mud, the inhabitants of mud moving. So abased, so monotonous is
everything that meets the eye, that when the Ganges comes down it
might be expected to wash the excrescence back into the soil. Houses
do fall, people are drowned and left rotting, but the general outline of
the town persists, swelling here, shrinking there, like some low but in-
destructible form of life.— E. M. FORSTER: A Passage to India, Chap. I.10
5. PATTERN BY INTEREST
Just as mood may give the principle of unity, so a special interest
may provide it. If a man out to shoot quail and a man out to paint
a landscape look at the same field, their different interests mean
different kinds of observation. The hunter focused attention on the
clump of brush as possible cover for a covey; the painter looks at
it merely as one form in his total composition and as a patch of
color in relation to other colors, the tawny of the dry sage and the
blackness of the tree trunks beyond.
In the following passage there are many details which would be
vivid in any description, but we notice that what holds the whole
passage together is the special interest with which the scene is
regarded. Here a soldier is inspecting a bridge which he intends
to dynamite. The structure of the bridge and the location of the
enemy defenses are what finally concern him.
10 From A Passage to India by E. M. Forster, copyright, 1924, by Harcourt
Brace and Company, Inc.
206 DESCRIPTION
The late afternoon sun that still came over the brown shoulder of the
mountain showed the bridge dark against the steep emptiness of the
gorge. It was a steel bridge of a single span and there was a sentry box
at each end. It was wide enough for two motor cars to pass and it
spanned, in solid-flung metal grace, a deep gorge at the bottom of which,
far below, a brook leaped in white water through rocks and boulders
down to the main stream of the pass.
The sun was in Robert Jordan's eyes and the bridge showed only in
outline. Then the sun lessened and was gone and looking up through the
trees at the brown, rounded height that it had gone behind, he saw, now,
that he no longer looked into the glare, that the mountain slope was a
delicate new green and that there were patches of old snow under the
crest.
Then he was looking at the bridge again in the sudden short trueness
of the little light that would be left, and studying its construction. The
problem of its demolition was not difficult. As he watched he took out
a notebook from his breast pocket and made several quick line sketches.
As he made the drawings he did not figure the charges. He would do
that later. Now he was noting the points where the explosive should be
placed in order to cut the support of the span and drop a section of it
back into the gorge. It could be done unhurriedly, scientifically and
correctly with a half dozen charges laid and braced to explode simul-
taneously; or it could be done roughly with two big ones. They would
need to be very big ones, on opposite sides and should go at the same
time.— ERNEST HEMINGWAY: For Whom the Bell Tolls, Chap. 3.11
It does not greatly matter what the nature of the interest is. The
dynamiter's interest in the bridge holds this passage together, and
makes the bridge serve as a focus for the scene. But in the follow-
ing passage the comparison which Huckleberry Finn draws between
houses in town and the house of the Grangerford plantation pro-
vides the unifying interest:
It was a mighty nice family, and a mighty nice house, too. I hadn't
seen no house out in the country before that was so nice and had so
much style. It didn't have an iron latch on the front door, nor a wooden
one with a buckskin string, but a brass knob to turn, the same as houses
in a town. There warn't no bed in the parlor, nor a sign of a bed; but
heaps of parlors in town has beds in them. There was a big fireplace that
was bricked on the bottom, and the bricks was kept clean and red by
11 From For Whom the Bell Tolls by Ernest Hemingway, copyright, 1940,
by Charles Scribner's Sons.
PATTERN AND TEXTURE IN DESCRIPTION 207
pouring water on them and scrubbing them with another brick; some-
times they wash them over with red water-paint that they call Spanish-
brown, same as they do in town. They had big brass dog-irons that could
hold up a saw-log. There was a clock on the middle of the mantelpiece,
with a picture of a town painted on the bottom half of the glass front,
and a round place in the middle of it for the sun, and you could see the
pendulum swinging behind it.— SAMUEL CLEMENS: The Adventures of
Huckleberry Finn, Chap. 17.
6. IMPRESSIONISTIC PATTERN
In the examples of pattern by mood and pattern by interest given
above, we find more than a mere listing of things or the qualities
of things. Something is said about the things; we find fully formed
sentences, one leading to another to give a unified paragraph. But it
is possible to list things or qualities with relation to a dominant
mood or interest and successfully give an impression of unity by
enumeration without formal organization. This method is called
impressionistic. Here is an example of it, the description of the main
street in a small Middle western town.
From a second-story window the sign, "W. P. Kennicott, Phys. &
Surgeon," gilt on black sand.
A small wooden motion-picture theater called "The Rosebud Movie
Palace." Lithographs announcing a film called, "Fatty in Love."
Rowland & Gould's Grocery. In the display window, black, overripe
bananas and lettuce on which a cat was sleeping. Shelves lined with red
crepe paper which was now faded and torn and concentrically spotted.
Flat against the wall of the second story the signs of the lodges— the
Knights of Pythias, the Maccabees, the Woodmen, the Masons.
Dahl & Oleson's Meat Market— a reek of blood.— SINCLAIR LEWIS: Main
Street, Chap. 4.12
7. PATTERN OF ABSORBED DESCRIPTION
As has already been pointed out, description is frequently used
in conjunction, almost in fusion, with other modes. It is difficult
sometimes to say of a passage whether it is primarily descriptive
or narrative or expository or argumentative in its emphasis. But
sometimes we observe passages which, we feel, are primarily de-
scriptive in emphasis but which are organized in terms of, for
12 From Main Street by Sinclair Lewis, copyright, 1920, by Harcourt, Brace
and Company, Inc.
208 DESCRIPTION
instance, a narrative element. In such passages the descriptive de-
tails, if given in isolation, would be merely an enumeration of items
with only a slight degree of unity of impression. But the line of
action or explanation or argument holds them together, gives them
their focus, so that the reader gets an effect of unity. It is difficult
to find an appropriate name for this method, but perhaps the phrase
"absorbed description" will serve.
Here is an example of absorbed description:
They called a special meeting of the Board of Aldermen. A deputation
waited upon her, knocked at the door through which no visitor had
passed since she ceased giving china-painting lessons eight or ten years
earlier. They were admitted by the old Negro into a dim hall from
which a stairway mounted into still more shadow. It smelled of dust and
disuse— a close, dank smell. The Negro led them into the parlor. It was
furnished in heavy, leather-covered furniture. When the Negro opened
the blinds of one window, they could see that the leather was cracked;
and when they sat down, a faint dust rose sluggishly about their thighs,
spinning with slow motes in the single sun-ray. On a tarnished gilt easel
before the fireplace stood a crayon portrait of Miss Emily's father.
They rose when she entered— a small, fat woman in black, with a thin
gold chain descending to her waist and vanishing into her belt, leaning
on an ebony cane with a tarnished gold head. Her skeleton was small
and spare; perhaps that was why what would have been merely plump-
ness in another was obesity in her. She looked bloated, like a body long
submerged in motionless water, and of that pallid hue. Her eyes, lost in
the fatty ridges of her face, looked like two small pieces of coal pressed
into a lump of dough as they moved from one face to another while the
visitors stated their errand.
She did not ask them to sit. She just stood in the door and listened
quietly until the spokesman came to a stumbling halt. Then they could
hear the invisible watch ticking at the end of the gold chain.— WILLIAM
FAULKNER: "A Rose for Emily." 13
In the passage above we can readily isolate the parts which are
purely descriptive. For instance, in the second paragraph, except
for the first part of the first sentence and the last part of the last
sentence, there is nothing but description. But in the following
passage the description is much more completely absorbed; it is" a
13 From "A Rose for Emily," These Thirteen by William Faulkner, copyright,
1931, by Random House, Inc.
PATTERN AND TEXTURE IN DESCRIPTION 209
matter of words and phrases, and not of sentences and sections of
paragraphs, and yet the scene is very fully suggested.
In the square bedroom with the big window Mama and Papa were
lolling back on their pillows handing each other things from the wide
black tray on the small table with the crossed legs. They were smiling
and they smiled even more when the little boy, with the feeling of sleep
still in his skin and hair, came in and walked up to the bed. Leaning
against it, his bare toes wriggling in the white fur rug, he went on eating
peanuts which he took from his pajama pocket. He was four years old.
"Here's my baby," said Mama. "Lift him up, will you?"
He went limp as a rag for Papa to take him under the arms and swing
him up over a broad, tough chest. He sank between his parents like a
bear cub in a warm litter, and lay there comfortably. He took another
peanut between his teeth, cracked the shell, picked out the nut whole
and ate it.— KATIIERINE ANNE PORTER: "The Downward Path to Wis-
dom." 14
8. MIXED PATTERNS
We have tried to distinguish several typical methods for unifying
description, but in actual practice these methods may often be
combined. Sometimes the most vivid effects can be obtained by
the mixed method. Here is an example:
About four in the morning, as the captain and Herrick sat together
on the rail, there arose from the midst of the night, in front of them,
the voice of the breakers. Each sprang to his feet and stared and listened.
The sound was continuous, like the passing of a train; no rise or fall
could be distinguished; minute by minute the ocean heaved with an equal
potency against the invisible isle; and as time passed, and Herrick waited
in vain for any vicissitude in the volume of that roaring, a sense of the
eternal weighed upon his mind. To the expert eye, the isle itself was
to be inferred from a certain string of blots along the starry heaven.
And the schooner was laid to and anxiously observed till daylight.
There was little or no morning bank. A brightening came in the east;
then a wash of some ineffable, faint, nameless hue between crimson and
silver; and then coals of fire. These glimmered awhile on the sealine, and
seemed to brighten and darken and spread out; and still the night and
the stars reigned undisturbed. It was as though a spark should catch
and glow and creep along the foot of some heavy and almost incom-
14 From The Leaning Tower and Other Stories by Katherine Anne Porter,
copyright, 1944, by Katherine Anne Porter. Reprinted by permission of Har-
court, Brace and Company, Inc.
210 DESCRIPTION
bustible wall-hanging, and the room itself be scarcely menaced. Yet a
little after, and the whole east glowed with gold and scarlet, and the
hollow of heaven was filled with the daylight.
The isle— the undiscovered, the scarce believed in— now lay before
them and close aboard; and Herrick thought that never in his dreams
had he beheld anything more strange and delicate. The beach was excel-
lently white, the continuous barrier of trees inimitably green; the land
perhaps ten feet high, the trees thirty more. Every here and there, as
the schooner coasted northward, the wood was intermitted; and he could
see clear over the inconsiderable strip of land (as a man looks over a
wall) to the lagoon within; and clear over that, again, to where the far
side of the atoll prolonged its pencilling of trees against the morning
sky. He tortured himself to find analogies. The isle was like the rim of a
great vessel sunken in the waters; it was like the embankment of an
annular railway grown upon with wood. So slender it seemed amidst
the outrageous breakers, so frail and pretty, he would scarce have
wondered to see it sink and disappear without a sound, and the waves
close smoothly over its descent.— ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON: The Ebb
Tide, Chap. 7.18
In the passage by Stevenson we notice that we have a location
and an observer specified. At one time in the course of the descrip-
tion (the view across the atoll) we find the method of simple spatial
ordering used. At another time, the principle of sequence comes
into play. In fact, it comes into play in two different ways. First,
we have the principle of sequence in time (in the coming of dawn)
and then we have it in space, with the moving point of view, as I. e
schooner coasts northward along the island. But we also find the
frame image used to give us a clearer notion of the island: Herrick,
the observer, "tortured himself to find analogies," and to describe
the atoll we find the frame image of the "rim of a great vessel
sunken in the waters/' or of the "embankment of an annular railway
grown upon with wood." We may notice, furthermore, that a certain
mood, the response to a fragile and dreamlike beauty, dominates
the whole description— Herrick's response to the scene, and we may
notice that there is an organization in terms of climax, for only at
the end of the passage as given here do we get the full statement
of the frame image and of the basic mood.
If the passage were read in its full context, we should be able
15 From The Ebb Tide by Robert Louis Stevenson, copyright, 1905, by
Charles Scribner's Sons.
PATTERN AND TEXTURE IN DESCRIPTION 211
to observe that the method of unity in terms of interest is employed
throughout, for the schooner is seeking an entrance to the harbor
inside the atoll, and the final concern, in reference to the narrative,
is to find anchorage.
The use of a mixed method, certainly of a mixed method which
employs as many individual methods as the above passage, offers
certain difficulties to the inexperienced writer. By and large, it is
better for the inexperienced writer to try the simpler approaches
to his material, at least until he is confident that he understands
the principles involved in the various methods and has acquired
some skill in adapting them.
TEXTURE: SELECTION IN DESCRIPTION
Pattern, as we have seen, is concerned with the ordering of the
details of description. Texture, which we shall now discuss, is con-
cerned with the nature of the details presented.
How are the details actually presented in a description selected
from among all the details which might have been presented? Al-
ready, in discussing the difference between technical and suggestive
description and in explaining what is meant by a dominant impres-
sion, we have touched on the problem of SELECTION (pp. 42-53,
200), but we have not explored it.
It is clear that no one can hope to render all of the details of an
object to be described, and it is also clear that if one could render
all of the details we should have a mere enumeration, tedious and
mechanical, without giving the unified impression the object actu-
ally makes upon an observer. But what the writer wants to do is to
give his reader such a unified impression. To do this he must select
the details which will suggest the whole object and set the reader's
imagination to work.
But what are the grounds on which selection is to be made? We
may break this question down into two other questions:
1. What details are vivid in the object?
2. What details are significant for the impression the writer con-
siders dominant?
Vividness and significance— these are the two considerations
which should govern selection of details. It is possible that the same
212 DESCRIPTION
detail may be both vivid and significant, but for the purpose of
discussion we can consider these qualities independently.
VIVIDNESS
A descriptive detail is vivid if it is striking, if it can set the
imagination to work so that the reader calls up the object in his
mind's eye. In the following description the most obvious quality
of the scene, the contrast between brilliant light and black shadow,
is emphasized. The writer does not give a detailed description of
the town. Instead, he gives what would be the most obvious and
striking characteristic, the light effect which would blur out other
aspects of the Arab town when the observer first encountered it.
But when at last we anchored in the outer harbor, off the white town
hung between the blazing sky and its reflection in the mirage which
swept and rolled over the wide lagoon, then the heat of Arabia came out
like a drawn sword and struck us speechless. It was midday; and the
noon sun in the East, like moonlight, put to sleep the colors. There were
only lights and shadows, the white houses and black gaps of streets; in
front, the pallid lustre of the haze shimmering upon the inner harbors;
behind, the dazzle of league after league of featureless sand, running up
to an edge of low hills, faintly suggested in the far away mist of heat.—
T. E. LAWRENCE: Seven Pillars of Wisdom, Chap. 8.10
This seizing on the most striking and obvious characteristic is a
very natural method. Time after time we encounter a bit of descrip-
tion introduced by some such statement as, "The most impressive
feature of his face was his wide, innocent, childlike blue eyes which
seemed to offer trust to all the world," or, "The first thing you
noticed as you topped the hill was a pond lying in the cup of the
valley, reflecting the brilliance of the sky." The writer indicates
what feature in the object would first catch attention.
Vividness, however, may be gained by indicating some detail
which might escape ordinary observation. In such a case, it is the
precision and subtlety of the description which makes the object
come alive for us. John Burroughs, the naturalist, in a passage on
the art of observation, gives a list of vivid details which would
i""JFr.om: Seven Pillars of Wisdom by T. E. Lawrence. Copyright 1926, 1935
by Doublet^ & Company, Inc.
TEXTURE: SELECTION IN DESCRIPTION 213
escape most observers but which present a vivid sense of a series
of scenes and moments:
His senses are so delicate that in his evening walk he feels the warm
and cool streaks in the air, his nose detects the most fugitive odors, his
ears the most furtive sounds. As he stands musing in the April twilight,
he hears that fine, elusive stir and rustle made by the angleworms reach-
ing out from their holes for leaves and grasses; he hears the whistling
wings of the wood-cock as it goes swiftly by him in the dusk; he hears
the call of the killdee come down out of the March sky; he hears far
above him in the early morning the squeaking cackle of the arriving
blackbirds pushing north; he hears the soft, prolonged, lulling call of
the little owl in the cedars in the early spring twilight; he hears at night
the roar of the distant waterfall, and the rumble of the train miles across
country when the air is "hollow"; before a storm he notes how distant
objects stand out and are brought near on those brilliant days that we
call "weather-breeders." When the mercury is at zero or lower, he notes
how the passing trains hiss and simmer as if the rails or wheels were
red-hot.— JOHN BURROUGHS: Leaf and Tendril, Chap. I.17
The rustling of the angleworms gives a vivid and immediate sense
of the stillness; more vivid and immediate than any number of more
usual and easily observable details. Or take the squeaking cackle
of the blackbirds; it is the absolutely right phrase to describe the
sound, and because of the accuracy of the observation, our imagina-
tion fills the sky with the flock of birds passing over.
Were it not for the detail of the dyed hand, we would have only
a vague sense of the presence of the handsome young sailor in the
following description:
Cast in a mould peculiar to the finest physical examples of those Eng-
lishmen in whom the Saxon strain would seem not at all to partake of
any Norman or other admixture, he showed in face that humane look
of reposeful good nature which the Greek sculptor in some instances
gave to his heroic strong man, Hercules. But this again was subtly
modified by another and pervasive quality. The ear, small and shapely,
the arch of the foot, the curve in the mouth and nostril, even the in-
durated hand dyed to the orange-tawny of the toucan's bill, a hand
telling of the halyards and tar-buckets; but above all, something in the
mobile expression, and every chance attitude and movement, something
17 From Leaf and Tendril by John Burroughs, through the courtesy of
Houghton Mifflin Company.
214 DESCRIPTION
suggestive of a mother eminently favored by Love and the Graces; all
this strangely indicated a lineage in direct contradiction to his lot—
HERMAN MELVILLE: Billy Budd, Chap. 2.
And in the following portrait it is the detail of the pimples that
makes the person come alive to the reader's imagination:
Complicated, but light, transparent, and innocently immodest was the
dress of his daughter, tall and slender, with magnificent hair gracefully
Dombed; her breath was sweet with violet-scented tablets, and she had
a number of tiny and most delicate pink pimples near her lips and be-
tween her slightly powdered shoulder blades.— IVAN BUNIN: "The Gentle-
man from San Francisco/' 18
The process of seizing on either the striking characteristic or the
small, sharply perceived detail may lead to exaggeration and carica-
ture. The detail, as it were, becomes the whole object. In the first
of the following passages, Dickens takes the obvious oiliness of
Mr. Chadband as the key to the description of his appearance and,
finally, of his character:
Mr. Chadband is a large yellow man, with a fat smile, and a general
appearance of having a good deal of train oil in his system. Mrs. Chad-
band is a stern, severe-looking, silent woman. Mr. Chadband moves
softly and cumbrously, not unlike a bear who has been taught to walk
upright. He is very much embarrassed about the arms, as if they were
inconvenient to him, and he wanted to grovel; is very much in a perspira-
tion about the head; and never speaks without first putting up his great
hand, as delivering a token to his hearers that he is going to edify them.
—CHARLES DICKENS: Bleak House, Chap. 19.
Dickens uses a striking detail and exaggerates it into the whole
person, but in the following passage the writer uses the trivial
detail of Miss Plimsoirs nose, and the little drop of moisture at its
tip, as the main feature of the comic portrait of the poor old maid.
Miss Plimsoll's nose was sharp and pointed like that of Voltaire. It was
also extremely sensitive to cold. When the thermometer fell below 60°
it turned scarlet; below 50° it seemed a blue tinge with a little white
morbid circle at the end; and at 40° it became sniffly and bore a perma-
nent though precarious drop below its pointed tip. I remember with
what interest I watched that drop as we drove from the station at Sofia.
18 Reprinted from The Gentleman from San Francisco by Ivan Bunin, by
permission of Alfred A. Knopf, Inc. Copyright 1923 by Alfred A. Knopf, Inc.
TEXTURE: SELECTION IN DESCRIPTION 215
My parents went in front in the first carriage and Miss Plimsoll and I
followed in the brougham. The night was cold and we drove along an
endless wind-swept boulevard punctuated by street lamps. With the
approach of each successive lamp Miss Plimsoll's pinched little face
beside me would first be illuminated frontways, and then as we came
opposite the lamp, spring into a sharp little silhouette, at the point of
which the drop flashed and trembled like a diamond.— HAROLD NICOL-
SON: "Miss Plimsoll," Some People.12
SIGNIFICANCE
By significance in the selection of detail we mean the quality
which contributes to the dominant impression of a description. And
by the dominant impression we mean the mood the writer intends
to communicate, the attitude he intends to create in the reader, or
idea about the object he wishes to suggest.
We have already touched on this topic in our discussion of the
dominant impression (p. 200) and in our remarks on the passage
from Poe's "The Fall of the House of Usher" (p. 52), the descrip-
tion of the Dedlock estate from Dickens's Bleak House (p. 52),
and the passage from Melville's "The Encantadas" (p. 46). In each
of these examples, as we have seen, the selection is made to build
up a certain mood or to indicate a certain idea. In each example,
the writer refrains from introducing any item which might distract
from the dominant impression.
In the following description of the Arab town, Jidda, we can see
how the writer uses details that contribute to the effect of stealth
and sinister, brooding quiet:
The style of architecture was like crazy Elizabethan half-timber work,
in the elaborate Cheshire fashion, but gone gimcrack to an incredible
degree. House-fronts were fretted, pierced and pargetted till they looked
as though cut out of cardboard for a romantic stage-setting. Every storey
jutted, every window leaned one way or other; often the very walls
sloped. It was like a dead city, so clean underfoot, and so quiet. Its
winding, even streets were floored with damp sand solidified by time
and as silent as the tread of any carpet. The lattices and wall-returns
deadened all reverberation of voice. There were no carts, nor any street
wide enough for carts, no shod animals, no bustle anywhere. Every-
thing was hushed, strained, even furtive. The doors of houses shut softly
19 From Some People by Harold Nicolson. Reprinted by permission of the
author and Constable and Company.
216 DESCRIPTION
as we passed. There were no loud dogs, no crying children; indeed,
except in the bazaar, still half asleep, there were few wayfarers of any
kind; and the people we did meet, all thin, and as it were wasted by
disease, with scarred, hairless faces and screwed up eyes, slipped past
us quickly and cautiously, not looking at us. Their skimp, white robes,
shaven polls with little skull-caps, red cotton shoulder shawls, and bare
feet were so same as to be almost a uniform.— T. E. LAWRENCE: Seven
Pillars of Wisdom, Chap. 9.20
The same method can be used in description to give an impres-
sion of the character of a person. The following portrait of Eustacia
Vye, the heroine of Thomas Hardy's novel The Return of the Native,
deals ostensibly with appearance of the young woman, but all the
details of her appearance are really chosen, as Hardy himself indi-
cates rather explicitly now and then, to give us an impression of her
inner nature.
She was in person full-limbed and somewhat heavy; without ruddiness,
as without pallor; and soft to the touch as a cloud. To see her hair was
to fancy that a whole winter did not contain darkness enough to form
its shadow: it closed over her forehead like nightfall extinguishing the
western glow.
Her nerves extended into those tresses, and her temper could always
be softened by stroking them down. When her hair was brushed she
would instantly sink into stillness and look like the Sphinx. If, in passing
under one of the Egdon banks, any of its thick skeins were caught, as they
sometimes were, by a prickly tuft of the large Ulex Europaens— which
will act as a sort of hairbrush— she would go back a few steps, and
pass against it a second time.
She had Pagan eyes, full of nocturnal mysteries, and their light, as it
came and went, and came again, was partially hampered by their op-
pressive lids and lashes; and of these the under lid was much fuller than
it usually is with English women. This enabled her to indulge in reverie
without seeming to do so: she might have been believed capable of
sleeping without closing them up. Assuming that the souls of men and
women were visible essences, you could fancy the color of Eustacia's soul
to be flame-like. The sparks from it that rose into her dark pupils gave
the same impression. . . .
Her presence brought memories of such things as Bourbon roses, rubies,
and tropical midnights; her moods recalled lotus-eaters and the march
20 From: Seven Pillars of Wisdom by T. W. Lawrence. Copyright 1926, 1935
by Doubleday & Company, Inc.
TEXTURE: SELECTION IN DESCRIPTION 217
in "Athalie"; her motions, the ebb and flow of the sea; her voice, the
viola. In a dim light, and with a slight rearrangement of her hair, her
general figure might have stood for that of either of the higher female
deities. The new moon behind her head, an old helmet upon it, a diadem
of accidental dew-drops round her brow, would have been adjuncts
sufficient to strike the note of Artemis, Athene, or Hera respectively,
with as close an approximation to the antique as that which passes
muster on many respected canvases.— THOMAS HARDY: Return of the
Native, Chap. 7.
In the following description of a Mexican revolutionist who is
both sentimental and cruel, energetic and self-indulgent, lazy and
sinister, the explicit definition of the character does not appear, but
is suggested by the details selected:
Braggioni catches her glance solidly as if he had been waiting for it,
leans forward, balancing his paunch between his spread knees, and sings
with tremendous emphasis, weighing his words. He had, the song relates,
no father and no mother, nor even a friend to console him; lonely as a
wave of the sea he comes and goes, lonely as a wave. His mouth opens
round and yearns sideways, his balloon cheeks grow oily with the labor
of song. He bulges marvellously in his expensive garments. Over his
lavender collar, crushed upon a purple necktie, held by a diamond hoop;
over his ammunition belt of tooled leather worked in silver, buckled
cruelly around his gaping middle: over the tops of his glossy yellow
shoes Braggioni swells with ominous ripeness, his mauve silk hose
stretched taut, his ankles bound with the stout leather thongs of his
shoes.
When he stretches his eyelids at Laura she notes again that his eyes
are the true tawny yellow cat's eyes.— KATHERINE ANNE PORTER: "Flower-
ing Judas." 21
As the details of description may be used to suggest the character
of a person described, so they may be used to indicate the attitude
the writer wishes the reader to take toward a scene or event. The
following passage gives a battle scene, but the writer uses certain
descriptive touches to play down ironically the violence or the
event. We know that horror and excitement and suffering are in-
volved here, and the writer knows it too. But he takes a certain
21 From Flowering Judas and Other Stones by Katharine Anne Porter, copy-
right, 1935, by Katherine Anne Porter. Reprinted by permission of Harcourt,
Brace and Company, Inc.
218 DESCRIPTION
actual and emotional distance from the scene— the flags "laugh/' the
cannon merely "denounce," the "jaunty" brigade marches "airily,"
there is a calm white house beyond. The impression of distance, of
unreality, and of triviality actually works to suggest to us, by con-
tract, the real violence.
In another direction he saw a magnificent brigade going with the
evident intention of driving the enemy from a wood. They passed in out
of sight, and presently there was a most awe-inspiring racket in the
wood. The noise was unspeakable. Having stirred this prodigious up-
roar and, apparently, finding it too prodigious, the brigade, after a
little time, came marching airily out again with its fine formation in
nowise disturbed. There were no traces of speed in its movements. The
brigade was jaunty and seemed to point a proud thumb at the yelling
wood.
On a slope to the left there was a long row of guns, gruff and mad-
dened, denouncing the enemy, who, down through the woods, were
forming for another attack in the pitiless monotony of conflicts. The
round red discharges from the guns made a crimson flare and a high,
thick smoke. Occasionally glimpses could be caught of groups of the
toiling artillerymen. In the rear of this row of guns stood a house, calm
and white, amid bursting shells. A congregation of horses, tied to a long
railing, were tugging frenziedly at their bridles. Men were running
hither and thither.
The detached battle between the four regiments lasted for some time.
There chanced to be no interference, and they settled their dispute by
themselves. They struck savagely and powerfully at each other for a
period of minutes, and then the lighter-hued regiments faltered and
drew back, leaving the dark-blue lines shouting. The youth could see
the two flags shaking with laughter amid the smoke remnants .—STEPHEN
CRANE: The Red Badge of Courage, Chap. 22.22
ATMOSPHERE
In each of the above passages the author has, as we say, created
a certain atmosphere. By atmosphere we mean the mood, the gen-
eral feeling associated in the description with the scene, person, or
event described. We have commented, for instance, on the atmos-
phere of gloom and dampness and decay in the descriptions by Poe
and Dickens, or that of furtiveness and stealth and exhaustion in
the description of Jidda by T. E. Lawrence, or that of ironical
22 From The Red Badge of Courage, by Stephen Crane, copyright, 1925, by
D. Appleton and Company. Reprinted by permission of Appleton-Century-
Crofts, Inc.
TEXTURE: SELECTION IN DESCRIPTION 219
jauntiness and impersonal distance in the description by Stephen
Crane.
We know, however, even as we use these words to define the
atmosphere of this or that piece of description, that the labels we
put on the passages are too vague and loose to define really the
effect given. Our defining words do not really define the atmos-
phere; they merely give a kind of crude indication, a not very de-
pendable clue, to the effect we find in the actual description.
Our inability to define the atmosphere in general terms indicates
the importance of the way the author himself goes about present-
ing it to us. The atmosphere is the general feeling he wants his
work to convey, the prevailing attitude of mind which he wishes
us to adopt toward his subject, but he knows that he cannot create
it simply by using the loose, general words which we have used
above in trying to define the effect of the passages. Therefore, he
undertakes to give us such concrete details, such aspects of his
object, as will stir our imaginations not only to grasp the appear-
ance of the object (or the sound, the color, and so forth, if he is
appealing to other senses than that of sight), but to adopt a certain
feeling and attitude toward the object and toward the general con-
text of the object in his work.23
We have said earlier that suggestive description aims not to tell
us about its object but to give us the object; but it also can be said
that it aims not to tell us what feelings to have about the object
and what attitudes to take toward it, but to create those feelings
and attitudes within us. Vividness and immediacy, not only in re-
gard to the physical qualities of the object, but in regard to the
feelings and attitudes involved, are what the writer desire,?.
23 Perhaps this should be explained a little more fully. By the context of
the object we mean what is around it in the piece of writing. For instance, in
a story the context of a piece of description would be the events narrated, the
analyses of character, and so forth, before and after the piece of description.
A good author, no matter what he is writing, a story, an essay, a letter, intends
some connection between the effect of a piece of description and the rest of
his composition. The atmosphere of the description implies, as it were, the
attitudes the author wishes the reader to take toward the whole piece of work.
If we read the description of Egdon Heath at the beginning of Thomas Hardy's
Return of the Native, the somber, brooding atmosphere of the scene implies
the attitude the author wished the reader to take toward the violent, tragic
human story, just as the atmosphere of the description of Eustacia Vye, the
heroine of the novel, which is quoted above, implies the qualities of character
and action we are to find in her.
220 DESCRIPTION
DESCRIPTION OF FEELINGS AND STATES
OF MIND
In our previous discussion we have seen how a description may
evoke in the reader a certain mood or attitude which the writer
wishes to communicate. There is some relation, then, between the
physical details of the object described and human feelings. This
leads us to another kind of description, not of objects or persons,
but of feelings or states of mind. How can such an intangible,
without physical existence and with no possible appeal to our senses,
be described?
Strictly speaking, the literal feeling or state of mind cannot be
described because it cannot be perceived through the senses. But
we have seen how a character, which is also intangible, can be
indicated through description. For instance, Hardy's description of
Eustacia Vye's physical appearance indicates her inner nature. By
a kind of parallel process we can indicate a state of mind, that of
the writer himself or of some person about whom he is writing.
Our common speech recognizes the principle behind this process.
For instance, if a man has an evil nature, we may say that he has a
"black heart," or if a man is cheerful and optimistic we may say
that he has a "sunny disposition/* The abstract, general words evil
and cheerful are replaced by the concrete words black and sunny,
which properly belong to the physical world. Hardy is simply apply-
ing this principle in a more elaborate form when he writes of
Eustacia:
Her presence brought memories of such things as Bourbon roses, rubies,
and tropical midnights; her moods recalled the lotus-eaters and the march
in "Athalie"; her motions, the ebb and flow of the sea; her voice, the
viola.
This is a way of saying that Eustacia has a brooding, passionate,
willful nature; but Hardy's words say much more than we can
convey by our generalizing words. If we begin to try to elaborate
in our own way, we find ourselves using such words as sumptuous,
rich, deep, stormy,— the adjectives implied in Hardy's description;
and then we realize that these words, too, are carrying us toward
physical description, for words like stormy and deep have come to
apply to such a thing as a personality by a kind of transference
from their basic meanings (see Chapter 11).
DESCRIPTION OF FEELINGS AND STATES OF MIND 221
Here is an example of the description, not of a personality, but
of a state of feeling, the feeling at the moment of passing from
sleep to waking:
"I was not asleep," I answered as I awoke.
I said this in good faith. The great modification which the act of
awakening effects in us is not so much that of introducing us to .the
clear life of consciousness, as that of making us lose all memory of that
other, rather more diffused light in which our mind has been resting, as
in the opaline depths of the sea. The tide of thought, half veiled from our
perception, over which we were drifting still a moment ago, kept us in
a state of motion perfectly sufficient to enable us to refer to it by the
name of wakefulness. But then our actual awakenings produce an inter-
ruption of memory. A little later we describe these states as sleep be-
cause we no longer remember them. And when shines that bright star
which at the moment of waking illuminates behind the sleeper the whole
expense of his sleep, it makes him imagine for a few moments that this
was not a sleeping but a waking state; a shooting star, it must be added,
which blots out with the fading of its light not only the false existence
but the very appearance of our dream, and merely enables him who has
awoken to say to himself: "I was asleep."— MARCEL PROUST: The Guer-
mantes Way, Part II, Chap. I.24
The same use of physical description to indicate a mental state
appears in the following passage:
Sterne's discovery was made. It was repugnant to his imagination,
shocking to his ideas of honesty, shocking to his conception of mankind.
This enormity affected one's outlook on wliat was possible in this world:
it was as if for instance the sun had turned blue, throwing a new and
sinister light on men and nature. Really in the first moment he had felt
sickish, as though he had got a blow below the belt: for a second the
veiy color of the sea seemed changed— appeared queer to his wandering
eye; and he had a passing, unsteady sensation in all his limbs as though
the earth had started turning the other way.— JOSEPH CONRAD: "The End
of the Tether." 25
We notice in the above quotation how the author begins by mak-
ing a general statement: the discovery is repugnant, is shocking,
changes Sterne's outlook. But we notice how quickly these gener-
alities shade over into concrete presentations which are intended
24 From The Guermantes Way by Marcel Proust, tr. by C. K. Scott Moncrieff.
Reprinted by permission of Random House, Inc.
25 From Youth: A Narrative by Joseph Conrad. Reprinted by permission of
J. M. Dent and Sons, Ltd., through the courtesy of the Conrad estate.
222 DESCRIPTION
to evoke in us a direct sense of Sterne's sensation: the blue sun, a
blow below the belt, the sudden reversal of the earth's motion.
In the following passage we find a slightly different application
of the same principle. Above we have been dealing with the descrip-
tion of a momentary feeling; here we shall be dealing with the
description of a protracted situation, a state of being. A wife has
discovered that her husband's conception of life, his "mansion," is
oppressive and deadening for her:
But when, as the months had elapsed, she had followed him further
and he had led her into the mansion of his own habitation, then, then
she had seen where she really was.
She could live it over again, the incredulous terror with which she
had taken the measure of her dwelling. Between those four walls she
had lived ever since; they were to surround her for the rest of her life.
It was the house of darkness, the house of dumbness, the house of suffo-
cation. Osmond's beautiful mind gave it neither light nor air; Osmond's
beautiful mind indeed seemed to peep down from a small high window
and mock at her. Of course it had not been physical suffering; for
physical suffering there might have been a remedy. She could come and
go; she had her liberty; her husband was perfectly polite. He took himself
so seriously; it was perfectly appalling, Under all his culture, his clever-
ness, his amenity, under his good-nature, his facility, his knowledge of
life, his egotism lay hidden like a serpent in a bank of flowers.— HENRY
JAMES: The Portrait of a Lady, Chap. 42.
The descriptions of states of feeling just considered are direct in
treatment. That is, we are introduced as fully as may be into the
consciousness of the person who has the feeling or experiences the
state of mind, the seaman Sterne or the disappointed wife. But
there is an indirect way of using description to portray feeling or
state of mind, a way which presents the symptoms but does not
endeavor to describe the feeling or the state of mind itself. This
way is analogous, of course, to the use of description of a person's
physical appearance to indicate his character, without giving any
general statements about the character.
If we describe a person as having shifty eyes and a flabby mouth,
the reader is very apt to draw certain conclusions about that per-
son's character. And by the same token, if we describe a person at
the moments when his lips whiten, the blood flushes his cheeks,
his eyes flash, and his respiration is rapid, the reader is apt to con-
clude that the person is laboring under great rage or other excite-
DESCRIPTION OF FEELINGS AND STATES OF MIND 223
ment. Such descriptions of the symptoms, as it were, of a state of
feeling can, when well done, be very effective in giving the reader
a sense of the reality of the situation being presented. We shall
draw another example from the work of Marcel Proust, who is a
master in the art of presenting states of feeling by either direct or
indirect methods.
I made the invalid sit at the foot of the staircase in the hall, and went
up to warn my mother. I told her that my grandmother had come home
feeling slightly unwell, after an attack of giddiness. As soon as I began to
speak, my mother's face was convulsed by the paroxysm of a despair
which was yet already so resigned that I realized that for many years she
had been holding herself quietly in readiness for an uncalendared but
final day. She asked me no question; it seemed that, just as malevolence
likes to exaggerate the sufferings of other people, so in her devotion she
would not admit that her mother was seriously ill, especially with a
disease which might affect the brain. Mamma shuddered, her eyes wept
without tears, she ran to give orders for the doctor to be fetched at once;
but when Frangoise asked who was ill she could not reply, her voice stuck
in her throat. She came running downstairs with me, struggling to banish
from her face the sob that contracted it— MARCEL PROUST: The Guer-
mantes Way, Part II, Chap. I.26
FIGURATIVE LANGUAGE IN THE DESCRIPTION
OF FEELINGS AND STATES OF MIND
It should be obvious from the examples given above that when
a writer comes to describe a feeling or a state of mind he is often
forced to use figurative language. For instance, when Henry James
(p. 222) wishes to describe the feeling of the wife who discovers
that her husband is unsympathetic and egotistical, he resorts to
figurative language: the wife feels she has been imprisoned in the
"house of dumbness," the "house of suffocation," and most of the
passage is an elaboration of this comparison of her condition to an
imprisonment. The whole question of figurative language will be
discussed at some length elsewhere in this book (p. 361), but the
question is of so much importance for description that we must at
least touch upon it here.
We may say, for the sake of convenience, that such comparisons
26 From The Guermantes Way by Marcel Proust, tr. by C. K. Scott Moncrieff.
Reprinted by permission of Random House, Inc.
224 DESCRIPTION
have two functions in description, in enriching the texture. First,
they may make for vividness and immediacy. Second, they may
serve to interpret the object described or an attitude toward it.
If we write of a girl's hair that it is very black and glossy, we do
little to stir the imagination of the reader to a full sense of the qual-
ity of the hair. But if we write that her hair is like a raven's wing,
then we have done something to set the imagination of the reader
to work. The comparison just used is, unfortunately, a rather trite
one; it has been used so often that its power to stir the imagination
is almost gone. But when Hardy writes of Eustacia Vye's hair that
"a whole winter did not contain darkness enough to form its
shadow," or that it "closed over her forehead like nightfall," the
imagination is stirred, and the image of Eustacia is evoked. But
more than mere vividness has been gained by Hardy's comparisons.
These particular comparisons also contribute to our impression
of Eustacia's character— the brooding, the mystery, the sense of
violence— the "nocturnal" quality, to use the word which Hardy
himself uses of her later on. That is, the comparisons not only
increase the vividness, but interpret the object of the comparison.
But we do often find that the function of a comparison is merely
to increase vividness, to help the reader to grasp the object, or that
the interpretative value of the comparison is very slight. For in-
stance, when Ruskin describes the street leading up to the cathedral
(p. 202), he writes that the house had "small porches to their doors
in the shape of cockleshells." The chief function here, no doubt, is
to make the impression more vivid, though we are aware of some
interpretative force in cockleshell— an implication of quaintness, of
cuteness, of childlike diminutiveness. Or when Faulkner describes
Miss Emily (p. 208) : "Her eyes, lost in the fatty ridges of her face,
looked like two small pieces of coal pressed into a lump of dough,"
the chief effect is to startle us, by this caricature of a face, to visu-
alize Miss Emily. But if we are acquainted with the story in which
the sentence appears we realize that some interpretation may also
be involved— the pallor, the pasty quality of the flesh, the unhuman
quality of the comparison, are appropriate for this house of decay
and death.
When we come, however, to Stevenson's comparison of the atoll
to a basin almost submerged in water (p. 210), we have almost as
pure an example as it would be possible to find of a comparison
which works to aid in vividness without any interpretative force.
FIGURATIVE LANGUAGE 225
On the other hand, we can find many passages in which the
interpretative value of the comparisons is more important than the
value of vividness. For instance, when Poe refers to the "eye-like
windows" of the House of Usher (p. 52) there is undoubtedly some
value of vividness— that is, the comparison does help the imagina-
tion to create the house; but at the same time the chief importance
of the comparison is to create an atmosphere, to interpret the scene.
Or when Melville compares the vast volcanic islands to "split Syrian
gourds" (p. 46), the function is primarily interpretative. By that
time in the passage we already have a very strong visual impres-
sion of the islands, and in any case, split, withering gourds do not
strongly suggest the picture of islands. But the gourds do strongly
suggest the idea of waste and desolation— the interpretative aspect.
In the last sentence of the passage from E. M. Forster (p. 205) we
have an excellent case of the interpretative emphasis in a compari-
son: the Indian city is like "some low but indestructible form of
life."
It must always be remembered, however, that the comparison
which is primarily interpretative in intent must involve some basic
connection between the things compared. The split gourds do bear
some resemblance to the desolate islands: the cracked, parched
islands, and the cracked, parched gourds.
A good comparison cannot be purely arbitrary. When T. E.
Lawrence writes of the arrival at an Arabian port, "the heat of
Arabia came out like a drawn sword and struck us speechless"
(p. 212), we have nothing which corresponds as far as shape is
concerned with the sword, but we do have the metallic glitter of
sea and sand, the suddenness and violence of the heat after days
at sea; and then, at the level of interpretation, we have the notion
of ferocity and deadliness— the pitiless heat and the drawn blade.
Or when Proust uses the comparison of various depths of the sea
and of various kinds of light to describe the process of waking,
there is no object which corresponds to those things; but the vague
shadings and confusions of dawning consciousness provide the basis
for the comparison.
It does not matter on what basis the comparison is established—
by what senses or feelings— but there must be some primary con-
nection if interpretation is to be established. A comparison, even if
it does carry an appropriate interpretation, must not be so far-
fetched that the reader cannot accept it. At the same time the com-
226 DESCRIPTION
parison which is too trite or too obvious does not stir the imagina-
tion. There is no rule for establishing these limits. The writer must
simply depend on observation of the practice of others and on his
own experience.
CHOICE OF WORDS IN THE TEXTURE
OF DESCRIPTION
As the selection of details and the use of figurative language helps
to determine the texture of a description, so does the choice of
words. The problem of diction, the choice of words, is naturally
important for all writing and is discussed elsewhere in this book,
but it must be touched on here in connection with description.
Inexperienced writers tend to make adjectives bear the burden
in description. They do this because the adjective is the part of
speech which refers to the qualities of things, and description is the
kind of discourse which is chiefly concerned with the appearance
of things. An inexperienced writer, therefore, tends to overload his
description with adjectives, with the idea of specifying all the quali-
ties of the thing being presented. Such a writer forgets that sug-
gestion is often better than enumeration, and that the mere listing
of qualities is not the best way to evoke an image in the reader's
mind.
Let us look at the following portrait:
The woman's face was fat and shapeless, so fat that it looked soft,
unresilient, grayish, and unhealthy. The features were blurred because
her face was fat. But her small, black glistening eyes had a quick inquisi-
tive motion as they moved from one face to another while the visitors
stated their errand.
In that description the writer has piled up the adjectives, trying
to specify each of the qualities of the woman's face and eyes. The
result is a rather confused impression. Let us now take the passage
as William Faulkner originally wrote it (p. 208) before we tampered
with it:
Her eyes, lost in the fatty ridges of her face, looked like two small
pieces of coal pressed into a lump of dough as they moved from one
face to another while the visitors stated their errand.
Here the writer has managed to dispense with most of the adjec-
tives, for the dough implies soft, unresilient, grayish, shapeless,
CHOICE OF WORDS IN THE TEXTURE OF DESCRIPTION 227
blurred, and (when associated with flesh) unhealthy, and the coal
implies black and glistening. The use of a comparison of this kind
will frequently enable the writer to dispense with adjectives. But
if the writer must use adjectives he should be sure that each ad-
jective really adds something essential to the description. Rather
than give the list of adjectives above, one could simply say that
the face was "fat and doughy."
The discussion above really returns us to the question of selec-
tion. But it does not touch on the use of parts of speech other than
adjectives. One can frequently get greater vividness by using nouns,
adverbs, and verbs. For instance, notice the descriptive force of the
italicized nouns in the following examples:
The very smoke coming out of their chimneys was poverty-stricken.
Little rags and shreds of smoke, so unlike the great silvery plumes that
uncurled from the Sheridans' chimneys.— KATHERINE MANSFIELD: "The
Garden Party."
They crept up the hill in the twilight and entered the cottage. It was
built of mud-walls, the surface of which had been washed by many rains
into channels and depressions that left none of the original flat face
visible; while here and there in the thatch above a rafter showed like a
bone protruding through the skin.— THOMAS HARDY: "The Withered Arm."
And a wind blew there, tossing the withered tops of last year's grasses,
and mists ran with the wind, and ragged shadows with the mists, and
mare's-tails of clear moonlight among the shadows, so that now the
boles of birches on the forest's edge beyond the fences were but opal
blurs and now cut alabaster.— WILBUR DANIEL STEELE: "How Beautiful
with Shoes."
We can see that in these passages, the nouns are of two kinds.
First, there are those which simply point to some items in the thing
described, such as channels, depressions, mists, shadows, moonlight.
Second, there are those which involve comparisons, such as rags,
shreds, alabaster, bone, and skin.
When we turn to the use of adverbs, we find that this part of
speech sometimes enables a writer to get an effect with great econ-
omy by fusing the quality of a thing with its action. When Dickens
writes in describing Chadband that he "moves softly and cum-
brously, not unlike a bear who has been taught to walk upright"
(p. 214), the adverbs softly and cumbrously give a much more vivid
228 DESCRIPTION
and immediate effect than would be possible if we broke the de-
scription up in the following fashion: Mr. Chadband is soft, heavy,
and awkward-looking. When he walks his motion is not unlike that
of a bear which has been taught to walk upright.
Let us take two sentences from Stephen Crane's description of
a battle (p. 218) and see how the italicized adverbs used focus
the main effect in each sentence:
Having stirred this prodigious uproar and, apparently, finding it too
prodigious, the brigade, after a little time, came marching airily out again
with its fine formation in nowise disturbed. ... A congregation of
horses, tied to a long railing, were tugging frenziedly at their bridles.
In both of these sentences the adverb is the key word. In the
first, airily, with its implications of lightness, casualness, slight dis-
dainfulness, and girlishness, is the key to the irony of the passage.
In the second, frenziedly focuses the attention on the quality of the
action— the important thing about the scene by the railing.
Or look at the effect of the italicized adverbs in the following
passage from Katharine Anne Porter 's description of Braggioni
(p. 217):
His mouth opens round and yearns sideways, his balloon cheeks grow
oily with the labor of song. He bulges marvellously in his expensive
garments.
In the use of verbs, the same concentration of effect is possible,
for frequently the right verb can imply something about the nature
of the thing or person performing an action as well as about the
nature of the action. In the sentence by Katherine Anne Porter
just quoted, the verbs yearns and bulges are extremely important.
Yearns implies the sentimental expression on the fat revolutionist's
face, and bulges implies the brute heft of the man, in contrast to
the sentimental song he sings. So the two verbs here really indicate
the contrast in his nature, as well as in his appearance.
In the following passage, which describes a herd of wild horses
corraled in a barn-lot, notice how the variety and accuracy of the
italicized forms 27 give the impression of furious, aimless motion,
and define the atmosphere of violence of the scene:
27 Some of the verbs, we notice, appear in the form of participles.
CHOICE OF WORDS IN THE TEXTURE OF DESCRIPTION 229
"Come on, grab a holt," the Texan said. Eck grasped the wire also.
The horses laid back against it, the pink faces tossing above the back-
surging mass. "Pull him up, pull him up," the Texan said sharply. "They
couldn't get up here in the wagon even if they wanted to." The wagon
moved gradually backward until the head of the first horse was snubbed
up to the tail-gate. The Texan took a turn of wire quickly about one of
the wagon stakes. "Keep the slack out of it," he said. He vanished and
reappeared, almost in the same second, with a pair of heavy wire-cutters.
"Hold them like that," he said, and leaped. He vanished, broad hat,
flapping vest, wire-cutters and all, into a kaleidoscopic maelstrom of long
teeth and wild eyes and slashing feet, from which presently the horses
began to burst, one by one like partridges flushing, each wearing a neck-
lace of barbed wire. The first one crossed the lot at top speed, on a
straight line. It galloped into the fence without any diminution whatever.
The wire gave, recovered, and slammed the horse to earth where it lay
for a moment, glaring, its legs still galloping in air. It scrambled up
without having ceased to gallop and crossed the lot and galloped into
the opposite fence and was slammed again to earth. The others were
now freed. They whipped and whirled about the lot like dizzy fish in a
bowl. It had seemed like a big lot until now, but now the very idea that
all that fury and motion should be transpiring inside any one fence was
something to be repudiated with contempt, like a mirror trick.— WILLIAM
FAULKNER: The Hamlet, Book IV, Chap. I.28
Verbs like tossing, vanished, reappeared, leaped, slashing,
slammed, whipped, whirled, give a constant sense of seething, vio-
lent motion, and as the passage continues in the part not quoted
here we find such additional verbs as feinting, dodging, weaving,
ripped, shook, and streaked.
A good writer can make adjectives, nouns, adverbs, and verbs
all serve his purpose. He can blend them to give his effect.
SUMMARY
Description is the kind of discourse that tells what something is
like, what qualities it has, what impression it makes. It deals pri-
marily with the appearance of the world.
We can distinguish two kinds of description, TECHNICAL and
SUGGESTIVE.
28 From The Hamlet by William Faulkner. Reprinted by permission of
Random House, Inc.
230 DESCRIPTION
Technical description may really be considered as one type of
exposition, the kind of discourse concerned with explanation, with
analysis and classification. But suggestive description also is re-
lated to the other forms of discourse. It frequently appears in
connection with narrative of all types, and sometimes with exposi-
tion and argument.
Description, and especially suggestive description, has to do with
the appearance of the world, and hence with the way the world
presents itself to our senses. Any one of the senses, and the percep-
tions of heat and cold, of pressure and strain, may be involved in
description, or any combination of them. Hence, a capacity for
close observation is important for good description.
In suggestive description the writer should be concerned to give
a DOMINANT IMPRESSION, the unified effect to which the details con-
tribute, the basic mood or idea of the description.
Even if a writer knows what dominant impression he wishes to
give, he must still solve certain problems of method. These may
be considered under two heads, PATTERN and TEXTURE. Pattern has
to do with general organization, and texture with the nature of the
details and their relation to each other.
In description with an objective emphasis any one of three types
of POINT OF VIEW may dictate the organization:
1. Order in the object as observed from a fixed position
2. Order in the object as observed from a shifting position
3. Order in an imaginary FRAME IMAGE
In description with a subjective emphasis either of two methods
may be used to organize the details:
4. In reference to the mood or attitude
5. In reference to an interest
In addition to these types of pattern, three others may be distin-
guished:
6. By a listing of details with relation to a dominant mood or
interest but without formal organization— IMPRESSIONISTIC PATTERN
7. In reference to a frame of narrative, argument, or exposition
in which the descriptive material is absorbed— ABSORBED DESCRIPTION
8. By mixed patterns
As pattern is concerned with the organization of details, so texture
is concerned with the nature of the details presented. This problem
is, first, a problem of SELECTION. Selection may be considered in
SUMMARY 231
two aspects, VIVIDNESS and SIGNIFICANCE, but it must be remembered
that the same detail may be both vivid and significant.
A detail may be vivid because it is obvious and striking, or be-
cause, though not obvious, it stimulates the reader's imagination to
re-create the object described. A detail may be significant if it con-
tributes to the dominant impression, that is, the mood, the attitude,
or the idea the writer wishes to communicate.
The dominant impression may be not only of some physical
object, say a scene or a person, but of the character of a person.
The physical details may indicate the inner nature of the person
described. By the same process, that of indicating the intangible
by the tangible, feelings and states of mind may be described. This
may involve the use of the physical symptoms of the feeling or
state of mind and the use of figurative language. But figurative
language is often important in description to indicate or to heighten
the dominant impression.
The choice of words is also important in determining the texture
of description. Inexperienced writers tend to rely on adjectives, but
other parts of speech, nouns, adverbs, and verbs, can be used with
effect. A good writer tries to use the full resources of his language
and to combine its elements into a unified whole.
EXAMPLES
Following are a number of examples of description. These have already
been discussed in this chapter with regard to the study of special topics.
A. A knot of country boys, gabbling at one another like starlings,
shrilled a cheer as we came rattling over a stone bridge beneath which
a stream shallowly washed its bank of osiers. —WALTER DE LA MARE:
Memoirs of a Midget, Chap. 2.
B. Charmian is a hatchet faced, terra cotta colored little goblin, swift
in her movements, and neatly finished at the hands and feet.— GEORGE
BERNARD SHAW : Caesar and Cleopatra, Act IV.
C. Without being robust, her health was perfect, her needlework
exquisite, her temper equable and calm; she loved and was loved by
her girl-friends; she read romantic verses and select novels; above all,
she danced. That was the greatest pleasure in life for her; not for the
sake of her partners— those were surely only round dances, and the
232 DESCRIPTION
partners didn't count; what counted was the joy of motion, the sense of
treading lightly, in perfect time, a sylph in spotless muslin, enriched
with a ribbon or a flower, playing discreetly with her fan, and sailing
through the air with feet that seemed scarcely to touch the ground.—
GEORGE SANTAYANA: Persons and Places, Chap. I.29
D. Leaning over the parapet he enjoyed, once more, the strangely
intimate companionship of the sea. He glanced down into the water
whose uneven floor was diapered with long weedy patches, fragments
of fallen rock, and brighter patches of sand; he inhaled the pungent odor
of sea- wrack and listened to the breathings of the waves. They lapped
softly against the rounded boulders which strewed the shore like a flock
of nodding Behemoths. He remembered his visits at daybreak to the
beach— those unspoken confidences with the sunlit element to whose
friendly caresses he had abandoned his body. How calm it was, too, in
this evening light. Near at hand, somewhere, lay a sounding cave; it sang
a melody of moist content. Shadows lengthened; fishing boats, moving
outward for the night-work, steered darkly across the luminous river
at his feet. Those jewel-like morning tints of blue and green had faded
from the water; the southern cliff-scenery, projections of it, caught a
fiery glare. Bastions of flame. . . .
The air seemed to have become unusually cool and bracing.— NORMAN
DOUGLAS: South Wind, Chap. 49.30
E. So the day has taken place, all the visionary business of the day.
The young cattle stand in the straw of the stack yard, the sun gleams
on their white fleece, the eyes of lo, and the man with the side-whiskers
carries more yellow straw into the compound. The sun comes in all
down one side, and above, in the sky, all the gables and grey stone
chimney-stacks are floating in pure dreams.
There is threshed wheat smouldering in the great barn, the fire of life:
and the sound of the threshing machine, running, drumming.
The threshing machine, running, drumming, waving its steam in a
corner of a great field, the rapid nucleus of darkness beside the yellow
ricks: and the rich plough-land comes up, ripples up in endless grape-
colored ripples, like a tide of procreant desire: the machine sighs and
drums, wind blows the chaff in little eddies, blows the clothes of the men
on the ricks close against their limbs: the men on the stacks in the wind
29 From Persons and Places by George Santayana, copyright, 1944, 1945, by
Charles Scribner's Sons.
80 From South Wind by Norman Douglas. Reprinted by permission of Dodd,
Mead & Company, Inc.
SUMMARY 233
against a bare blue heaven, their limbs blown clean in contour naked
shapely animated fragments of earth active in heaven.
Coming home, by the purple and crimson hedges, red with berries,
up hill over the heavy ground to the stone, old three-pointed house with
its raised chimney-stacks, the old manor lifting its fair, pure stone amid
trees and foliage, rising from the lawn, we pass the pond where white
ducks hastily launch upon the lustrous dark grey waters.
So up the steps to the porch, through the doorway, and into the
interior, fragrant with all the memories of old age, and of bygone,
remembered lustiness.— D. H. LAWRENCE: Letters.31
F. When I say they [the gondoliers of Venice] are associated with its
[the city's] silence, I should immediately add that they are associated
also with its sound. Among themselves they are extraordinarily talkative
company. They chatter at the traghetti [landings], where they always
have some sharp point under discussion; they bawl across the canals; they
bespeak your commands as you approach; they defy each other from afar.
If you happen to have a traghetto under your window, you are well aware
that they are a vocal race. I should go even farther than I went just
now, and say that the voice of the gondolier is, in fact, the voice of
Venice. There is scarcely any other, and that, indeed, is part of the
interest of the place. There is no noise there save distinctly human noise;
no rumbling, no vague uproar, no rattle of wheels and hoofs. It is all
articulate, personal sound. One may say, indeed, that Venice is, em-
phatically, the city of conversation; people talk all over the place, be-
cause there is nothing to interfere with their being heard. Among the
populace it is a kind of family party. The still water carries the voice,
and good Venetians exchange confidences at a distance of a half a mile.
It saves a world of trouble, and they don't like trouble. Their delightful
garrulous language helps them to make Venetian life a long conver-
sazione. This language, with its soft elisions, its odd transpositions, its
kindly contempt for consonants and other disagreeables, has in it some-
thing peculiarly human and accommodating.— HENRY JAMES: "Venice,"
Portraits of Places.
G. The dress of the rider and the accouterments of his horse, were
peculiarly unfit for the traveller in such a country. A coat of linked mail,
with long sleeves, plated gauntlets, and a steel breastplate, had not been
esteemed sufficient weight of armor; there was also his triangular shield
suspended round his neck, and his barred helmet of steel, over which
he had a hood and collar of mail, which was drawn around the warrior's
31 From The Letters of D. H. Lawrence by D. H. Lawrence, copyright, 1932?
by The Viking Press, Inc.
234 DESCRIPTION
shoulders and throat, and filled up the vacancy between the hauberk
and the head-piece. His lower limbs were sheathed, like his body, in
flexible mail, securing the legs and thighs, while the feet rested in plated
shoes, which corresponded with the gauntlets. A long, broad, straight-
shaped, double-edged falchion, with a handle formed like a cross, cor-
responded with a stout poniard on the other side. The Knight also bore,
secured to his saddle, with one end resting on his stirrup, the long steel-
headed lance, his own proper weapon, which, as he rode, projected
backwards, and displayed its little pennoncelle, to dally with the faint
breeze, or drop in the dead calm.— WALTER SCOTT: The Talisman, Bk. I,
Chap. 1.
H. Say that I had walked and wandered by unknown roads, and
suddenly, after climbing a gentle hill, had seen before me for the first
time the valley of Usk, just above Newbridge. I think it was on one of
those strange days in summer when the sky is at once so grey and
luminous that I achieved this adventure. There are no clouds in the
upper air, the sky is simply covered with a veil which is, as I say, both
grey and luminous, and there is no breath of wind, and every leaf is
still.
But now and again as the day goes on the veil will brighten, and the
sun almost appear; and then here and there in the woods it is as if white
moons were descending. On such a day, then, I saw that wonderful and
most lovely valley; the Usk, here purged of its muddy tidal waters, now
like the sky, grey and silvery and luminous, winding in mystic esses,
and the dense forest bending down to it, and the grey stone bridge cross-
ing it. Down the valley in the distance was Caerleon-on-Usk; over the
hill, somewhere in the lower slopes of the forest, Caerwent, also a Roman
city, was buried in the earth, and gave up now and again strange relics-
fragments of the temple of "Nodens, god of the depths/' I saw the lonely
house between the dark forest and the silver river, and years after I
wrote "The Great God Pan," an endeavor to pass on the vague, inde-
finable sense of awe and mystery and terror that I had received.— ARTHUR
MACHEN: Far Off Things, Chap. I.32
I. Ratmiroff gazed gloomily after his wife— even then he could not
fail to observe the enchanting grace of her figure, or her movements—
and crushing his cigarette with a heavy blow against the marble slab
of the chimney-piece, he flung it far from him. His cheeks suddenly
paled, a convulsive quiver flitted across his chin, and his eyes wandered
dully and fiercely over the floor, as though in search of something. . . .
32 Reprinted from Far Off Things by Arthur Machen, by permission of
Alfred A. Knopf, Inc. Copyright 1923 by Alfred A. Knopf, Inc.
SUMMARY 235
Every trace of elegance had vanished from his face. That must have
been the sort of expression it had assumed when he flogged the white
Russian peasants.— IVAN TURGENEV: Smoke, Chap. 15.
J. He was a Mr. Cornelius Vanslyperken, a tall, meagre-looking per-
sonage, with very narrow shoulders and very small head. Perfectly straight
up and down, protruding in no part, he reminded you of some tall parish
pump, with a great knob at its top. His face was gaunt, cheeks hollow,
nose and chin showing an effection for each other, and evidently lament-
ing the gulf between them which prevented their meeting. Both appear
to have fretted themselves to the utmost degree of tenuity from disap-
pointment in love; as for the nose, it had a pearly round tear hanging at
its tip, as if it wept.— FREDERICK MARRYAT: The Dog Fiend, Chap. 1.
K. Her heart seemed so full, that it spilt its new gush of happiness, as
it were, like rich and sunny wine out of an overbrimming goblet—
NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE: The Marble Faun, Chap. 15.
L But I eat. I gradually lose all knowledge of particulars as I eat.
I am becoming weighed down with food. These delicious mouthfuls of
roast duck, fitly piled with vegetables, following each other in exquisite
rotation of warmth, weight, sweet and bitter, past my palate, down my
gullet, into my stomach, have established my body. I feel quiet, gravity,
control. All is solid now. Instinctively my palate now requires and
anticipates sweetness and lightness, something sugared and evanescent;
and cool wine, fitting glove-like over those finer nerves that seem to
tremble from the roof of my mouth and make it spread (as I drink) into
a domed cavern, green with vine leaves, musk-scented, purple with
grapes. Now I can look steadily into the mill-race that foams beneath.
By what particular name are we to call it? Let Rhoda speak, whose face
I see reflected mistily in the looking-glass opposite; Rhoda whom I in-
terrupted when she rocked her petals in a brown basin, asking for the
pocket-knife that Bernard had stolen. Love is not a whirl-pool to her.
She is not giddy when she looks down. She looks far away over our
heads, beyond India.— VIRGINIA WOOLF: The Waves, Section 4.33
M. Cape Cod is the bared and bended arm of Massachusetts; the
shoulder is at Buzzard's Bay; the elbow, or crazy-bone, at Cape Malle-
barre; the wrist at Truro; and the sandy fist at Provincetown,— behind
which the state stands on her guard, with her back to the Green Moun-
tains, and her feet planted on the floor of the ocean, like an athlete pro-
tecting her Bay,— boxing with northeast storms, and, ever and anon,
83 From The Waves by Virginia Woolf, copyright, 1931, by Harcourt, Brace
and Company, Inc.
236 DESCRIPTION
heaving up her Atlantic adversary from the lap of earth,— ready to thrust
forward her other fist, which keeps guard while upon her breast at
Cape Ann.— HENRY DAVID THOREAU: Cape Cod, Chap. 1.
N. In search of a place proper for this, I found a little plain on the
side of a rising hill, whose front towards this little plain was steep as a
house-side, so that nothing could come down upon me from the top;
on the side of this rock there was a hollow place, worn a little way in,
like the entrance or door of a cave; but there was not really any cave,
or way into the rock at all.
On the flat of the green, just before this hollow place, I resolved to
pitch my tent. This plain was not above an hundred yards broad,
and about twice as long, and lay like a green before my door, and at
the end of it descended irregularly every way down into the low grounds
by the seaside. It was on the NNW. side of the hill, so that I was sheltered
from the heat every day, till it came to a W. and by S. sun, or thereabouts,
which in those countries is near the setting.— DANIEL DEFOE: Robinson
Crusoe.
CHAPTER
Narration
NARRATION is the kind of discourse concerned with action, with
life in motion. It answers the question: "What happened?" It tells
a story.
We ordinarily think of story-telling as being the special province
of the writer of fiction, of short stories and novels, but fiction is
only one type of narration, and here we shall be concerned with
narration as a kind of discourse— with narration in general. Fiction
involves many special problems which will not be touched on here.
Let us examine what we mean by the word action as used in the
statement that narration is the kind of discourse concerned with
action. We may discuss action under three heads, movement, time,
and meaning.
MOVEMENT
Description gives us the picture of the world as fixed at a given
moment, of its objects as existing at that moment. It is a portrait, a
snapshot, a still life. Narration gives us a moving picture, its objects
in operation, life in motion. Its emphasis is not on the thing in
motion, but on the nature of the motion itself. It is concerned with
a transformation from one stage to another stage. It not only an-
swers the question, "What happened?" it also answers the question,
"How did it happen?"— that is, what was the process of passing from
the first stage to the last stage?
This special emphasis on movement itself means that narration
does not explain a process (though it may do so) but presents a
238 NARRATION
process. It places the event before our eyes. Narration does not
tell about the story. It tells the story. Like description, narration
gives the quality of immediacy.
TIME
The movement of a process, an event, is through time, from one
point to another. But narration does not give us a mere segment of
time, but a unit of time, and a unit is a thing which is complete in
itself. It may be part of a larger thing, and it may contain smaller
parts, but in itself it is complete. The unit of time, therefore, is
the time in which a process fulfills itself. We now emphasize, not
the fact of movement, but the movement from a beginning to an
end. We begin a story at the moment when something is ripe to
happen, when one condition prevails but is unstable, and end it
when the something has finished happening, when a new condition
prevails and is stable. And in between those two moments are all
the moments which mark the stages of change.
But you may recall narratives which did not begin with that first
moment when something was ripe to happen. For instance, a nar-
rative may begin with a man in the very midst of his difficulties
and problems, say on the battlefield or at the moment of a marital
crisis or when he hears that he has lost his fortune, and then cut
back to his previous experiences to explain how he came to be in
such a situation. Such a narrative does not move in an orderly
fashion from A to Z. It begins, instead, with G, f/, 7 and then cuts
back to A, B, and C. But we must distinguish here between two
things: how the narrator treated the sequence in time and how the
sequence existed in time. The narrator may have given us G, H,
and I first in order to catch our interest. He may have thought that
A, B, and C, would not be interesting to us until we knew what they
were to lead to. But when he does finally cut back to A, B, and C,
we become aware of the full sequence in time and set it up in our
imaginations A, B, C . . . G, H, 7. . . . In other words, we must
distinguish between the way (G, H, I— A, B, C . . .) the narrator
tells us something and the thing (A, B, C, D, E, F, G . . .) which
he tells. The thing told always represents a unit of time, no matter
how much the narrator may violate its natural order.
MEANING 239
MEANING
An action, as we are using the word, is not merely a series of
events but is a meaningful series. We have already implied this in
saying that narration gives us a unit of time, with a beginning and
an end. In other words, the events must be stages in a process and
not merely a random collection held together in time, They must
have a unity of meaning. Suppose we should read:
President Wilson presented his war message to Congress on April 6,
1917. War was declared. Thus the United States embarked on its first
great adventure in world affairs. On April 8, 1917, just two days later,
Albert Mayfield was born in Marysville, Illinois. He was a healthy baby,
and grew rapidly. By the time of the Armistice he weighed 25 pounds.
On December 12, 1918, the troopship Mason., returning to New York
from Cherbourg, struck a floating mine off Ireland and sank. Two hun-
dred and sixteen men were lost.
Several events are recounted in this passage, but as it is presented
to us, nothing holds those events together. They have no significant
relation to each other. They do not constitute an action, merely a
sequence in time. But suppose we rewrite the passage:
President Wilson presented his war message to Congress on April 6,
1917. War was declared. Thus the United States embarked on its first
great adventure in world affairs. On April 8, 1917, just two days later,
Albert Mayfield was born in Marysville, Illinois. Scarcely before the ink
had dried on the headlines of the extra of the Marysville Courier an-
nouncing the declaration of war, Albert embarked on his own great
adventure in world affairs. He was a healthy baby, and grew rapidly.
By the time of the Armistice he weighed 25 pounds. On December 12,
1918, the troopship Mason, returning to New York from Cherbourg,
struck a floating mine off Ireland and sank. Two hundred and sixteen
men were lost. Among those men was Sidney Mayfield, a captain of
artillery, a quiet, unobtrusive, middle-aged insurance salesman., who left
a widow and an infant son. That son was Albert Mayfield. So Albert grew
up into a world which the war— a war he could not remember— had de-
fined. It had defined the little world of his home, the silent, bitter
woman who was his mother, the poverty and the cheerless discipline,
and it had defined the big world outside.
Now we are moving toward an action. The random events are
given some relationship to each other. We have unity and meaning.
240 NARRATION
We may want to go on and find out more about Albert and about
the long-range effects of the war on his life, but what we have is,
as far as it goes, an action in itself as well as the part of a bigger
action, the story of Albert's life.
We have said that an action must have unity of meaning. This
implies that one thing leads to another, or if one thing does not
lead to the other, that they both belong to a body of related events
all bearing on the point of the action. For instance, in the paragraph
about Albert Mayfield, the declaration of war by the United States
did not directly cause the floating mine to be in a particular spot off
Ireland, but both events belong in the body of events contributing
to the formation of Albert's character.
In seeking the unity of an action, we must often think of the
persons involved. Events do not merely happen to people, but
people also cause events. People have desires and impulses, and
these desires and impulses are translated into deeds. Therefore, the
human motives involved may contribute to the unity of an action.
This human element, MOTIVATION, may provide the line which runs
through the individual events and binds them together. And when
motivation does not provide us with the line, we must think of the
events as leading to some human response. For example, no motiva-
tion in the sense just used binds the little story of Albert Mayfield
together, but the effect of the events on Albert Mayfield, his re-
sponse to them, provides the unity and the meaning.
If we summarize what we mean by an action, we arrive at some-
thing like this. It is a connected sequence of events. It involves a
change from one condition to another. It must have a beginning
and an end. It must have unity and meaning. It must stimulate and
satisfy an interest.
NARRATIVE AND NARRATION
Before we leave this preliminary discussion of narration, it may
be well, as a kind of caution, to make a distinction between narra-
tion and narrative. Strictly considered,! narration is a certain way
of speaking or writing, a kind of discourse, and a narrative is the
thing produced by its application, a discourse, either spoken or
written, which presents an actiori. We must remember, however,
NARRATIVE AND NARRATION 241
that the method of narration may be used without giving us a
satisfactory narrative. Suppose a woman should say:
Why, my dear, I had the pleasantest afternoon yesterday. I went down
to lunch with Ethel— at the Green Room of the Millet Hotel—and we
had delicious shrimp. You know, the kind they serve there. Then I went
to get a facial. And guess who was there! Milly Seaver. I hadn't seen her
in ages. Really, not for ages. She was looking awful well, even if she is
beginning— I oughtn't say this, but it's true— to show her age just a little.
You know how blondes are. She said she was getting a permanent and
was in a hurry because her husband was taking her to Chicago that
night on a business trip. Then I left the beauty shop and went to a movie.
It wasn't very good, but I enjoyed being there in the cool, after such a
hot day. But I had to come home early, before the show was over. You
see, Mike, that's my biggest child, had to go to a Scout meeting. And
besides, I like an early dinner for the children. Also, my new shoes
weren't very comfortable, and I was glad to get home. But Milly Seaver
—you really ought to see her— she's getting . . .
This rattletrap of a woman has used the method of narration, but
she has used it without the distinguishing interest of narration, the
presentation of an action. She has given us a sequence of events
in time, but that sequence of events does not constitute an action
in the real sense. The unity is a unity in time— she went down town
early in the afternoon and came home late— but there is no unity
of meaning in the events themselves. One may say, of course, that
we get some notion of her character from the way she spends her
time, and that this constitutes a meaning. But ordinarily we insist
on a little more than that when we say that a sequence of events
constitutes an action.
It is not profitable, however, to demand a single line of demarca-
tion between what is narration and non-narration, between what
is narrative and what is non-narrative. If we understand the ex-
tremes—the random and unrelated accumulation events at the one
extreme, and the fully realized action at the other— we can use com-
mon sense to discriminate among the examples of the shadowland in
between. And in our ordinary speaking and writing we shall fre-
quently have reason to move into that shadowland where definitions
are not as clear as day.
242 NARRATION
NARRATION AND THE OTHER KINDS
OF DISCOURSE
We have been discussing narration (and narrative) as a thing in
itself. But it bears certain relations to the other kinds of discourse-
description^ exposition, and argument. What are these relations?
We can break this general question down into two other ques-
tions:
1. How does narration use other kinds of discourse?
2. How do other kinds of discourse use narration?
HOW NARRATION USES OTHER KINDS OF DISCOURSE
Let us take up the first question. A narrative may have within it
descriptive, argumentative, or expository elements. In fact, any
rather full narrative will almost certainly have them, but they will
be, if the prevailing motive of the piece of writing is narrative,
absorbed into the narrative intention.
A narrative presents us with an action. But an action implies
things or persons which act and are acted upon. And the word
presents implies that we are not told about those things or persons
but are given some sense of their actual presence, their appearance,
their nature. And this means that, in a greater or lesser degree, they
are described. So description comes in to give us that impression
of immediacy which is important for all narrative except the most
bare and synoptic kind.
The same line of reasoning leads us to an awareness of the impor-
tance of exposition in narrative. A narrative involves an action, and
we have defined an action as a sequence of events related to
create a meaning. One thing leads to another. There is a con-
nection of cause and effect, or at least the events are connected
with each other by means of some idea. For instance, in the little
example given above about Albert Mayfield and World War I, the
war is the cause of the particular situation in which the boy grows
up. We must understand this in order to get the point.
Exposition is the kind of discourse concerned with explanation,
with making us understand something, and in so far as a narrative
employs explanation to bring us to an understanding of its point,
it involves exposition. Some narratives, it is true, may simply arrange
NARRATION AND THE OTHER KINDS OF DISCOURSE 243
their materials so that the reader is aware of the point without
having to depend on any explanation, but in any rather fully de-
veloped narrative some element of exposition, even though a very
slight one, is apt to appear.
Let us turn to the writing of a little narrative. Suppose we start
with the following passage:
George Barton, a poor boy about twelve years old of nondescript ap-
pearance, was forced to sell the mastiff, which he had reared from a
puppy and which he loved very much, for two reasons. First, having lost
his job, he could no longer buy proper food for a dog of such size.
Second, after it had frightened a child in the neighborhood, he was
afraid that someone would poison it.
But this is not a narrative. It is concerned with an action, the fact
that the boy sells his dog, but its primary concern is with the causes
of the action and with what the action illustrates rather than with
the immediate presentation of the action in time. Let us rewrite the
passage.
George Barton owned a mastiff which he had reared from a puppy. He
loved it very much. But he lost his job and could no longer buy proper
food for it. Then the dog frightened a little child of the neighborhood who
was eating a piece of bread. George was now afraid that someone would
poison it. So he sold it.
This is a narrative. The causes of the action are given here, as
before, but now they are absorbed into the movement of the action
itself and appear to us in their natural sequence. When we wrote in
the first example that George sold the dog for two reasons, we vio-
lated the whole nature of narrative— the movement in time— because
we made, not the action itself, but the causes of the action, the
thing of primary interest. The first piece of writing is expository:
it explains why the boy sold the dog. The second piece of writing
is narrative: it tells us what happened.
This second piece of writing is, however, a very poor, dull, and
incomplete piece of narrative. It can scarcely be said, for one thing,
to present the event at all. It gives us little sense of the immediate
quality of the event. It is so bare of detail that the imagination of
the reader can find little to work on. We have the basic facts given
in a bare synopsis. But if we fill in the synopsis a little we can make
it satisfy us somewhat better.
244 NARRATION
George Barton was a nondescript little boy, scarcely to be distinguished
from the other boys living in Duck Alley. He had a pasty face, not remark-
able in any way, eyes not blue and not brown but some nondescript hazel
color, and a tangle of neutral colored hair. His clothes were the anony-
mous, drab, cast-off items worn by all the children of Duck Alley, that
grimy street, scarcely a street at all but a dirt track, which ran between
the sluggish, algae-crusted bayou and a scattering of shanties. His life
there was unremarkable and cheerless enough, with a feeble, querulous,
stooped, defeated father, a mother who had long since resigned herself
to her misery, and a sullen older brother, with a mean laugh and a hard
set of knuckles, who tormented George for amusement when he was
not off prowling with his cronies. But this home did not distinguish
George from the other children of Duck Alley. It was like many of the
others. What distinguished George was his dog.
One day two years backbit was the summer when he was ten-
George had found the dog. It was a puppy then, a scrawny, starving
creature with absurd big paws, sniffling feebly in the garbage dump at
the end of Duck Alley. No one could have guessed then that it would
grow into a sleek, powerful animal, as big as a pony.
George brought it home, and defended it against the protests and
jeers and random kicks of the family. "I'll feed him," he asserted. "He
won't never eat a bite I don't make the money to pay for." And he was
as good as his word. There was no job too hard for him, for he could
look forward to evening when he would squat by the old goods box
which served as a kennel and watch Jibby gnaw at the hunk of meat
he had bought.
Suppose we begin the narrative in that way. We have added
several elements to the bare synopsis given before. We know now
why the dog is so important to the boy. There is no direct state-
ment on this point, but we see that he lives an isolated and loveless
life, and that the dog satisfies a craving of his nature for compan-
ionship and affection. We also see that now he has a reason for his
own efforts, a center for his life. In other words we can imagina-
tively grasp his own state of mind. As we have just stated the
matter, it is given as explanation, as exposition, but in the narrative
itself this expository element is absorbed into situation and action.
But in addition to this element, we have added little bits of descrip-
tion which are woven into the narrative to help us visualize the
scene and George himself. The description which is absorbed into
the narrative helps put the whole thing before us, helps to present
it rather than tell about it.
NARRATION AND THE OTHER KINDS OF DISCOURSE 245
The thing to emphasize here is that the narrative is concerned
to make us sense the fullness of the process— to make us see, hear,
feel, and understand the event as a single thing. Description alone
might make us see or hear some aspect of the event. Exposition
might make us understand its meaning, its causes or results. But
narrative, when it is fully effective, makes us aware directly of the
event as happening.
To return to our little narrative. Suppose we should carry on our
suggested revision to the moment when George sells his dog. Would
there be anything still lacking to make the narrative fully satisfying?
Perhaps there would be. Perhaps the meaning of the action would
not be very clear. Let us continue it at a point after George has lost
his job and the dog has frightened the child.
George sold the dog to John Simpson, a boy who lived in one of the
big brick houses on the hill back of town. John Simpson's father was
rich. John could feed Jibby. John could take care of him. Nobody would
poison Jibby up at John Simpson's house, behind the high iron fence.
George comforted himself with these thoughts.
Sometimes, however, they did not comfort him enough, and he felt
the old loneliness and emptiness which he had felt before Jibby came.
But he was getting to be a big boy now, big and tough, and he put those
feelings out of his mind as well as he could. He did not work regularly
now, but hung around with the Duck Alley gang in the railroad yards. He
almost forgot Jibby.
One day on the main street of town he met John Simpson and the
clog, such a big, powerful, sleek dog now that he scarcely recognized
him. He went up to the dog. "Hi, Jibby, hi, boy!" he said, and began
to pull the dog's ears and scratch his head as he had done three years
before, in the evenings, back by the goods box, after Jibby had bolted
his supper. The dog nuzzled him and licked his hands. George looked
up at the other boy and exclaimed, "Jeez, l°°k at him. Look at him, will
ya. Ain't he smart? He remembers me!"
John Simpson stood there and for a moment did not utter a word.
Then he said, "Take your hands off that dog. He belongs to me."
George stepped back.
"Come here, Blaze," John Simpson ordered, and the dog went to him.
He fondled the dog's head, and the dog licked his hands.
George turned around and walked off.
This is somewhat more complete than the previous version. If we
stop with the sale of the dog, we do have an example of narration,
246 NARRATION
but the reader no doubt is somewhat confused about the exact
meaning of the event presented. Perhaps the reader feels sorry for
the boy. Perhaps he is aware that poverty is the cause of the boy's
loss of the dog. Those things may be taken as meanings of the piece
of narration given. But they are not brought to focus. The reader
may not be sure exactly what is intended. He is certain to feel that
the narrative is rather fragmentary.
But with the addition of the next section dealing with the meet-
ing of George and John Simpson, the reader is more certain of the
direction of the narrative, of the significance. The contrast between
John Simpson, who owns the dog, and George, who merely loves
it, gives us a point which is clear even without any comment. And
many narratives, even some examples of that highly elaborated
form of narration called fiction, deliver their point without any
comment.
In the new section, we may notice, however, that more is involved
than the mere contrast between the two boys. The dog licks John
Simpson's hands, too. How does this tie in with what we have just
said? This is, as it were, a kind of betrayal of George's affection
for the dog. Another question: What is George's attitude as he turns
and walks off? Perhaps the reader senses the boy's resentment at
the betrayal. But the writer might want more. He might want a
more positive conclusion. For example, he might want to make this
event a kind of turning point in George's growing up, a seemingly
trivial event which had a far-reaching effect on his life. He might
continue.
The next day George hunted a job. He found one at the lumberyard
where he had worked before when Jibby was a puppy. He worked as
steadily now as he had worked in the old days when he looked forward
to getting home to feed the dog and squat by him in the dusk, or if it
was winter, in the dark. But he did not love the dog now. He was
through with that.
But he worked because he had learned one thing. It was a thing which
he was never to forget. He had learned that even love was one of the
things you cannot get unless you have the money to pay for it.
This would give us a conclusion. It would give the effect of the
event on George, not merely the first reaction of resentment or hurt
feelings, but the effect which would prevail over a long period of
time. Neither the reader nor the writer may agree that what George
NARRATION AND THE OTHER KINDS OF DISCOURSE 247
learns is the truth—that money is the basis of everything, even of
those things like love and loyalty and kindness—but what George
learns is the "truth" for him, the thing by which he will conduct
his life for a time to come.
The important thing to understand here is, however, that a point
is made, whether or not the reader accepts the point as true. The
narrative is complete. It is not complete merely because a sum-
marizing statement has been made by the writer. Certainly, the
summarizing statement would not make the narrative complete if
the thing it says were not something which could grow reasonably
out of the event for a person in George's situation. And many narra-
tives imply rather than state their meaning. But a full narrative
does involve significance, a meaning, a point, as something which
grows out of the sequence of events.
We have just said that the narrative is complete. This does not
necessarily mean that George will never change his mind about
what is the meaning of the experience he has had. The narrative
might well be part of a long story or a novel which showed how
for thirty years to come George conducted his life by the hard,
materialistic "truth" he had learned and then found, even in the
moment of his practical success, when he had grown rich and
powerful, that his "truth" was really a profound mistake and that
he had to learn a new truth.
This revision might not make a good story. The event concern-
ing the dog might be too trivial or sentimental to serve as the basis
for a good piece of fiction. But it will illustrate our own statement
that the significance of a narrative stems from what the narrative
immediately involves. George's later experiences, including elements
not involved in the little narrative given here, might make him (or
the reader) revise the notion of the truth of its point. But the point,
in so far as it is already implicit in the particular narrative, would
be there, and the narrative would be complete, in terms of George's
interpretation of it.
The idea of completeness as applied to narrative always involves
the idea of an interpretation, stated or implied, of the events nar-
rated. The interpretation may be made by a character in the nar-
rative, as by George in this case, or it may be made by the reader
on the basis of the presentation of the material, or it may be stated
by the writer. But in all cases of fully developed narrative, an inter-
248 NARRATION
pretation is involved. And this means that our understanding is
appealed to. And a narrative may use exposition to make this appeal
to our understanding, as the last paragraph of our narrative about
George does.
HOW OTHER KINDS OF DISCOURSE USE NARRATION
Strictly speaking, description can scarcely be said to use narration
as an aid. It is, of course, possible to find cases in which descrip-
tion involves movement— a man's habitual acts, for instance, in a
description of a character. But we must keep in mind the distinction
between an act and an action in the sense in which we have been
using the word action. A character description might even involve
an action, but our interest in action is so much more vital than our
interest in mere appearance that we should probably feel that the
description was incidental to the narration rather than the narration
incidental to the description. An object in motion catches the eye.
The situation, however, is different in regard to exposition and
argument. Frequently in extended discourses which are primarily
intended to explain something to us or to convince us of something
we find bits of narrative used to dramatize an attitude, to illustrate
a point, to bring an idea home to us. Sermons and speeches are
often full of anecdotes. The preacher tells his congregation the
story of a deathbed confession. The politician tells his audience
how such and such a law, which he is pledged to help repeal if
elected, has ruined the life of John Doe over in Murray County.
The after-dinner speaker tells the club members a joke. But the
story of the deathbed confession or of the ruin of John Doe over in
Murray County or the story about the two Irishmen must have a
point related to the main business in hand. If it does not have such
a relation, the listeners feel that the speaker has dragged it in by
the tail, merely to catch their attention, that somehow he has not
played fair.
What is true of the sermon or political address or after-dinner
speech is true of informal essays, informational articles, character
sketches, travel books, philosophical essays, essays of opinion,
memoirs, historical studies, and many other types of writing. And
here, too, the narrative may be used to bring directly home to the
reader what argument or exposition can only give in general terms.
NARRATION AND THE OTHER KINDS OF DISCOURSE 249
For instance, observe how the general statement with which the
following paragraph begins takes on significance in narrative:
Undergraduate life at Cambridge [Massachusetts] has not lacked for
bitter passages, which compel notice from any anatomist of society. On
the one hand there has long been a snobbery moulded of New England
pride and juvenile cruelty which is probably more savage than any
known to Fifth Avenue and Newport. Its favorite illustration is the time-
worn tale of the lonely lad who to feign that he had one friend used to
go out as dusk fell over the yard and call beneath his own windows,
"Oh, Reinhardt!" And on the other it has moments of mad, terrible loyalty
— exampled by the episode which is still recalled, awesomely without
names, over the coffee and liqueurs when Harvard men meet in Beacon
Street or the South Seas. It is the true story of a Harvard senior at a
party in Brookline, who suddenly enraged by a jocular remark made
concerning the girl whom he later married, publicly slapped the face of
his best friend— and then in an access of remorse walked to an open fire
and held his offending hand in the flame until it shrivelled away to the
wrist.— DIXON WECTER: The Saga of American Society, Chap. 7.1
Or let us take the following passage, which has the same basic
pattern, the movement from a general proposition to an illustration
in narrative:
There are men of all nations who feel the fascination of a life unequally
divided between months of hardship and short days of riot and spend-
ing; but in the end it is the hardship that holds them. The Chinese,
taking them as they come, are not like this. They frankly detest hard
work. A large belly among them is an honorable thing, because it means
that the owner of it does not swink for his living. I never met a Chinese
outside of the caravans who was what we should call sentimental about
his work. Camel pullers alone have a different spirit, a queer spirit.
Time and again when the men were talking around the fire and cursing
the weather, the bad taste of the water, or the dust blown into their
food, I have heard one ask, rhetorically, "What is a camel puller?" . . .
Then another would say, "Yes, but this is the good life— do we not
all come back to it?" and be approved in a chorus of grunts and oaths.
Once a veteran said the last word: "I put all my money into land in
the newly opened country Behind the Hills, and my nephew farms it for
me. My old woman is there, so two years ago when they had the troubles
on the Great Road and my legs hurt I thought I would finish with it
1 From The Saga of American Society by Dixon Wecter, copyright,
by Charles Scribner's Sons.
250 NARRATION
all— defile its mother! I thought I would sleep on a warm k'ang and
gossip with the neighbors and maybe smoke a little opium, and not work
hard any more. But I am not far from the road, in my place, and after a
while in the day and the night when I hear the bells of the lien-tze go
by, ting-lang, ting-lang, there was a pain in my heart— hsin-li nan-kuo.
So I said, "Dogs defile it! I will go back on the Gobi one more time and
pull camels/'— OWEN LATTIMORE: The Desert Road to Turkestan, Chap.
8.2
EXPOSITORY NARRATION
In the examples just given we have seen how a narrative may
be used to illustrate an idea. But in addition to this ordinary use
of narration in exposition or argument, there is a special type called
EXPOSITORY NARRATION. This is the type found, for instance, in the
account of a laboratory experiment or in the directions for making
or doing something. The method of narration is used here— stage
by stage a process is outlined— but the intention is not the intention
of true narration. The intention here is not to present an action so
that it can be grasped imaginatively but merely to explain a proc-
ess. The appeal is strictly to the understanding, and therefore this
type is best considered as a form of exposition. A discussion of it
has already appeared in the chapter on exposition (pp. 57-58).
PATTERN IN NARRATION
In the course of time one hears and reads many different narra-
tives—jokes, novels, short stories, anecdotes, newspaper reports—
and they seem to have many different kinds of organization. But is
there some fundamental principle of pattern which underlies all
the particular kinds of pattern we find in narratives? If we can find
such a principle, then we have taken an important step toward
being able to write good narrative.
We must return at this point to a distinction we have already
made in discussing time as an aspect of an action (p. 238), the dis-
tinction between events existing in time in their natural order, and
the events as a narrator may re-order them by means of cutbacks
and shifts when he composes his narrative. That is, the natural
reader*™ ^e Desert Road to Turkestan by Owen Lattimore. Reprinted by
" T **tle, Brown and Company and the Atlantic Monthly Press.
PATTERN IN NARRATION 251
order A-Z may be shifted, to heighten interest or for other reasons,
into an artificial order such as G, H , I— A, B, C— /, K, L, and so forth.
We should remember in making this distinction that it applies
as well to narratives using imaginary events as to narratives using
actual material. Imaginary events, as well as real events, have a
natural order, their order in time. In discussing here the pattern
of an action we shall be referring to the natural order and not to
an artificial order which a narrator might adopt for special purposes.
We have defined an action as a meaningful sequence of events.
Such a sequence may be real, that is, observed, but observed events
constitute an action only in so far as we detect their meaning. Or
such a sequence of events may be imaginary, made up to embody
a meaning. The principle of pattern'will apply equally well to either
kind of action, and in seeking examples to illustrate our principle
we shall sometimes draw on factual material and sometimes on
imaginary material. In both kinds of examples we shall be asking
what is the shape events must take in order to constitute an action.
We can begin to answer our question by saying that an action
has a beginning, a middle, and an end. Let us try to analyze what
is really at stake in this answer.
BEGINNING
(An action does not spring from nothing. It arises from a situation.
The situation, however, must be an unstable one, ready to lead to
change, and containing in it the seeds of the future developments.
[A situation may be very simple or very complicated.)^ the joke
we begin, "Two Irishmen met on a bridge at midnight in a strange
city. The first Irishman said . . ." We have a minimum of informa-
tion here, but all we may need for the joke. The situation could not
be simpler. But the principle is the same as in an enormously com-
plicated situation, for instance, the situation from which German
Nazism developed. That situation contains more elements than we
can hope to enumerate. There is the conflict between capital and
labor, the insecurity of the lower middle class, the fear of Bolshe-
vism, the economic collapse and the inflation of currency, the tradi-
tion of German militarism, the demand for revenge after the defeat
in World War I, the example of Italian Fascism, the personality
of Hitler, his bitterness and frustration. An interaction of all these
252 NARRATION
factors and many more gives us the unstable situation in which are
latent the subsequent developments.}
Given this material, the writer of an account of Nazism must first
present the situation clearly enough for the reader to see how the
rest will followj In dealing with matters of fact, as such a writer
of history woulcl be doing, his first task would be to analyze the
body of material to be sure he knew what was really significant
for future developments, and his second task would be to present
the material so that the reader would see the relation among the
various elements. It is true that the reader may not understand the
significance of the situation when it is first presented to him, but
he must be given enough to go on, to rouse and sustain his interest,
to show that there is a line of possible development. And he must
be given enough for him to feel, when he looks back over the whole
narrative, that the action is really a logical development from the
situation)
The~|5roblem is essentially the same for a writer who is dealing
with imaginary events. The only difference is that he does not have
to analyze factual materials already given him but has to create
or adapt his materials.^If we glance at Act I of Shakespeare's
Romeo and ftiliet, we find a good example of a beginning. We learn
that there is a feud between the houses of Capulet and Montague,
that bloodshed and violence are imminent, that Romeo is an ideal-
istic young man anxious to fall in love. Very early we have enough
to account for the future events^ Or if we go back to our own
improvised narrative of George and the dog, the situation present-
ing the misery and lovelessness of the boy's life gives us enough
to^account for the later importance of the dog to the boy.
(The beginning, the presentation of the situation, enables us to
understand the narrative. Therefore, that part of the narrative is
often given the name of EXPOSITION. But we must keep the word in
this special sense distinct from the more general sense in which it
signifies one of the kinds of discourse.)
It is not to be understood, however, that the exposition of a
narrative is merely a kind of necessary evil, a body of dull informa-
tion which the reader must absorb before he can settle down to
the real story. It need not be explanatory or descriptive material
in isolation, or a colorless summary of the situation from which the
action stems. Instead, the exposition may appear as an episode, a
PATTERN IN NARRATION 253
fragment of action, interesting in itself. If we think back on the
opening scene of Romeo and Juliet, we remember that we see a
street fight. We are not told about the feud between the rival
houses of Capulet and Montague, but actually see it in operation.
Not all kinds of exposition can take a direct form, but in gen-
eral it can be said that all exposition which can be directly pre-
sented should have the direct form.
MIDDLE
'The middle is the main body of the action. It is a series of stages
in the process. It involves the points of mounting tension, or in-
creasing complication, developing from the original situation. This
mounting tension, this suspense, leads us to the point of greatest
intensity or greatest suspense, called technically the CLIMAX. The
climax is the focal point, the turning point of the narrative)
To return to our historical example of the rise of Nazism, we
would find such points of mounting tension as the beer hall putsch
in Munich, Hitler's imprisonment and the writing of Mein Kampf,
the street fights against the German communists, the election of
Hitler as chancellor, the Reichstag fire, the purge of the party, the
claims on Sudetenland. Looking back on the events of the past
twenty-five years, we can see the points of crisis, the stages at which
new tensions emerged. If a historian were writing an account of
those years, he might center his attention on those stages. They
might provide him with natural chapter divisions.
The same principle applies in any narrative, the simple joke or
the elaborate novel/ If one is telling or writing about real events,
one tries to focus attention on those which mark real stages of
development. And if one is making up a narrative, he arranges his
imaginary material in the same way. He wants to create suspense,
to hold the interest of his audience. If his narrative seems to be a
mere drift of events, he cannot hold their interest. He can do so
only in so far as the narrative emerges in well-defined stages of
increasing complication^
(We can see this very clearly in the main body of Romeo and
Juliet: Romeo meets Juliet; the marriage takes place; Romeo kills
Juliet's kinsman Tybalt while trying to stop a duel; Romeo is ban-
ished, and so on) Or we can see it in the little account of the boy
and the dog: George gets a job to feed the dog; the dog becomes
254 NARRATION
the center of his life; he loses the job; the dog frightens the child;
George sells the dog, and so on.
(jlist as we have a technical name for the beginning of a narrative
(exposition), so we have one for the middle: COMPLICATION^
END
(As for the end of an action, it is not simply the point where the
action stops. It is, rather, the point at which the forces implicit in
the situation have worked themselves out) Whether it is the gag
line of the joke or Berlin shattered under British ^nd American
bombs and Russian shells, the principle is the same^The end of an
action, however, is not necessarily the physical victory of one set
of forces over another. It may be in the reconciliation of forces, or
it may be in the fusion of previously opposing forces to create a
new force.) Take, for instance, the conclusion of the Constitutional
Convention that defined the United States: we may regard this end
as a fusion of conflicting forces. (As a matter of fact, the end of an
action may simply be a new awareness on the part of a person
involved, directly or indirectly, in the action. We know how we can
look back on an experience of our own and recognize the point at
which some attitude of our own had been changed by it)
(\Yhen we come to writing a narrative, we regard the end as the
point where the action achieves its full meaning. It is the point
where ^he reader is willing to say, "Oh, yes, I see what it is all
about/'^If we look back on our narrative of the boy and the dog
we see that if we had stopped with the sale of the dog, the mean-
ing would have been very blurred. (A reader would not have been
quite sure what was at stakes) He might have felt sorry for the boy
in a vague sort of way. But the meeting with John Simpson and
the dog gives us in direct terms, as a contrast, a much more sharply
defined meaning. This could be an end. We, as readers, see that
there is an issue, a question, raised by the narrative— the question of
legal ownership of the dog opposed to the demands of affection. The
narrative now has a point. If we go on to write the last paragraph
we simply indicate the fact of George's awareness and the effect
on him. By means of George's awareness we have made the point
more explicit, but it was implicit at the moment when the two boys
had their little encounterrThe technical term for the end of a narra-
tive is DENOUEMENT^
EXAMPLES OF NARRATIVE PATTERN 255
EXAMPLES OF NARRATIVE PATTERN
Let us look at a few examples of narrative with the idea of indi-
cating the structure, or pattern, of each. The first is the account of
how Robinson Crusoe, who fancied himself absolutely alone on his
desert island, found a footprint:
It happened one day about noon, going towards my boat, I was ex-
ceedingly surprised with the print of a man's naked foot on the shore,
which was very plain to be seen in the sand. I stood like one thunder-
struck, or as if I had seen an apparition: I listened, I looked round me,
but I could hear nothing, nor see anything. I went up to a rising ground,
to look farther; I went up the shore and down the shore, but it was all
one; I could see no other impression but that one. I went to it again to
see if there were any more, and to observe if it might not be my fancy;
but there was no room for that, for there was exactly the print of a foot,
toes, heel, and every part of a foot: how it came thither I knew not,
nor could I in the least imagine; but, after innumerable fluttering
thoughts, like a man perfectly confused and out of myself, I came home
to my fortification, not feeling, as we say, the ground I went on, but
terrified to the last degree; looking behind me at every two or three
steps, mistaking every bush and tree, and fancying every stump at a
distance to be a man. Nor is it possible to describe how many various
shapes my affrighted imagination represented things to me in, how many
wild ideas were found every moment in my fancy, and what strange
unaccountable whimsies came into my thoughts by the way.— DANIEL
DEFOE: Robinson Crusoe.
A piece of narrative could scarcely be simpler than this, but we
see that it follows the basic pattern. The situation is given, the time
and place. The complication follows on the discovery of the print—
the first reaction, the looking about and listening, the going to higher
ground for a wider view, the return to verify the existence of the
print. Then follows the flight and the terror consequent upon the
discovery. And it is this terror, changing the whole aspect of the
familiar landscape, which constitutes the denouement. Crusoe's life
cannot be the same again. This fact is not specified, but it is
strongly implied.
Our next example makes its point more explicitly:
And also Mohammet loved well a good Hermit that dwelled in the
Deserts a Mile from Mount Sinai, in the Way that Men go from Arabia
256 NARRATION
toward Chaldea and toward Ind, one Day's journey from the Sea, where
the Merchants of Venice come often for Merchandise. And so often went
Mohammet to this Hermit, that all his Men were wroth; for he would
gladly hear this Hermit preach and make his Men wake all Night. And
therefore his Men thought to put the Hermit to Death. And so it befell
upon a Night, that Mohammet was drunken of good Wine, and he fell
asleep. And his Men took Mohammet's Sword out of his Sheath, whiles
he slept, and therewith they slew this Hermit, and put his Sword all
bloody in his Sheath again. And at the Morrow, when he found the
Hermit dead, he was fully sorry and wroth, and would have done his
Men to Death. But they all, with one accord, said that he himself had
slain him, when he was drunk, and showed him his Sword all bloody. And
he trowed that they had said Truth. And then he cursed the Wine and
them that drink it. And therefore Saracens that be devout drink never
any Wine.— SIR JOHN MANDEVILLE: Travels, Chap. 16.
This, too, falls into the pattern. The exposition is a little less
simple here than in our earlier example, for now we are concerned
not only with the physical facts but with human motives leading
up to the action— Mohammet's love of the hermit, his custom of
listening to the sermons, the irritation of the men. The complication
falls into three divisions— the killing of the hermit, the discovery
of the deed and Mohammet's anger, the lie and the bloody sword
in his own scabbard. The denouement has two divisions— Moham-
met's curse on wine and the result among devout followers in later
times.
Our next example is an anecdote told about an argument between
the Duke of Windsor and Winston Churchill. We have here merely
a clash of opinion:
The Windsors' dinner was very grand, and the guests consisted of
assorted notables from up and down the coast, mostly English people of
high rank who were holidaying in the South. My Lords Rothermere and
Beaverbrook had been prevented from attending by colds. (Lord Beaver-
brook's cold did not prevent his attendance at the Casino, where we saw
Mm afterward.) When some of the more overpowering guests had de-
parted, after the long and stately meal in the white-and-gold dining
room, the Duke of Windsor and Mr. Churchill settled down to a pro-
longed argument with the rest of the party listening in silence. The Duke
had read with amazement Mr. Churchill's recent articles on Spain and
his newest one (out that day, I believe) in which he appealed for an
alliance with Soviet Russia. "You of all people, Winston," was the gist of
EXAMPLES OF NARRATIVE PATTERN 25?
his argument, "y°u cannot wish to make friends of these murderers and
thieves." At one point Mr. Churchill, who was defending his point of
view stubbornly and with undiplomatic vigor, said: "Sir, I would make
a friend of the devil himself, if it would save England." It resulted plainly
from the statements on the two sides that the self-willed, pleasure-loving
little Prince, filled to the fingertips with royal prejudice, had no concep-
tion of the deadly danger to England involved in his dalliance with
Hitler, while Mr. Churchill, disliking the Bolshevik theory and practice
as much as ever, was so thoroughly aware of England's peril that he
would seek the alliance of Stalin at once. We sat by the fireplace, Mr.
Churchill frowning with intentness at the floor in front of him, mincing
no words, reminding H.R.H. of the British constitution, on occasion—
"when our Icings are in conflict with our constitution we change our
kings," he said— and declaring flatly that the nation stood in the gravest
danger of its long history. The kilted Duke in his Stuart tartan sat on
the edge of the sofa, eagerly interrupting whenever he could, contesting
every point, but receiving— in terms of the utmost politeness so far as
the words went— an object lesson in political wisdom and public spirit.
The rest of us sat fixed in silence; there was something dramatically
final, irrevocable about this dispute.— VINCENT SHEEAN: Between the
Thunder and the Sun, Chap. I.3
This is scarcely a narrative at all, simply a little incident almost
buried in the comment with which the author has surrounded the
event. But the author has hinted at the action, and has given enough
for us to grasp its natural structure and order (as contrasted with
the way the author has told it, for the author has not stuck to the
chronological order of event).
Situation:
Dinner with Windsors. Nature of gathering. World of pleasure and
privilege. Churchill and his articles on Spain.
Complication:
Prolonged argument. The Duke's amazement at Churchill's articles,
especially his demand for an alliance with Russia. The Duke's stubborn-
ness. He eagerly leans forward from sofa, contesting every point.
Churchill's remarks on relation of kingship to English constitution, the
danger to England, and so forth. The Duke's statement: "You of all
8 From Between the Thunder and the Sun by Vincent Sheean. Reprinted by
permission of Random House, Inc.
258 NARRATION
people, Winston, cannot wish to make friends of these murderers and
thieves."
Denouement:
Churchill's reply: "Sir, I would make a friend of the devil himself, if
it would save England."
We do not know all that occurred at that conversation. We do
not need to know it to have a notion of the action, in our sense
of the word. For, in this connection, action is the word we apply
to a meaningful event, and the things which merely happened
and have no bearing on the meaning of the event are not, prop-
erly speaking, a part of the action. The writer has omitted them
from his account.
Here is a more fully developed narrative, the story of Andrew
Jackson's most famous duel, the duel with Charles Dickinson, who
had made some remarks reflecting on the character of Rachel Jack-
son, Andrew Jackson's wife.
[Exposition]
On Thursday, May 29, 1806, Andrew Jackson rose at five o'clock, and
after breakfast told Rachel that he would be gone for a couple of days
and meanwhile he might have some trouble with Mr. Dickinson. Rachel
probably knew what the trouble would be and she did not ask. Rachel
had had her private channels of information concerning the Sevier affray.
At six-thirty Jackson joined Overton at Nashville. Overton had the
pistols. With three others they departed for the Kentucky line.
Mr. Dickinson and eight companions were already on the road.
"Goodby, darling," he told his young wife. "I shall be sure to be home
tomorrow evening." This confidence was not altogether assumed. He was
a snap shot. At the word of command and firing apparently without aim,
he could put four balls in a mark twenty-four feet away, each ball touch-
ing another. The persistent tradition on the countryside, that to worry
Jackson he left several such examples of his marksmanship along the
road, is unconfirmed by any member of the Dickinson or Jackson parties.
But the story that he had offered on the streets of Nashville to wager
he could kill Jackson at the first fire was vouchsafed by John Overton,
the brother of Jackson's second, a few days after the duel.
Jackson said he was glad that "the other side" had started so early.
It was a guarantee against further delay. Jackson had chafed over the
seven days that had elapsed since the acceptance of the challenge. At
EXAMPLES OF NARRATIVE PATTERN 259
their first interview, Overton and Dr. Hanson Catlett, Mr. Dickinson's
second, had agreed that the meeting should be on Friday, May thirtieth,
near Harrison's Mills on Red River just beyond the Kentucky boundary.
Jackson protested at once. He did not wish to ride forty miles to preserve
the fiction of a delicate regard for Tennessee's unenforceable statute
against dueling. He did not wish to wait a week for something that could
be done in a few hours. Dickinson's excuse was that he desired to borrow
a pair of pistols. Overton offered the choice of Jackson's pistols, pledging
Jackson to the use of the other. These were the weapons that had been
employed by Coffee and McNairy.
As they rode Jackson talked a great deal, scrupulously avoiding the
subject that burdened every mind. Really, however, there was nothing
more to be profitably said on that head. General Overton was a Revolu-
tionary soldier of long acquaintance with the Code. With his principal
he had canvassed every possible aspect of the issue forthcoming. "Dis-
tance . . . twenty-four feet; the parties to stand facing each other, with
their pistols down perpendicularly. When they are READY, the single
word FIRE! to be given; at which they are to fire as soon as they please.
Should either fire before the word is given we [the seconds] pledge our-
selves to shoot him down instantly." Jackson was neither a quick shot,
nor an especially good one for the western country. He had decided not
to compete with Dickinson for the first fire. He expected to be hit, perhaps
badly. But he counted on the resources of his will to sustain him until
he could aim deliberately and shoot to kill, if it were the last act of his
life.
[Complication]
On the first leg of the ride they traversed the old Kentucky road, the
route by which, fifteen years before, Andrew Jackson had carried Rachel
Robards from her husband's home, the present journey being a part of
the long sequel to the other. Jackson rambled on in a shrill voice. Thomas
Jefferson was "the best Republican in theory and the worst in practice"
he had ever seen. And he lacked courage. How long were we to support
the affronts of England— impressment of seamen, cuffing about of our
ocean commerce? Perhaps as long as Mr. Jefferson stayed in office. Well,
that would be two years, and certainly his successor should be a stouter
man. "We must fight England again. In the last war I was not old enough
to be any account." He prayed that the next might come "before I get
too old to fight."
General Overton asked how old Jackson reckoned he would have to
be for that. In England's case about a hundred, Jackson said.
He spoke of Burr. A year ago, this day, Jackson had borne him from
260 NARRATION
the banquet in Nashville to the Hermitage. He recalled their first meeting
in 1797 when both were in Congress. Jackson also met General Hamilton
that winter. "Personally, no gentleman could help liking Hamilton. But
his political views were all English." At heart a monarchist. "Why, did
he not urge Washington to take a crown!'*
Burr also had his failings. He had made a mistake, observed Jackson,
with admirable detachment, a political mistake, when he fought Hamilton.
And about his Western projects the General was none too sanguine.
Burr relied overmuch on what others told him. Besides, there was Jeffer-
son to be reckoned with. "Burr is as far from a fool as I ever saw, and
yet he is as easily fooled as any man I ever knew."
The day was warm, and a little after ten o'clock the party stopped
for refreshment. Jackson took a mint julep, ate lightly and rested until
mid-afternoon. The party reached Miller's Tavern in Kentucky about
eight o'clock. After a supper of fried chicken, waffles, sweet potatoes and
coffee, Jackson repaired to the porch to chat with the inn's company.
No one guessed his errand. At ten o'clock he knocked the ashes from
his pipe and went to bed. Asleep in ten minutes, he had to be roused at
five in the morning.
The parties met on the bank of the Red River at a break in a poplar
woods. Doctor Catlett won the toss for choice of position, but as the
sun had not come through the trees this signified nothing. The giving of
the word fell to Overton. Jackson's pistols were to be used after all,
Dickinson taking his pick. The nine-inch barrels were charged with ounce
balls of seventy caliber. The ground was paced off, the principals took
their places. Jackson wore a dark-blue frock coat and trousers of the
same material; Mr. Dickinson a shorter coat of blue, and gray trousers.
"Gentlemen, are you ready?" called General Overton.
"Ready," said Dickinson quickly.
"Yes, sir," said Jackson.
"Fere!" cried Overton in the Old-Country accent.
[Denouement]
Dickinson fired almost instantly. A fleck of dust rose from Jackson's
coat and his left hand clutched his chest. For an instant he thought him-
self dying, but, fighting for self-command, slowly he raised his pistol.
Dickinson recoiled a step horror-stricken. "My God! Have I missed
him?"
Overton presented his pistol. "Back to the mark, sir!"
Dickinson folded his arms. Jackson's spare form straightened. He
aimed. There was a hollow "clock" as the hammer stopped at half-cock.
He drew it back, sighted again and fired. Dickinson swayed to the ground.
EXAMPLES OF NARRATIVE PATTERN 261
As they reached the horses Overton noticed that his friend's left boot
was filled with blood. "Oh, I believe that he pinked me," said Jackson
quickly, "but I don't want those people to know," indicating the group
that bent over Dickinson. Jackson's surgeon found that Dickinson's aim
had been perfectly true, but he had judged the position of Jackson's
heart by the set of his coat, and Jackson wore his coats loosely on
account of the excessive slenderness of his figure. "But I should have
hit him/' he exclaimed, "if he had shot me through the brain."— MARQUIS
JAMES: The Life of Andrew Jackson, Chap. 8.4
The event narrated above is historically true. It had causes run-
ning back before the episode of the duel (Dickinson had insulted
Jackson's wife), and was to have consequences long after the duel.
But the writer is not immediately concerned with causes or effects.
He is concerned with rendering the episode itself, the duel. We can
see that in doing so he naturally gives his account in three sections,
the exposition, the complication, and the denouement, as we have
indicated.
The exposition describes the attitudes of the two duelists as they
make ready and gives the terms of the duel. The complication seems
to have a good deal of material off the point— Jackson's long con-
versation about politics—but we shall see that even this apparent
digression is related to the point the author wishes to make in his
narrative. Then the complication gives the details as the opponents
face each other and Dickinson fires. The denouement falls into two
related parts, Jackson's self-command when hit and his shooting of
Dickinson, and his remark after the event.
Both Vincent Sheean and Marquis James are using narrative to
make a point, a point more important than the event narrated.
Sheean is interested in illustrating one aspect of the political back-
ground of World War II; and James, in exhibiting an aspect of
Jackson's character, his iron will. But the essential narrative struc-
ture underlies both accounts. It underlies them because the action
to be narrated had that natural structure, and not because the writer
imposed it. The thing to remember is that events, real or imaginary,
in so far as they constitute an action in our sense of the word, fall
into that pattern. The writer may make shifts of order in his presen-
* From The Life of Andrew Jackson. By Marquis James, copyright 1938.
Used by special permission of the Publishers, the Bobbs-Merrill Company, Inc
262 NARRATION
tation, may add digressions, and may make his own comments, but
the essential structure of the action remains.
PROPORTION
The relation of the parts of a narrative to each other raises the
question of PROPORTION. In one way this term is misleading, for it
implies a mere mechanical ratio in the size of the parts. Actually
we cannot look at the question in that way. We cannot say, for
instance, that the complication should be three times longer than
the exposition—or five times longer than the denouement.
We must, rather, regard the question of proportion in this way:
Are the parts adequate to the needs of the special narrative? What
would be a satisfactory proportion for one narrative might be quite
unsatisfactory for another. In other words, we have to think along
these lines: Does the exposition give all the information necessary
to establish the situation for the reader? Is it burdened with infor-
mation which is really unnecessary and distracting? Does the com-
plication give the reader the essential stages of the development
of the action? Does it confuse the reader by presenting material
which does not bear on the development of the action? Does the
denouement give the reader enough to make the point of the narra-
tive clear? Does it blur the point by putting in irrelevant material
or by so extending relevant material that a clear focus is lost? But
these questions cannot be answered unless we are sure of the inten-
tion of the particular narrative.
Let us, with these questions in mind, look back at the story of
Jackson's duel. To answer these questions we must remember the
author's basic intention. He is not writing a tract against dueling.
He is not concerned with the sad death of a promising young man.
He is not trying to evoke our sympathy for the young Mrs. Dickin-
son. All of these considerations may be present in his mind (and a
little after the point at which our excerpt concludes he tells how
Mrs. Jackson exclaimed, "Oh, God have pity on the poor wife— pity
on the babe in her womb"), but none of them is the main intention
of the narrative. That is to show an aspect of Jackson's character—
his iron will.
The exposition, therefore, tells merely what we need to know to
establish this point, how Jackson took a natural, casual farewell
PROPORTION 263
from his wife; how Dickinson was confident in his mere skill, in
contrast to Jackson's deadly inner certainty. The exposition also tells
us, of course, something about the procedure agreed on for the duel,
but this is primarily a mechanical matter. The complication builds
the suspense by details of Jackson's journey to the Kentucky line,
how he discussed political questions, enjoyed his meals and his
julep, talked with the guests at the inn, and slept well. These things
do not bear directly on the business of the duel, and might be
considered by some critics not properly part of the complication
but an aside, a digression from the main line of action. But they
do help to build the suspense and do indicate the quality of self-
control and certainty in Jackson.
Then the details of the actual duel lead us to the climax, the
moment when Dickinson's bullet strikes and Jackson reels but re-
covers and, with deadly deliberation, lifts his weapon.
The denouement falls into two parts, the first presenting the
actual shooting of Dickinson, the second presenting Jackson's be-
havior after the act, his indifference to his own wound, and his
final remark when it is discovered why Dickinson had missed the
heart. All the way through, of course, we notice that there is a
building up of suspense about the outcome of the physical event,
but along with this goes the unfolding of Jackson's character, which
is summarized by the grim, last remark.
The narrative of Jackson's duel is part of a full-length biography,
and it might be said that we have arbitrarily chosen to limit the
exposition, for instance, to the part quoted here. It is true, of course,
that in the full biography there is a great deal of explanation of
the quarrel leading up to the duel. But is that really a part of the
exposition of the narrative when the episode is considered solely
as an episode? No, for what we are concerned with here is not the
causes of the duel, the character of Rachel Jackson, or her husband's
attitude toward her. In the episode itself we are concerned with the
single, significant flash which exhibits Jackson's will. What preceded
or followed the duel is not relevant to that consideration, taken in
itself. Even though this little narrative is part of a much larger
narrative, the account of Jackson's entire life, we are justified in
interpreting it as a unit in so far as it is dominated by one basic
intention.
One word of caution should be given before we leave the topic
264 NARRATION
of proportion. In many cases of narrative, one cannot draw a single
hard and fast line between, say, the exposition and the complica-
tion. Instead, there may be some overlapping or an intermingling
of the two elements. A certain amount of exposition is always nec-
essary early in a narrative, but we can recall instances, especially
of extended narratives, in which the complication is interrupted by
the insertion of bits of exposition. A biographer, for instance, may
interrupt his narrative to explain a political situation, or a novelist
may give what is called a CUTBACK to an earlier scene or situation
needed to explain a present action (p. 238).
TEXTURE AND SELECTION
When we turn from questions of organization to questions of
detail we turn from pattern to texture. SELECTION is as important
for narration as it is for description. Skillful selection permits a
large action to be narrated in a relatively brief space without seem-
ing to be stinted, as in the following account of the voyage of St.
Paul to Rome:
Now when much time was spent, and when sailing was now dangerous,
because the fast was now already past, Paul admonished them,
And said unto them, Sirs, I perceive that this voyage will be with
hurt and much damage, not only of the lading and ship, but also of
our lives.
Nevertheless the centurion believed the master and the owner of the
ship, more than those things which were spoken by Paul.
And because the haven was not commodious to winter in, the more
part advised to depart thence also, if by any means they might attain
to Phenice, and there to winter; which is an haven of Crete, and lieth
toward the southwest and northwest.
And when the south wind blew softly, supposing that they had ob-
tained their purpose, loosing thence, they sailed close by Crete.
But not long after there arose against it a tempestuous wind called
Euroclydon.
And when the ship was caught, and could not bear up into the wind,
we let her drive.
And running under a certain island which is called Clauda, we had
much work to come by the boat:
Which when they had taken up, they used helps, undergirding the
TEXTURE AND SELECTION 265
ship; and, fearing lest they should fall into the quicksands, struck sail,
and so were driven.
And we being exceedingly tossed with a tempest, the next day they
lightened the ship;
And the third day we cast out with our own hands the tackling of the
ship.
And when neither sun nor stars in many days appeared, and no small
tempest lay on us, all hope that we should be saved was then taken away.
But after long abstinence Paul stood forth in the midst of them, and
said, Sirs, ye should have hearkened unto me, and not have loosed
from Crete, and to have gained this harm and loss.
And now I exhort you to be of good cheer: for there shall be no loss
of any man's life among you, but of the ship.
For there stood by me this night the angel of God, whose I am, and
whom I serve,
Saying, Fear not, Paul; thou must be brought before Caesar: and, lo,
God hath given thee all them that sail with thee.
Wherefore, sirs, be of good cheer: for I believe God, that it shall be
even as it was told me.
Howbeit we must be cast upon a certain island.
But when the fourteenth night was come, as we were driven up and
down in Adria, about midnight the shipmen deemed that they drew
near to some country;
And sounded, and found it twenty fathoms; and when they had gone
a little further, they sounded again, and found it fifteen fathoms.
Then fearing lest we should have fallen upon rocks, they cast four
anchors out of the stern, and wished for the day.
And as the shipmen were about to flee out of the ship, when they had
let down the boat into the sea, under color as though they would have
cast anchors out of the foreship,
Paul said to the centurion and to the soldiers, Except these abide in
the ship, ye cannot be saved.
Then the soldiers cut off the ropes of the boat, and let her fall off.
And while the day was coming on, Paul besought them all to take meat,
saying, This day is the fourteenth day that ye have tarried and con-
tinued fasting, having taken nothing.
Wherefore I pray you to take some meat: for this is for your health:
for there shall not be an hair fallen from the head of any of you.
And when he had thus spoken, he took bread, and gave thanks to God
in the presence of them all: and when he had broken it, he began to eat.
Then were they all of good cheer, and they also took some meat.
266 NARRATION
And we were in all in the ship two hundred threescore and sixteen
souls.
And when they had eaten enough, they lightened the ship, and cast
out the wheat into the sea.
And when it was day, they knew not the land: but they discovered a
certain creek with a shore, into the which they were minded, if it were
possible, to thrust in the ship.
And when they had taken up the anchors, they committed themselves
unto the sea, and loosed the rudder bands, and hoisted up the mainsail
to the wind, and made toward shore.
And falling into a place where two seas met, they ran the ship aground;
and the forepart stuck fast, and remained unmoveable, but the hinder
part was broken with the violence of the waves.
And the • soldiers' counsel was to kill the prisoners, lest any of them
should swim out, and escape.
But the centurion, willing to save Paul, kept them from their purpose;
and commanded that they which could swim should cast themselves first
into the sea, and get to land:
And the rest, some on boards, and some on broken pieces of the ship.
And so it came to pass, that they escaped all safely to land.— Acts 27:9-44.
A writer does not want to present all the details of an event,
either real or imaginary. He wants to present those which clarify
the line of action and contribute to his point. No stage of the action
should be omitted, yet no details should be included which distract
from the real concern of the narrative. There is no arbitrary rule
in such a matter. A writer must keep firmly in mind what his real
concern is and judge for himself. For example, in the episode of
Jackson's duel, it might seem at first glance that the section about
Jackson's conversation on the road is unnecessary and distracts from
the real concern of the narrative. But this would be so only if the
duel itself were taken to be the real concern. Actually, the real
intent of the author is the revelation of Jackson's character, and,
therefore, the conversation on the way, illustrating his calmness
and confidence, is relevant to the effect intended.
Even in a narrative dealing with fact the author may heighten
the interest by leaving out merely casual material. In treating the
episode of Jackson's duel Marquis James may know that, after his
opponent was hit, Jackson actually said more than is given here.
The author, however, presents just those remarks which contribute
to our awareness of Jackson's character. In dealing with matters
TEXTURE AND SELECTION 267
of fact, a writer does not want to distort the truth by omissions, but
the mere fact can scarcely justify itself. The narrator should be
concerned with the significant fact. When he is dealing with imag-
inary events, the writer has a freer hand and a greater responsibil-
ity; for now he cannot rely on the interest which mere fact as fact
can sometimes evoke in the reader. With the imaginary narrative
a detail can never pay its way because it is interesting in itself. It
must contribute to the main business or to the vividness of the
impression.
A narrative is a more or less immediate presentation of events.
Therefore vividness is important, the detail which can stir the imag-
ination. The small gesture, the trivial word, may be important here.
And here the details which, strictly speaking, are descriptive may
be absorbed into the narrative effect. For instance, the cut and
color of Jackson's and Dickinson's clothes, the kind of woods by
which the meeting took place, and the Irish accent of General
Overton when he gave the command to fire contribute to the im-
pression of reality. Marquis James is much concerned to give an
immediate presentation, but if we turn back to Vincent Sheean's
anecdote of the Duke of Windsor and Churchill, we find that
immediacy is not very important to the author. He is chiefly con-
cerned to present a clash of opinions. Even here, however, we get
the details of the Stuart tartan which the kilted Duke wears, his
posture on the sofa, and Churchill's position staring at the floor.
POINT OF VIEW
The term POINT OF VIEW implies some of the most important con-
siderations of narration. In ordinary speech this phrase has a mean-
ing different from the meaning of the technical term to be discussed
here. In ordinary speech we say, "From my point of view, I think
James was perfectly right," or, "I understand Sarah's point of view,
but I don't agree with it." What we understand by point of view
in these two statements is an attitude, a set of values, a body of
ideas, or something of that order. We could rewrite the sentences
above in these terms and not change the meaning: "According to
my set of values (or my ideas, or my attitude), I think James was
perfectly right." Or: "I understand Sarah's ideas (or set of values,
or attitude), but I don't agree with them." But in discussing narra-
268 NARRATION
tion we shall use the term to mean the point from which the
action of a narrative is viewed./
In discussing point of view in description we mean a physical
point from which the specified or implied observer looks at the
thing described ( pp. 201-03 ) . In discussing narration we do not mean
a physical point; we mean, rather, a person who bears some relation
to the action, either as observer or participant, and whose intelli-
gence serves as the index of the action for the reader. Point of view,
then, involves two questions: Who tells the story? What is his rela-
tion to the action?
In broad terms, there are two possible points of view, the first
person and the third person. When we read, "That summer when
we were staying at Bayport, I had the most astonishing experience
of my life," we know that we are dealing with the first-person point
of view. When we read, "When Jake Millen, at the age of sixty,
surveyed the wreck of his career, he knew that only one course
was left open to him," we know that we are dealing with a third-
person point of view. That is, in the first example, an "I," real or
fictitious, is telling us about an experience in which he himself was
involved; in the second example, an author, writing impersonally,
is telling us about an experience in which another person was
involved.
There are, however, certain shadings and variations possible
within these two broad general divisions of point of view.
What are the variations possible within the first person? The
distinctions here are to be made on the basis of the relation of the
first-person narrator to the action which he narrates. There are two
extreme positions possible here. First, the narrator may tell of an
action in which he is the main, or at least an important, participant.
That is, he tells his "own story." We are all familiar with this type
of treatment. Most autobiographies, for example, are of this kind;
for example, the life of Lincoln Steffens. Occasionally we encounter
a piece of informal history using this method, for example, T. E.
Lawrence's Seven Pillars of Wisdom. Many short stories and novels
create an imaginary "I" who is the main character of the story and
who tells the story. For instance, Defoe's Robinson Crusoe, or
Hemingway's A Farewell to Arms.
At the other extreme, the narrator, either real or imaginary,
recounts an action of which he is merely an observer. This, also,
POINT OF VIEW 269
is a familiar type of treatment. Memoirs tend to take this form, for
frequently the writer of memoirs has not himself played a conspicu-
ous role in affairs but has been in a position to observe important
events. The account of General Eisenhower by his aide, Captain
Butcher, is a good example of this type. The same type of treat-
ment appears, of course, in fiction. Poe's "The Fall of the House
of Usher" is a notable instance, and Ring Lardner's story "Haircut"
is another.
Thus we may have the two types of the first-person point of view:
narrator— main character, and narrator— mere observer. But in be-
tween these two extremes many variations are possible, cases in
which the narrator participates directly in the action and has some-
thing at stake in its outcome but in which he is not the main
character.
But what of the variations possible within the third-person point
of view?
In this point of view the narrative is given by an author writing
impersonally, that is, as a kind of disembodied intelligence before
whom the events are played out. What is the relation of this imper-
sonal author, this disembodied intelligence, to the action? In the
first place, he does not participate in the action; he is merely an
observer. The question then becomes this: How much of the action
does the author observe? And here, as in dealing with the first-
person point of view, we can define the two extreme positions.
One extreme we may call the PANORAMIC point of view. In this
method the author may report any aspect or all aspects of an action,
and may go into the head of any or all of the characters involved
in the action. His eye, as it were, sweeps the entire field and he
reports whatever is interesting or relevant. In an imaginary narra-
tive there is no limit to what may be seen or reported according
to this method, the most private acts and the most secret thoughts
or sensations of any or all of the characters may be reported, for
the author is the creator of the whole thing. But when a writer
is using this method in presenting a nonimaginative narrative, say
a piece of history, he is, of course, limited by what facts or plausible
deductions are available to him. He cannot be as thoroughgoing in
applying the method as the writer of an imaginary narrative, though
within the limits of the facts available to him he may do so. Many
pieces of historical and biographical writing use this method, and,
270 NARRATION
of course, it is not uncommon in fiction. For instance, it appears
in the following scene from Thackeray's novel Vanity Fair, present-
ing the city of Brussels when the false news comes that Napoleon
has won the Battle of Quatre Bras, an engagement just before
Waterloo.
We of peaceful London city have never beheld— and please God shall
never witness— such a scene of hurry and alarm as that which Brussels
presented. Crowds rushed to the Namur gate, from which direction the
noise proceeded, and many rode along the level chaussee, to be in ad-
vance of any intelligence from the army. Each man asked his neighbor
for news; and even great English lords and ladies condescended to speak
to persons whom they did not know. The friends of the French went
abroad, wild with excitement, and prophesying the triumph of their
Emperor. The merchants closed their shops, and came out to swell the
general chorus of alarm and clamor. Women rushed to the churches, and
crowded the chapels, and knelt and prayed on the flags and steps. The
dull sound of cannon went on rolling, rolling. Presently carriages with
travellers began to leave the town, galloping away by the Ghent barrier.
The prophecies of the French partisans began to pass for facts. "He has
cut the army in two," it was said. "He is marching straight on Brussels.
He will overpower the English, and be here tonight." "He will over-
power the English," shrieked Isidor to his master, "and will be here
tonight." The man bounded in and out from the lodgings to the street,
always returning with some fresh particulars of disaster. Jos's face grew
paler and paler. Alarm began to take entire possession of the stout
civilian. All the champagne he drank brought no courage to him. Be-
fore sunset he was worked up to such a pitch of nervousness as gratified
his friend Isidor to behold, who now counted upon the spoils of the
owner of the laced coat.
The women were away all this time. After hearing the firing for a
moment, the stout Major's wife bethought her of her friend in the next
chamber, and ran in to watch, and if possible to console, Amelia. The
idea that she had that helpless and gentle creature to protect, gave
additional strength to the natural courage of the honest Irishwoman.
She passed five hours by her friend's side, sometimes in remonstrance,
sometimes talking cheerfully, oftener in silence, and terrified mental
supplication.— WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY: Vanity Fair, Chap. 32.
At the other extreme from the panoramic point of view we find
what we may call the point of view of SHARP FOCUS. The author
does not sweep the entire field of the action, but keeps his, and
POINT OF VIEW 271
his reader's, attention focused on one character and on that char-
acter's relation to the action. Accordingly, the parts of the action
not directly participated in by the selected character are not re-
ported by the author. To use a figure of speech, the character may
be regarded as a kind of prism through which the action is re-
fracted. Here is an example of the method:
He was hungry, for, except some biscuits which he had asked two
grudging curates to bring him, he had eaten nothing since breakfast-
time. He sat down at an uncovered wooden table opposite two work-girls
and a mechanic. A slatternly girl waited on him.
"How much is a plate of peas?" he asked.
"Three halfpence, sir," said the girl.
"Bring me a plate of peas," he said, "and a bottle of ginger beer."
He spoke roughly in order to belie his air of gentility for his entiy
had been followed by a pause of talk. His face was heated. To appear
natural he pushed his cap back on his head and planted his elbows on
the table. The mechanic and the two work-girls examined him point by
point before resuming their conversation in a subdued voice. The girl
brought him a plate of grocer's hot peas, seasoned with pepper and
vinegar, a fork and his ginger beer. He ate his food greedily and found
it so good that he made a note of the shop mentally. When he had eaten
all the peas he sipped his ginger beer and sat for some time thinking of
Corley's adventure. In his imagination he beheld the pair of lovers walk-
ing along some dark road; he heard Corley's voice in deep energetic
gallantries, and saw again the leer of the young woman's mouth. This
vision made him feel keenly his own poverty of purse and spirit. He was
tired of knocking about, of pulling the devil by the tail, of shifts and
intrigues. He would be thirty-one in November. Would he never get a
good job? Would he never have a home of his own? He thought how
pleasant it would be to have a warm fire to sit by and a good dinner to
sit down to. He had walked the streets long enough with friends and
with girls. He knew what those friends were worth: he knew the girls
too. Experience had embittered his heart against the world. But all
hope had not left him. He felt better after having eaten than he had
felt before, less weary of his life, less vanquished in spirit. He might yet
be able to settle down in some snug corner and live happily if he could
only come across some good simple-minded girl with a little of the
ready .—JAMES JOYCE: "Two Gallants," Dubliners.5
5 From Dubliners by James Joyce, copyright, 1925, by The Viking Press,
Inc., and now included in The Portable James Joyce, published by The Viking
Press, Inc., New York.
272 NARRATION
In between the extremes of the panoramic point of view and the
point of view of sharp focus there are, of course, all sorts of grada-
tions and mixtures of the two methods. The choice of one of the
methods or the mixing of the two is not a matter to be settled
arbitrarily, for the method should reflect a special interest in-
volved in the narrative. For instance, the panoramic point of view
is well suited to the rendering of some large and complicated action,
a battle, a mob scene, the burning of a city, where the interest lies
in the sweep of events, Or the point of view of sharp focus is suited
to a narrative in which the interest is primarily in the psychological
analysis of the experience of some single character. A narrative may
well involve both such interests, and then the writer may mix his
methods according to the need of the particular moment.
But use of the panoramic point of view is not restricted to action
which covers a physically broad field, like a battle. Take, for in-
stance, this example:
One night toward the end of March Gertrude did not appear for
dinner. She had never been absent at the evening meal before, though
it was a common enough occurrence in the house.
"One of our sheep has strayed," the red-haired woman said. Now that
spring was coming she had returned to the brown silk dress she had worn
in the fall. A smile of calculated indifference was on her face. "Perhaps
she is wandering by the docks and sighing for her homeland."
"What do you mean?" Marian said.
The woman pulled her salad plate closer to the edge of the table and
poised her fork over it thoughtfully. "Nothing is so good as Europe, you
know," she said, looking up from her plate and glancing at the entire
table with the easy innocence and half-surprise of the guilty.
"You know that isn't true," Marian said sharply. "For Gertrude America
appears more beautiful than any country can be in reality."
"They are very tricky," the woman said flatly.
The others at the table were listening, alternately seeming to agree
with both Marian and the woman, and then suddenly and cautiously
retreating into themselves, admitting to nothing except the existence of
all possibilities. Florence was sitting at the end of the table and had not
heard the first part of the conversation. "Where is Gertrude?" she said
abruptly.
"Flown the coop," a timid young girl said.
"Have you seen her all day?" Marian asked. "I haven't/'
Florence said that she had not. The meal went on.
POINT OF VIEW 273
A woman, close to seventy, with hair dyed jet black, brushed past the
table and hobbled over to her own group. One of her feet was slightly
malformed and it made her walk strangely, as if she were constantly
trotting. She seldom ever spoke to anyone and seemed deeply engrossed
in work of enormous importance.— ELIZABETH HARDWICK: The Ghostly
Lover, Chap. 25.6
Here we find the event rendered as it would appear to the mere
observer, in its externals only. The scene is restricted but the use
of the panoramic method gives a kind of psychological distance,
an impersonality, which corresponds in effect to the physical dis-
tance and impersonality one finds in the panoramic rendering of a
scene which is physically large.
SCALE
The foregoing discussion leads us logically into a consideration
of what may be called SCALE in narrative. As the dominant interest
in a narrative or a part of a narrative may define the point of view,
so it may define the scale on which it is treated. Here, too, we can
think in terms of extremes of method, SUMMARY RENDERING and
FULL RENDERING. The tendency in narration is to reduce the scale
to that of summary in parts which are necessary only for conti-
nuity or, as it were, scaffolding, and to expand the scale in those
parts which present the more significant moments. The following
selection, which concludes Guy de Maupassant's story "The Dia-
mond Necklace" illustrates the principle clearly. The main character,
Mathilde Loisel, has been a vain, frivolous woman, who lived in
day dreams of rich and fashionable life. When she is finally invited
to a ball she borrows what she understands to be a diamond neck-
lace from a friend, Madame Forestier. The necklace is lost at the
ball, and Mathilde and her husband buy one to replace it, getting
the money from usurers. At this point the selection picks up the
story:
She learned the heavy cares of a household, the odious work of a
kitchen. She washed the dishes, using her rosy nails upon the greasy
6 From The Ghostly Lover by Elizabeth Hardwick, copyright, 1945, by
Elizabeth Hardwick. Reprinted by permission of Harcourt, Brace and Com-
pany, Inc.
274 NARRATION
pots and the bottoms of the stewpans. She washed the soiled linen, the
chemises and dishcloths, which she hung on the line to dry; she took
down the refuse to the street each morning and brought up the water,
stopping at each landing to breathe. And, clothed like a woman of the
people, she went to the grocer's, the butcher's, and the fruiterer's, with
her basket on her arm, shopping, haggling to the last sou her miserable
money.
Every month it was necessary to renew some notes, thus obtaining
time, and to pay others.
The husband worked evenings, putting the accounts of some merchant
in order, and at night he often copied manuscript at five sou a page.
And this life lasted ten years.
At the end of ten years, they had restored all, all, with interest of the
usurers, and the compound interest besides.
Mme. Loisel looked old now. She had become a strong, hard woman,
the rough woman of the poor household. Her hair tangled, her skirts
awry, her hands red, she talked in loud tones, and washed the floors with
a great swishing of water. But sometimes, when her husband was at the
office, she would sit by the window and remember that evening of the
ball, where she had been so beautiful and so happy.
What would have happened if she had not lost the necklace? Who
knows? Who knows? How life is strange and changeful! How little is
needed to ruin one or to save one!
One Sunday, as she was walking in the Champs Elys6es, to restore
herself after the work of the week, she suddenly saw a woman with a
child. It was Madame Forestier, still young, still beautiful, still charming.
Madame Loisel was moved. Should she speak to her? Yes, certainly.
Now that she had paid, she would tell her all. Why not?
She approached her. "Good morning, Jeanne."
Her friend did not recognize her, and was surprised to be addressed
by this woman of the people. She stammered: "But, Madame— I do not
know— you must be mistaken—"
"No, I am Mathilde Loisel."
Her friend uttered a cry of surprise: "Oh, my poor Mathilde! How
you are changed—"
"Yes, I have seen some hard days since I saw you— some miserable ones
—and all because of you—"
"Because of me? How?"
"You remember the diamond necklace you loaned me to wear to the
Minister's ball?"
"Yes, very well."
"Well, I lost it."
SCALE 275
"How is that, since you returned it to me?"
"I returned one like it. And it has taken us ten years to pay for it.
You can understand that it was not easy for us who have nothing. But
it is finished, and I am very glad."
Madame Forestier stopped. She said: "You say that you bought a
diamond necklace to replace mine?"
"Yes. You did not know it then? They were very like."
And she smiled with a joy that was proud and naive.
Madame Forestier was touched, and seized both her hands as she
said: "Oh, my poor Mathilde! My necklace was false. It was not worth
over five hundred francs!"— GUY DE MAUPASSANT: "The Diamond Neck-
lace."
We notice here that the first half of the passage covers a time of
ten years, the second half a time of three or four minutes. The ten
years are summarized. The meeting in the park is rendered fully,
word for word, instant by instant. We can readily see the reason
why the writer summarized the ten years: they are all alike, a
dreary grind of misery, and what is important is their result,
Mathilde's new energy and fortitude, not the single events within
them. As for the last scene, we can see that it is important in itself:
it is dramatic, it is the moment when Mathilde realizes her situation,
it is the result of all her past experience.
In the half of the selection rendered by summary we observe,
however, that certain details do give us the impression of the qual-
ity and movement of life— Mathilde's bargaining, her voice now
coarse and rough, the way she scrubs the floor with great swishing
sweeps of the wet mop. Narrative summary differs from the mere
summary of ideas; when successful it still gives some hint of the
quality and movement of life.
DIALOGUE
Narration often involves the use of dialogue— not only fiction but
historical writing, biography, and other types. Dialogue sometimes
seems to be an easy way to get a story told. The writer— especially
an inexperienced writer— thinks that he knows how people talk and
that to set down talk will be easier than to present material in the
straight narrative form which he himself win1 have to compose. But
the problem is not so simple as that. First, to compose effective
276 NARRATION
dialogue is not easy, and second, the continual use of dialogue tends
to give an impression of monotony.
On the first point it can be said that dialogue which is effective
on the page is rarely a direct transcript of what people would say
in conversation. Conversation is often stumbling, wandering, dif-
fuse. The real point at issue in an actual conversation frequently
becomes lost in mere wordiness or in the distractions of side issues
and matters of incidental interest. The writer of dialogue cannot
afford to duplicate such a conversation; if he does so, the reader
will not be readily able to follow the line of significance. So the
writer must organize the material to permit the reader to follow
the development of the issue at stake. There must be an impression
of give-and-take and a forward thrust of idea.
Let us examine a piece of unsatisfactory dialogue:
Gertrude collapsed into her chair, helpless with amusement; giving
herself up to her laughter, she made him feel suddenly ashamed of that
remembered delight.
"Oh— oh— oh— oh!" she cried. "That is the most ridiculous thing I ever
heard of. You call that girl a shy arbutus. And at your age, too. You
certainly are silly."
"Well! I don't think it is so funny. You don't know the girl the way
I do, and furthermore she is very modest and appealing. All sorts of
people think so. For example, I have heard Mrs. Buckley say—"
"The shy arbutus! As I said, it is perfectly ridiculous. I don't want to
be impolite, but she isn't exactly an arbutus, and as for Mrs. Buckley's
opinion, you know what a sentimental old biddy she is, and how she
gushes over everything. A shy arbutus. Forgive me, Harry, but that's
too funny. How old are you?"
He flung his cigarette at the back-log and grinned.
"I knew it was no use," he grumbled amiably. "I can't make you see
her, and it's no use trying. I know Mrs. Buckley is sentimental and does
gush, but I don't think I am gushy, and I have also heard Tom Barker
comment on the girl. Very favorably, too. And he is a hard-headed sort of
fellow. Why, you remember, don't you, how he always brings a con-
versation right down to common sense. There was that time we were
talking about performance of that pianist— you know, the one who played
at the Murdocks' house— last November— and everybody said how good
she was, but Tom just said, 'Nuts, all she's got is ten quite ordinary
fingers and a very extraordinary figure— but it is the fingers that have to
play the piano!' That's just like old Tom. But to come back to the sub-
DIALOGUE 277
ject, Tom may understand the girl, but I can't make you see her, and
it's no use trying."
"I heard that pianist, and she was rather good, I thought. Whatever
Tom Barker thought. But the trouble with you is, you're in love with
this girl. It is a well known fact that a man in love is not able to exercise
his best judgment. But it's precisely when you're in love that you need
to keep your wits about you. Or the wits of your friends. Now I've come
to the conclusion that you mustn't marry her, Harry. There are very
good reasons."
"Well— I don't know. I don't think that being in love has done anything
to my judgment."
"No! It is certainly my considered opinion that to marry that girl
would be ruinous for you. You must think about your career. And more
important, about your happiness. Won't she bore you to death in three
years. She is quite dull. Now the kind of girl you want is somebody
with some spirit and mischief. A girl who has got some smartness, and
who could amuse your friends. Think of the dull parties with this girl
in the saddle."
The trouble here is that the dialogue is loaded with irrelevant
material. People do load their conversations with irrelevant mate-
rial, but dialogue in narrative cannot afford that weight. It kills
the forward thrust.
Let us now look at the same piece of dialogue as it actually
occurs in a story, stripped to the essentials:
"Oh— oh— oh— oh!" she cried.
"Well!"
"The shy arbutus! . . . Forgive me, Harry, but that's too funny.
How old are you?"
He flung his cigarette at the"back-log and grinned.
"I knew it was no use," he grunted amiably. "I can't make you see
her, and it's no use trying."
"Well— I can see this much. You are in love with her. Or you couldn't
possibly be such a fool. But it's precisely when you're in love that you
need to keep your wits about you. Or the wits of your friends. . . .
You mustn't marry her, Harry."
"Well— I don't know."
"No! ... It would be ruinous."— CONRAD AIKEN: "Spider, Spider."7
7 From "Spider, Spider" in Costumes hy Eros, published by Charles Scrib-
ner's Sons. Copyright, 1928, by Conrad Aiken.
278 NARRATION
In the passage above the line of interest is clear, and the collision
between Gertrude and Harry is quite definite. In the expanded
version there is a blurring of the effect. This blurred effect may
actually be given by the conversation of a Gertrude and Harry in
real life, but that has no final bearing on the case here. The problem
of the writer of dialogue is a problem of selection and logical
organization.
There is also, however, the problem of giving the dialogue a
realistic surface. There must be, in addition to the logical organiza-
tion, an impression of real life, a sense of the pauses, the changes,
the waverings of conversation. But this must be an impression and
not a word-for-word recording. There is no rule for giving this
impression, but there are certain considerations which may help
a writer to give it.
First, we can notice, as in the example above, that the breaks
and the italicized words are of some use in this respect. We get the
impression of the sudden shift of idea or the hesitancy of a speaker.
And from the italicized words we get the impression of Gertrude's
voice, with the slight satirical emphasis. But these are devices that
would not always apply, and in any case should be used sparingly.
Second, and more important, the writer can try to indicate the fact
that each speaker has his own way of phrasing things and his own
rhythm of voice. Expertness in giving such an impression can only
come from close observation—an awareness of the little catch
phrases a person tends to repeat, of the type of sentence structure
he tends to use, of the mannerisms of speech.
Third, in addition to the individual qualities of speech, there are
the qualities dependent on cultural background, race, geographical
origin, and so forth, qualities which are shared by members of a
group. The commonest way to indicate such qualities is by mere
dialectal peculiarities, when that will apply at all. But mere peculi-
arity of spelling is a crude device, and in the end usually becomes
monotonous. It is better for the writer to use such a device spar-
ingly, and to focus his attention on the vocabulary, idiom, and
rhythm of the class to which his speaking character belongs.
Here are some examples in which the language used by a speaker
gives some impression of his social group and of his individuality:
A boy who is the son of a jockey:
DIALOGUE 379
I guess looking at it, now, my old man was cut out for a fat guy, one
of those regular little roly fat guys you see around, but he sure never
got that way, except a little toward the last, and then it wasn't his fault,
he was riding over the jumps only and he could afford to carry plenty
of weight then. I remember the way he'd pull on a rubber shirt over a
couple of jerseys and a big sweat shirt over that, and got me to run
with him in the forenoon in the hot sun.— ERNEST HEMINGWAY: "My
Old Man."8
A Southern Negro:
"What makes you want to talk like that before these chillen?" Nancy
said. "Whyn't you go on to work. You done et. You want Mr. Jason to
catch you hanging around his kitchen, talking that way before these
chillen?"
"Talking what way?" Caddy said.
"I cant hang around white man's kitchen," Jesus said, "But white man
can hang around mine. White man can come in my house, but I cant
slop him. When white man wants to come in my house, I aint got no
house. I cant stop him, but he cant kick me outen it. He cant do that."
—WILLIAM FAULKNER: "That Evening Sun." 9
A pretentious, servile woman:
"Well now, that is so like you," returned Miss Knag. "Ha! ha! ha!
Of club feet! Oh very good. As I often remark to the young ladies, 'Well
I must say, and I do not care who knows it, of all the ready humor —
hem—I ever heard anywhere'— and I have heard a good deal; for when
my dear brother was alive (I kept house for him, Miss Nickleby), we
had to supper once a week two or three young men, highly celebrated
in those days for their humor, Madame Mantalini— 'Of all the ready
humor,' I say to the young ladies, 7 ever heard, Madame Mantalini's is
the most remarkable— hem. It is so gentle, so sarcastic, and yet so good-
natured (as I was observing to Miss Simmonds only this morning), that
how, or when, or by what means she acquired it, is to me a mystery
indeed/ "
Here Miss Knag paused to take breath, and while she pauses it may
be observed— not that she was marvellously loquacious and marvellously
deferential to Madame Mantalini, since these are facts which require no
comment; but that every now and then, she was accustomed, in the
8 From Three Stories and Ten Poems by Ernest Hemingway, copyright, 1923,
by Charles Scribner's Sons.
9 From "That Evening Sun," These Thirteen by William Faulkner, copyright,
1931, by Random House, Inc.
280 NARRATION
torrent of her discourse, to introduce a loud, shrill, clear, "hem!" the
import and meaning of which was variously interpreted by her ac-
quaintance . . .—CHARLES DICKENS: Nicholas Nickleby, Chap. 17.
A fatherly professor:
"You may be right, and then you may have a one-sided view. When I
say that your prejudice is literary, I mean that you have read what
universities are like and applied that reading here. You have condemned
without participating. You know, there may be good things, even in this
town. Why, I sometimes think you even like me a bit." Dr. Whitlock
smiled. "You see, there is indifference, intellectual servility, a vague
attempt at education. But to know these things is not enough. You have
to go deeper, you must understand; your conviction must be intellectual
as well as emotional. There are more than economic reasons at stake,
and there may be greater social injustice in this small university town
than in the smashing of a miner's strike by hired bullies."— MICHAEL DE
CAPITE: No Bright Banner, Chap. 7.10
We have said earlier that logical organization, the development
of the point at issue in a dialogue, is extremely important. But occa-
sionally there is little or no point at issue, and then the intended
significance of a passage may be the exhibition of the speaker's
character, as in the speech by Miss Knag from Nicholas Nickleby,
quoted above. There the wandering sentences, the interpolations,
and the characteristic "hem!" indicate the quality of her mind, just
as some of the remarks themselves indicate her mixture of vanity,
pretentiousness, and servility.
In some instances, of course, a piece of dialogue may develop a
point and at the same time contain elements which are irrelevant
to that point but indicate the character of the speaker. Here is the
famous passage between Falstaff and Mistress Quickly, who is try-
ing to remind Falstaff that he had promised to marry her. Her
talkativeness and fuzzy-mindedness appear here in the very way she
presents the argument, the point, to Falstaff:
Marry, if thou wert an honest man, thyself and the money too. Thou
didst swear to me upon a parcel-gilt goblet, sitting in my Dolphin-
chamber, at the round table, by a seacoal fire, upon Wednesday in
Wheeson-week, when the prince broke thy head for liking his father to
10 Reprinted from No Bright Banner by Michael de Capite, by permission of
The John Day Company, Inc.
DIALOGUE 281
a singing-man of Windsor, thou didst swear to me then, as I was washing
thy wound, to marry me and make me my lady thy wife. Canst thou
deny it? Did not goodwife Keech, the butcher's wife, come in then and
call me gossip Quickly? coming in to borrow a mess of vinegar; telling
us she had a good dish of prawns; whereby thou didst desire to eat
some, whereby I told thee they were ill for a green wound? And didst
thou not, when she was gone down stairs, desire me to be no more so
familiarity with such poor people; saying that ere long they would call
me madam? And didst thou not kiss me and bid me fetch thee thirty
shillings?— WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE: Henry IV, Part II, Act II.
CHARACTERIZATION
Early in this discussion we pointed out the relation between per-
sons and action. Most narratives, from news stories to novels, are
about people. Things happen to people and people make things
happen. To understand an action we must understand the people
involved, their natures, their motives, their responses, and to pre-
sent an action so that it is satisfying we must present the people.
This process is called CHARACTERIZATION.
A news story gives a minimum of characterization. It merely
identifies the persons involved— "Adam Perkins, age thirty-three,
of 1217 Sunset Drive"— and then proceeds to give the bare facts
of the event. If it deals with motive it does so in the barest possible
way. If Adam Perkins has committed suicide, the news story may
report that he had been in ill health and had, according to his
wife, been worrying about financial reverses, but it will give no
detail. On the other hand, a novel or biography usually gives very
full characterization. It seeks to make us understand very fully the
relation between the character and the events and the effect of
events on character. In between the news story and the novel or
biography, there are all sorts at narratives which present more or
less fully the relationship between character and event and which
try to answer the fundamental questions: Why does the character
do what he does to cause the event? Why does he respond as he
does to the event?
To answer these questions, the writer of a narrative must charac-
terize the person. This is as important for narratives dealing with
matters of fact, such as biography or history, as it is for narratives
282 NARRATION
dealing with imaginary persons, such as novels or short stories. The
difference between the two types is simply this: The biographer
must interpret the facts in order to understand the character and
present him, and the writer of fiction must create the details in
order to present the character.
Whether the details of a character are drawn from fact or from
imagination, it is important to remember that a character cannot
be effectively presented as a mere accumulation of details. The
details must be related to each other to build up a unified impres-
sion, the sense of an individual personality. As this impression of
an individual personality relates to an action, we are concerned
with motive or response. What is the main motive of a character,
or what is his main response? We must be sure that we have an
answer to this question before we can give an effective character-
ization. Then we must be sure that we have given a clear indication
of this main fact of the character.
Once the main fact of the character is established in the writer's
mind, he must relate other details of the character to it. That is,
the character must be consistent. We know that real people are
often very complicated and do things which seem inconsistent.
The same person does good things and bad things, generous things
and selfish things, wise things and stupid things, but even so, we
usually feel that there is an explanation for such inconsistency,
that the very inconsistencies can be understood in relation to a
deeper consistency of character. And the object of the writer
should be to contribute to this deeper understanding of character.
He may present the inconsistent details, but at the same time he
wants to present them as part of a comprehensible whole. There
is no formula for accomplishing this, and the only way we can learn
to do it is by studying human nature as we can observe it in life
and in books.
Once the conception of a character is clear, we can, however,
think systematically about methods of presenting it. Generally
speaking, there are five methods: by appearance and mannerisms,
by analysis, by speech, by reaction of other persons, by action.
Appearance and mannerisms really involve description, consid-
ered independently or as absorbed into narration, but description
as an indication of the inner nature of persons. We have already
seen how in Dickens's description of Chadband (p. 214) the physical
CHARACTERIZATION 283
oiliness of the man is taken as a lead to his "oily" personality, and
how his mannerism of lifting a hand before speaking gives the sug-
gestion of false piety and vanity, of a hypocritical preacher.
As the method of description suggests the character, that of anal-
ysis states it and explains it. This is really a kind of exposition drawn
into the service of narration. It may be very obvious and systematic,
as when we write:
Jack Staple's character is marked by what seems, at first inspection,
to be a fundamental inconsistency: on some occasions he is kind and
generous even to a fault, and at the same time he is capable of extreme
cruelty. But the inconsistency disappears into a frightening consistency
once we realize that the spring of his every action is a profound egotism,
an egotism which can express itself as well through good as through
evil. Both gratitude and fear can flatter his ego.
But in the following example, the analysis is absorbed into the
account of a meeting between T. E. Lawrence, the British agent
sent to Arabia in World War I to stir a revolt against Turkey, and a
chieftain whom he was considering as a possible leader of the revolt:
Abdulla, on a white mare, came to us softly with a bevy of richly
armed slaves on foot about him, through the silent respectful salutes
of the town. He was flushed with his success at Taif, and happy. I was
seeing him for the first time, while Storrs was an old friend, and on the
best of terms; yet, before long, as they spoke together, I began to sus-
pect him of a constant cheerfulness. His eyes had a confirmed twinkle;
and though only thirty-five, he was putting on flesh. It might be due to
too much laughter. Life seemed very rnerry for Abdulla. He was short,
strong, fair-skinned, with a carefully trimmed brown beard, masking
his round smooth face and short lips. In manner he was open, or affected
openness, and was charming on acquaintance. He stood not on cere-
mony, but jested with all comers in most easy fashion; yet, when we
fell into serious talk, the veil of humour seemed to fade away. He then
chose his words, and argued shrewdly. Of course, he was in discussion
with Storrs, who demanded a high standard from his opponent.
The Arabs thought Abdulla a far-seeing statesman and an astute
politician. Astute he certainly was, but not greatly enough to convince
us always of his sincerity. His ambition was patent. Rumour made him
the brain of his father and o£ the Arab revolt; but he seemed too easy
for that. His object was, of course, the winning of Arab independence and
the building up of Arab nations, but he meant to keep the direction of
284 NARRATION
the new states in the family. So he watched us, and played through us
to the British gallery.
On our part, I was playing for effect, watching, criticizing him. The
Sherif s rebellion had been unsatisfactory for the last few months (stand-
ing still, which, with an irregular war, was the prelude to disaster): and
my suspicion was that its lack was leadership: not intellect, nor judg-
ment, nor political wisdom, but the flame of enthusiasm, that would set
the desert on fire. My visit was mainly to find the yet unknown master-
spirit of the affair, and measure his capacity to carry the revolt to the
goal I had conceived for it. As our conversation continued, I became
more and more sure that Abdulla was too balanced, too cool, too humor-
ous to be a prophet: especially the armed prophet who, if history be
true, succeeded in revolutions. His value would come perhaps in the
peace after success. During the physical struggle, when singleness of eye
and magnetism, devotion and self-sacrifice were needed, Abdulla would
be a tool too complex for a simple purpose, though he could not be
ignored, even now.— T. E. LAWRENCE: Seven Pillars of Wisdom, Chap.
8.11
Under the topic of dialogue we have already discussed some of
the ways by which speech indicates character: Miss Knag's habit of
saying "hem," or the professor's special, somewhat stilted vocabulary
and turn of phrase. But further, we must distinguish between what
is said and the way of saying it. The ideas or attitudes expressed
should spring from the character and exhibit it, and the vocabulary,
rhythm, and mannerisms (if there are mannerisms) should be signifi-
cant.
It is difficult to find a brief example of the method of indicating
character by the reactions of other people, for usually a fully devel-
oped scene is required to make such a point. But the principle is
simple and we can observe it constantly in real life: the feelings
and behavior of those around a person act as a mirror of that per-
son's character. And we often encounter it in narratives, sometimes
with some such obvious signal as, "When I first met Mr. Dobbs, I
felt an uneasiness which I was at a loss to explain, for he was so
civil, so fatherly . . ."; but the method may be used without the
signal. The reactions may form part of the narrative itself.
The method which most concerns the writer of narrative is, of
course, the exhibiting of character through action. Again it is diffi-
11 From: Seven Pillars of Wisdom by T. E. Lawrence. Copyright 1926, 1935
by Doubleday & Company, Inc.
CHARACTERIZATION 285
cult to illustrate this method by a brief extract, for we can be sure
that a single act is properly expressive of character only if we test
that act against the other acts in the narrative. Any good short story
or novel or biography will illustrate the matter. But in general terms,
we must ask if the particular incident is vivid, significant in itself,
and consistent with other incidents. Our final test here is human
nature, and thorough observation is the best teacher.
SUMMARY
Narration is the kind of discourse concerned with action, with
life in motion. It tells a story. An action, as we use the word here,
may be discussed with reference to movement, time, and meaning.
The essence of narration is to give a sense of movement— the pass-
ing from one stage to another stage. Narration does not explain a
process but places the events before our eyes to give a quality of
immediacy. The movement of an action is through time, but narra-
tion gives not a mere segment of time, but rather a unit of time, and
this unity is determined by the fact that the process presented in
narration extends from the moment when one condition prevails but
is unstable, to the moment when the process is completed by the
establishment of another and stable condition. As for meaning,
action does not merely involve change, but significant change. The
stages of the process are related to each other in such a way that
they are comprehensible and make a point. In so far as the action
presented concerns human beings the comprehensibility involves
MOTIVATION of events and human reaction to events.
Narration is a kind of discourse, and a NARRATIVE is the particu-
lar thing produced by the application of the method of narration.
But the method of narration may be used without producing a satis-
factory narrative. Events may be narrated which do not constitute
an action— which are held together simply by the fact that they
form a sequence in time.
The relation of narration to the other kinds of discourse may be
discussed under two heads:
1. How does narration use the other kinds of discourse?
2. How do the other kinds of discourse use narration?
A narrative may, and usually does, employ the other kinds: ex-
286 NARRATION
position of issues involved or argument concerning them, descrip-
tion of characters or setting.
As for the second question, description rarely appears by itself
in an extended form, and though it may use the acts, say, of a per-
son described, it can scarcely be thought to present fully rendered
actions. But both exposition and argument frequently use narration
—more or less fully rendered actions— for illustrative purposes.
Is there a basic PATTERN which a narrative tends to take? This
question may be approached by considering, not methods of narra-
tion, but the way in which an action appears in fact. An action arises
in a situation. It moves through stages of tension to some sort of
breaking point. At the breaking point a change definitely takes
place to create a new situation different in meaning from the orig-
inal situation in that the old tensions are relieved and a point of rest
is reached. | The stages of narration correspond to these divisions in
an action. The beginning, the original situation, is technically called
EXPOSITION. The middle, comprising the stages of mounting tension,
is called COMPLICATION. The end, the definition of the new situation,
is called the DENOUEMENT. The breaking point, the crisis of the
action, is called the CLIMAX. These aspects of an action, even when
they are not always fully presented in a narrative, as, for example,
in a brief anecdote, are nevertheless always implied^
The relation of the stages of a narrative to each other raises the
question of PROPORTION. But there is no mathematical ratio which
can be depended upon to settle the question of proportion. Each
case must be considered in terms of the material involved and the
intention of the writer. The writer may, however, ask himself these
guiding questions:
1. Does the exposition give all the information really necessary
to establish the situation for the reader?
2. Is it burdened with information which is really unnecessary
and distracting?
3. Does the complication clearly define for the reader the essen-
tial stages of the development of the action?
4. Does it confuse the reader by presenting material which does
not bear on the development of the action?
5. Does the denouement give the reader enough to make the
point of the narrative clear?
SUMMARY 287
6. Does it blur the point by putting in irrelevant material or by
so extending relevant material that a sharp focus is lost?
As the ordering of the parts of a narrative is a problem of pat-
tern, so the rendering of the surface details is a problem of TEXTURE.
Even in a narrative which deals with matters of fact, the writer
cannot hope to render all details, and if he could he would simply
blur the effect. He must use a principle of SELECTION. He should try
to sharpen the interest of the reader by presenting only those de-
tails which have some bearing on the central concern, or which
suggest the immediate quality of the event.
POINT OF VIEW, in reference to narration, means a person who
bears some relation to the action, either as observer or participant,
and whose intelligence serves as the index of the action for the
reader. Point of view, then, involves two questions:
1. Who tells the story?
2. What is his relation to the action?
Broadly speaking, there are two possible points of view, the first
person and the third person. In the first, for instance, an "I," real or
fictitious, relates an event in which he himself is involved. In the
second, an author, writing impersonally, relates an event in which
another person is involved.
There are, however, certain shadings and variations possible
within these two broad general divisions.
In the first-person point of view, two extreme positions may be
distinguished.
1. The narrator may tell of an action in which he is the main,
or a main, participant.
2. The narrator may tell of an action in which he has not par-
ticipated, and which he has merely observed.
These two extreme positions may be called (1) NARRATOR— MAIN
CHARACTER and (2) NARRATOR— MERE OBSERVER. But between them
are many possible variations, corresponding to the degree in which
the narrator is involved in the action.
In the third-person point of view, two extreme positions may
likewise be distinguished.
1. In the PANORAMIC point of view, the writer may report any or
all the aspects of an action, and may go into the head of any or all
the characters involved. (In nonimaginative writing, history, for in-
288 NARRATION
stance, the writer who employs this method is limited, of course,
by what facts or plausible references are available to him.)
2. In the point of view of SHARP FOCUS, the writer keeps his
attention focused on one character and on that character's relation
to the action. The parts of the action not directly participated in by
the selected character are not reported by the writer.
Between these two extreme positions there are all sorts of grada-
tions and mixtures possible.
In all cases the dominant interest defines the point of view.^
As the dominant interest defines the point of view, so it defines
the SCALE in a piece of narration. There are two extremes of scale:
1. SUMMARY RENDERING, which is used primarily in those parts
necessary for continuity or scaffolding.
2. FULL RENDERING, which is used primarily in those parts of
greatest interest and importance— the main scenes of a narrative.
Narration often involves the use of DIALOGUE. Dialogue sometimes
appears to be an easy method of presenting an event, but in fact
it is one of the most difficult. It is difficult because it is not a mere
transcript of what people say; it must be carefully planned and
organized to develop a point or issue. Therefore it presents a prob-
lem in selection and logical ordering. At the same time good dia-
logue must give an impression of naturalness, of the pauses and
waverings of conversation.
Another problem in dialogue is that of giving the impression of
the speech of the individual. People have different mannerisms,
different idioms, different vocabularies, different rhythms, depend-
ing on personal peculiarities, educational background, geographical
origin, social class, and so forth. Close observation of people and
of methods used by competent writers is the only guide here.
Most narratives involve people, and to understand such a narra-
tive we must understand the people involved, their natures, their
motives, and their responses. The process of presenting this in-
formation is called CHARACTERIZATION.
Characterization does not mean the mere accumulation of de-
tails about the persons being characterized. The details must be
related to each other to build up a unified impression. To do this
the writer should concern himself with the main motive of a char-
acter in relation to the events, or by the main effect of the events
SUMMARY 289
n him. Generally speaking, there are five methods for presenting
haracter: by description of appearance or mannerisms, by analysis
f character, by speech, by reaction of other persons, and by action,
'he last is the most important method, for it is most closely con-
ected with the main concern of narrative, the rendering of action*
CHAPTER
7
The Paragraph
THE PARAGRAPH AS A CONVENIENCE
TO THE READER
A PARAGRAPH, mechanically considered, is a division of the com-
position, a division set off by an indentation of its first sentence.
(It may be marked in manuscript by the sign f.) Paragraph divi-
sions signal to the reader that the division so set off constitutes a
unit of thought.
For the reader this marking off of the whole composition into
segments is a convenience, though not a strict necessity. A truly
well-organized, well-written piece of prose would presumably be
no worse as a piece of prose if we decided to print it with no para-
graph divisions whatsoever. Printed thus, it would say precisely
what it said before. The reader, however, would probably be irri-
tated at failing to find these pointers to its organization. His reading
might be made more difficult. Yet, with perhaps a little more
studied attention, he could doubtless find the organization, if it were
actually there. There is good reason, however, for the convention
of paragraphing. Since communication of one's thoughts is at best
a difficult business, it is the part of common sense, not to mention
good manners, to mark for the reader the divisions of our thought,
and thus make the thought structure visible upon the page.
Where should these divisions occur? How long should a para-
graph be? In answering these questions, let us again begin by
adopting the position of the reader. For him, a composition com-
posed of paragraphs no longer than one or two sentences each
THE PARAGRAPH AS A CONVENIENCE TO THE READER 791
might as well be printed without paragraph divisions at all. Seg-
mentation on this scale would tell the reader little more about
organization than the segmentation already given by the division
into sentences. The opposite extreme would, of course, be quite as
bad. For paragraphs of six or seven hundred words each would tell
the reader little or nothing about the thought structure.
Common sense dictates that the length of the normal paragraph
will lie between these extremes. But this is not to say that an occa-
sional very short paragraph— even a paragraph of only one sen-
tence—may not tell the reader a great deal. By its very shortness
the importance of the paragraph would be emphasized. Similarly,
an occasional long paragraph would do no damage and might serve
to emphasize the unity of a long passage— always provided, of
course, that the long passage actually constitutes a unit. We may
sum up, then, by saying that there is no formula for ascertaining
the length of paragraphs. Only common sense and the requirements
of the particular occasion can determine how long any paragraph
ought to be.
THE PARAGRAPH AS A UNIT OF THOUGHT
Thus far we have looked at the paragraph from the perspective
of the reader's convenience. We have said that paragraphing can
make visible to him the divisions of the writer's thought. But para-
graphing, obviously, can be of help to the reader only if the indi-
cated paragraphs are genuine units of thought— not faked units—
not mere random bits of writing arbitrarily marked off as units.
For a paragraph undertakes to discuss one topic or one aspect of a
topic.
The preceding sentence defines the paragraph but defines it in
such fashion that the reader may well question the usefulness of
the definition. What, after all, is a topic? It is not easy to define; and
we have probably made matters more difficult by adding "or one
aspect of a topic." A discussion of "one aspect of a topic" might be
thought to cover almost anything.
It ought to be admitted immediately that paragraphing is to
some extent a matter of taste, not a matter of logic. Accordingly,
any realistic definition must be rather loose and general. Fortu-
nately, we do not construct paragraphs by applying definitions. In
292 THE PARAGRAPH
the practical problem of composition the writer will find his best
approach is to remind himself that the paragraph is a part of the
composition. Earlier in this text (p. 100) we discussed the difference
between a part and a mere lump or fragment. We saw that a true
part has its characteristic organization which is related to the larger
organization of the whole. A paragraph thus has its "part" to play
—its own particular job to do— in the larger structure of meaning.
THE STRUCTURE OF THE PARAGRAPH
The paragraph, however, has its own structure, and there are
various ways of indicating that structure. One of these ways is to
build the paragraph around one sentence (the TOPIC SENTENCE)
which states the central thought of the whole paragraph. We may
think of the topic sentence as a kind of backbone, or spine, which
supports the body of the paragraph and around which the rest of
the structure is formed?) Here is an example.
The reader of a novel— by which I mean the critical reader— is him-
self a novelist; he is the maker of a book which may or may not please
his taste when it is finished, but of a book for which he must take his
own share of the responsibility. The author does his part, but he cannot
transfer his book like a bubble into the brain of the critic; he cannot
make sure that the critic will possess his work. The reader must there-
fore become, for his part, a novelist, never permitting himself to suppose
that the creation of the book is solely the affair of the author. The dif-
ference between them is immense, of course, and so much so that a
critic is always inclined to extend and intensify it. The opposition that
he conceives between the creative and the critical task is a very real
one; but in modestly belittling his own side of the business he is apt to
forget an essential portion of it. The writer of the novel works in a
manner that would be utterly impossible to the critic, no doubt, and
with a liberty and with a range that would disconcert him entirely. But
in one quarter their work coincides; both of them make the novel.—
PERCY LUBBOCK: The Craft of Fiction, Chap. 2.1
» In this paragraph the first sentence is (the topic sentence) It
States the thesis which the paragraph as a whole develops. It is
frequently said that every paragraph contains a topic sentence,
1 From The Craft of Fiction, by Percy Lubbock, through the permission of
Peter Smith.
THE STRUCTURE OF THE PARAGRAPH 293
stated or implied. It might be more sensible, however, to say that
some paragraphs have topic sentences and that others do not; for an
implied topic sentence is one which the reader is able to construct
for himself as a way of summarizing the paragraph in question.
It is obvious that any composition possessing the very minimum
of unity may always be summed up in some kind of sentence. The
"implied" topic sentence, therefore, is an abstraction— a not very
useful kind of ghost sentence\ In this book, therefore, (we shall
mean by "topic sentence" only ' an actual sentence; and though in-
sisting that every paragraph have unity, we shall admit the exist-
ence of paragraphs that do not embody a topic sentence.
The topic sentence may begin the paragraph (see the paragraph
quoted above). But a topic sentence may occur elsewhere^ Here,
for example, is a paragraph in which the topic sentence brings
the paragraph to a close.
The artistic temperament is a disease that afflicts amateurs. It is a dis-
ease which arises from men not having sufficient power of expression
to utter and get rid of the element of art in their being. It is healthful
to every sane man to utter the art within him; it is essential to every sane
man to get rid of the art within him at all costs. Artists of a large and
wholesome vitality get rid of their art easily, as they breathe easily, or
perspire easily. But in artists of less force, the thing becomes a pressure,
and produces a definite pain, which is called the artistic temperament.
Thus, very great artists are able to be ordinary men— men like Shake-
speare or Browning. There are many real tragedies of the artistic tem-
perament, tragedies of vanity or violence or fear. But the great tragedy
of the artistic temperament is that it cannot produce any art.— G. K.
CHESTERTON: "On the Wit of Whistler/' Heretics.'2
The last sentence of this paragraph makes a generalized state-
ment of the point developed in the preceding sentences. The topic
sentence serves, in this instance, as a kind of summary. The begin-
ning and the end of a paragraph constitute emphatic positions for
the topic sentence. But topic sentences may occur at any place in
the paragraph.
2 Reprinted by permission of Dodd, Mead & Company from Heretics by
G. K. Chesterton. Copyright, 1905,^1932, by G. K. Chesterton.
294 THE PARAGRAPH
SOME TYPICAL STRUCTURAL PRINCIPLES
We do not undertake in this chapter to give an exhaustive classi-
fication of the principles of organization that govern paragraph
structure. There is value, however, in mentioning and illustrating
some of the typical principles. In this connection the reader will
find it useful to turn back to the earlier chapters of this book which
treat exposition, argument, description, and narration. A paragraph,
as we have seen, is a part of the whole composition. Since this is
true, one would expect to find that the principles which govern the
whole organization ought to apply, in some measure, to the organ-
ization of the parts (that is, to the paragraphs).
What are some of the methods by which we organize a piece
of exposition? The chapter on Exposition mentions such methods
as classification and division, comparison and contrast, illustration,
definition, chronological analysis, causal analysis, and many more.
But if we attempt to apply these principles of organization to the
paragraph— even to the paragraphs of an expository essay— we find
that they have varying degrees of applicability.
Illustration, for example, applies rather directly to paragraph
construction. (See the paragraphs quoted from Melville on JL 54,
or the sixth paragraph quoted from Delia Lutes on p. 60 f . jjfCom-
parison and contrast are also methods quite applicable to paragraph
structure. Consider, for example, G. Lowes Dickinson's "Red-bloods
and Mollycoddles" (several paragraphs of which are quoted on
pp. 65 ff.). The essay as a whole makes a classification, but it is
organized in terms of comparison and contrast. The individual
paragraphs of this essay are developed on the same principle.
The first paragraph begins with a suggested definition and proceeds
to elaborate and particularize that definition by comparison and
contrast. The next paragraph emphasizes the traits of the Molly-
coddle (as opposed to the Red-blood), but in illustrating the nature
of the Mollycoddle it further emphasizes his traits by means of a
series of contrasts with his opposite. The third paragraph extends
the classification from individuals to nations. Its first sentence,
which we may take as the topic sentence, reads: "Nations, like men,
may be classified roughly as Red-blood and Mollycoddle." The rest
SOME TYPICAL STRUCTURAL PRINCIPLES 295
of the paragraph illustrates this generalization through a series of
contrasts of national characteristics. )
There are other expository methods, however, which have less
direct applicability to paragraph construction. Take, for example,
the method of definition (discussed at length on pp. 83-98). As
one illustration of definition (p. 96) we offered an excerpt from
Newman's essay "What Is a University?" It so happens that the
illustration consists of exactly one paragraph, the first paragraph
of the essay.
If I were asked to describe as briefly and popularly as I could, what
a University was, I should draw my answer from its ancient designation
of a Studium Generale, or "School of Universal Learning/* This descrip-
tion implies the assemblage of strangers from all parts in one spot;— from
all parts; else, how will you find professors and students for every depart-
ment of knowledge? and in one spot; else, how can there be any school
at all? Accordingly, in its simple and rudimental form, it is a school of
knowledge of every kind, consisting of teachers and learners from evc5ry
quarter. Many things are requisite to complete and satisfy the idea
embodied in this description; but such as this a University seems to be
in its essence, a place for the communication and circulation of thought,
by means of personal intercourse, through a wide extent of country.
It is not this paragraph, however, but Newman's whole essay
that gives us his full definition of the term university: his first para-
graph is a rather special case. What is the structure of the other
paragraphs of his essay? They play their part in developing the
definition of a university which the whole essay undertakes to make.
But they are not themselves organized as definitions. Some provide
illustrations, others make comparisons and furnish contrasts, and
all take the structure of their specialized functions. Even the struc-
ture of the first paragraph might be more practically described thus :
the paragraph begins by defining a university as a Studium Gen-
erale, and then proceeds to develop two or three basic implications
of this term; that is, the structure is a generalization plus several
particularizations.
We can say in general that the more complex methods of exposi-
tion and argument, such as functional analysis, chronological anal-
ysis, causal analysis, and syllogistic reasoning, rarely determine the
structure of a single paragraph. Their very complexity prevents
their doing so. For the paragraph as one of the smaller parts in
296 THE PARAGRAPH
extended composition usually has a simpler structure. It states a
point and elaborates it, or it contrasts two points, or it illustrates
an argument, or it makes a particular application.
Some paragraphs, however, do have a rather explicit logical struc-
ture in which the topic sentence states a conclusion which follows
from premises stated in the body of the paragraph. Here is a para-
graph so constructed.
A really great pitcher must have control. Charles Ramsey had wonder-
ful speed and a curve that broke as sharply as any that I have ever
seen. He dazzled opposing batters with his fireball or made them break
their backs reaching for pitches that broke sharply away from the plate.
Charles had nearly everything— he even fielded his position brilliantly—
but he lacked control. Even on his best days his control was less than
certain. Shrewd batters learned this, and waited him out, frequently
successfully, for a base on balls. On his worst days he simply couldn't
find the plate. A pitcher without control cannot win close games. This
is»why I have to scratch Ramsey from my list of great pitchers.
This is a rather simple paragraph, and on a simple enough sub-
ject; yet it is characterized by a logical structure. We can see this
plainly by putting this argument in the form of a syllogism.
A great pitcher must not be lacking in control, (major premise)
Charles Ramsey is lacking in control, (minor premise)
.". Charles Ramsey is not a great pitcher, (conclusion)
Few paragraphs, however, are shaped to conform so neatly to
the logical skeleton of a syllogism. We might remember that few
arguments are expressed in fully developed syllogisms. They are
rather a series of enthymemes, or, as we put it on page 171, a "chain
of implied syllogisms, the conclusion of one becoming a premise of
the next." Such a chain of reasoning is often exhibited in the charac-
teristic paragraph organization in essays which present an argu-
ment.
The writer attempting to present a chain of reasoning will find
that preliminary outlines are very helpful— indeed may be indis-
pensable. He should turn back to Chapter 1 (pp. 26-28) and reread
what has been said about outlines. (Outlining is also discussed and
summarized in the Appendix on the Outline, p. 486.) A brief (p.
172) is of special utility in fashioning a close-knit fabric of argu-
ment. Such a brief as that given on page 174 states a point as a
SOME TYPICAL STRUCTURAL PRINCIPLES 297
main heading, and proceeds to marshal the supporting proofs in
proper degrees of subordination.
I. because
A. because
1. because
a. and
b.
This sort of brief goes far toward suggesting paragraph structure.
The divisions and the more important subdivisions become para-
graphs: and the sentences that constitute the headings become topic
sentences.
But outlining— unless we have made specifically a paragraph out-
line (see Appendix on the Outline, p. 486)— does not determine
paragraph structure. Outlining will not settle, for example, the
problem of scale. (Are topics a and b to constitute one paragraph
or four? Should A be developed as a short paragraph, and 1, a, and
b made to constitute a long paragraph which follows it?) It will be
interesting in this connection to see the comments on the partial
outline of Gauss's "The Threat of Science" (Appendix on the Out-
line, p. 486).
Thus far we have examined paragraph structure primarily in the
light of the methods of organization discussed in the chapters on
Exposition and Argument. But the chapters on Description and
Narration and the section on Expository Description (pp. 42-53)
will suggest other ways in which paragraphs may be organized,
and, on the whole, some of the simpler kinds of organization: simple
time sequence, for example, or simple sequence of objects arranged
in space.
Consider first a paragraph from Conrad's "The Secret Sharer/'3
On my right hand there were lines of fishing-stakes resembling a
mysterious system of half -submerged bamboo fences, incomprehensible
in its division of the domain of tropical fishes, and crazy of aspect as if
abandoned for ever by some nomad tribe of fishermen now gone to the
other end of the ocean; for there was no sign of human habitation as
far as the eye could reach. To the left a group of barren islets, suggest-
ing ruins of stone walls, towers, and blockhouses, had its foundations set
3 From 'Twixt Land and Sea by Joseph Conrad. Reprinted by permission of
J. M. Dent and Sons, Ltd., through the courtesy of the Conrad estate.
298 THE PARAGRAPH
in a blue sea that itself looked solid, so still and stable did it lie below
my feet; even the track of light from the westering sun shone smoothly,
without that animated glitter which tells of an imperceptible ripple.
And when I turned my head to take a parting glance at the tug which
had just left us anchored outside the bar, I saw the straight line of the
flat shore joined to the stable sea, edge to edge, with a perfect and un-
usual closeness, in one levelled floor half brown, half blue under the
enormous dome of the sky.
Here we have a fixed observer. He tells us what he sees on his
right hand, then on his left, and finally, turning his head, what he
sees behind him. (There is even an implied look upward: "the . . .
dome of the sky/') The order of composition is simple and even
mechanical, though the writing itself is not mechanical. Notice, for
example, the sense of finality and completeness given by the last
sentence. The observer's survey comes to rest in "the straight line"
of shore and sea "under the enormous dome of the sky/' The para-
graph thus rounds out and completes its chosen topic. It is thor-
oughly unified, though it does not contain a topic sentence.
But we may also have a scene described through the eyes of an
observer who is shifting bis position. The paragraph from Law-
rence's Seven Pillars of Wisdom (p. 203) furnishes an illustration.
Moreover, a scene may be described in terms of an image which
provides a frame of reference for it. Thomas Hardy describes the
continent of Europe under the figure of a human being (see p. 203).
The various ways in which description (and descriptive para-
graphs) may be organized have been summarized on page 229
(which the writer should reread). Now these methods of descrip-
tion all apply to descriptive paragraphs as well as to description as
a kind of discourse. In fact, the examples printed in Chapter 5 to
illustrate these methods are, almost without exception, distinct para-
graphs. The writer can learn from them, therefore, a great deal
about paragraph development.
Some of the more subjective modes of paragraph development,
however, call for a bit of further discussion. It is in these that the
principle of organization is least clear; the structure of the para-
graph will seem most nearly subjective— a mere matter of caprice.
It will be these paragraphs, then, which will seem to the reader
to stretch the very concept of the paragraph to a dangerous limit.
Consider, for example, the paragraph quoted from E. M. Forster's
SOME TYPICAL STRUCTURAL PRINCIPLES 299
A Passage to India on page 205. Why did not Forster begin a new
paragraph with sentence five, "Chandrapore was never . . ."? Or
consider the passage quoted from Sinclair Lewis's Main Street (p.
207). The passage is printed as four paragraphs. Two are composed
of one sentence; one, of two sentences. Only the third paragraph
has more than two sentences. Would anything be lost if all four
paragraphs were lumped together in one medium-length paragraph?
A defense can be offered in both instances. Forster presumably
felt his description of Chandrapore was a unit— that for him at
least it had a "felt unity." Lewis presumably used the ultrashort
paragraphs for a special effect: to suggest someone walking down
"Main Street," observing the buildings as he walks. We get a para-
graph for each store. But much more is at stake than the defense of
these two examples. The defense may or may not be adequate, and
if the reader feels it to be inadequate, he is quite possibly right. At
any rate, he is right to raise the question. For the question goes to
the heart of the problem of paragraph structure. To repeat: there is
no precise formula by which the length or structure of a paragraph
may be determined. As we have said earlier (p. 291), the writer
must use his best judgment: he must use his common sense and
his taste. Unless he is very sure of his ground, he will tend to
employ paragraphs of medium length. He will tend to use the more
conventional paragraph structures. But in following these common-
sense rules he must not conceive of paragraphs as mechanical units
of even length and of homogeneous make-up. He will feel free, on
occasion, to formulate paragraphs of "felt unity," relying upon his
own impression of the "rightness" of the structure. For the writer
must never forget that the paragraph is a part— a meaningful part—
of a larger structure, and therefore cannot be formulated mechani-
cally any more than can the larger structure of which it is a part.
LINKING PARAGRAPHS TOGETHER
Since paragraphs are parts of a whole work, elements in an
ordered sequence, it is important that they be properly linked
together. Even if the chain of development embodied in the series
of paragraphs has been thought out carefully, the reader will still
be grateful for signposts placed to direct him. The judicious use
of transitional words and phrases such as therefore, consequently,
300 THE PARAGRAPH
hence, thus, accordingly, on the contrary, however, nevertheless,
furthermore, finally, in the same way, and moreover constitutes one
way of helping the reader. The writer may also make use of the
co-ordinate conjunctions for, and, but, or, and nor as explicit signs
of the connection between paragraph and paragraph. Since, how-
ever, we ordinarily use these conjunctions to join the parts of a
sentence, or to join sentence with sentence, we employ them less
frequently to tie a paragraph to a preceding paragraph. But they
can be used, though the use is more appropriate to an informal
than to a formal style.
If we do provide the reader with transitional words as explicit
signposts, obviously we must use them accurately. We must not
begin a paragraph by writing "In the same way . . ." unless what
follows is "in the same way"; we must not write "Consequently"
unless what follows is a consequence of the preceding paragraph.
An obvious device for linking paragraphs is the repetition of a
key word or phrase. It is a useful device, particularly if we wish
to avoid the formality of style suggested by the employment of
transitional words, but wish also to avoid the abruptness occasioned
by the use of and, but, and or. To illustrate: Christian Gauss, in his
"The Threat of Science," effects the transition between his third
and fourth paragraphs in this way. (We have italicized the key
words here, and in the examples that follow.)
To the biologist the lion who kills many antelopes has "survival value."
He is, this scientist will even tell us, a good lion.
When the scientist uses this word good we must be on our guard.
He does not mean what the theologian . . .
The exact word or phrase, of course, need not be repeated. It may
be varied. Here is Gauss's transition from paragraph six to seven.
[The] truths [of experimental science] are riot really truths of a higher
sort; they are not above ordinary truths, as the angels (if there still are
angels) are over the earth; they are only the truths of science in what
might be called their state of innocence.
For this reason experimental science should not be regarded as wicked;
it is only unmoral No harm will come so long . . .
Here is a series of three paragraphs from a story in Time maga-
zine:
A buzzard coasting high in the air over Central America last week,
would have seen nothing unusual. The mountainous, forest-matted
LINKING PARAGRAPHS TOGETHER 301
isthmus lay quietly in the greasy November sun. Among the many
human realities invisible to the buzzard were the boundary lines—the
imaginary but very actual barriers that said: "This is Costa Rica; this is
Guatemala; this is Nicaragua."
Far below the coasting buzzard, in the grey-green jungles of northern
Nicaragua, more was stirring than his great bird's-eye view could catch.
Snaking through the scrub, guerrilla riflemen made short, sharp little
raids against government outposts. In and out of the piny mountain
country on Nicaragua's northern flank, armed, machete-toting men
filtered mysteriously. In Guatemala and Costa Rica dusty little companies,
in faded denim and khaki, marked time in the tropic heat.
All this scattered activity added up to one gathering purpose. That
purpose called itself the Caribbean Legion.4
Here is a series of three paragraphs from Dorothy Sayers's The
Mind of the Maker:
It is for this reason that I have prefixed to Wiis brief study of the
creative mind an introductory chapter in which I have tried to make
clear the difference between fact and opinion, and between the so-called
"laws" based on fact and opinion respectively.
In the creeds of Christendom, we are confronted with a set of docu-
ments which purport to be, not expressions of opinion but statements of
fact. Some of these statements are historical, and with these the present
book is not concerned. Others are theological— which means that they
claim to be statements of fact about the nature of God and the universe;
and with a limited number of these I propose to deal.
The selected statements are those which aim at defining the nature
of God, conceived in His capacity as Creator. They were originally . . .5
Another obvious device for linking paragraphs is the use of this
(these) and that (those); but these words must be used with care.
We are frequently tempted to use them vaguely, hoping that the
idea or object to which they refer will be clear from the context.
Frequently it is not clear, and instead of a tight and neat coupling
of the two paragraphs, we have only the vague and clumsy sug-
gestion of a tie. For example, a paragraph of "The Colors That Ani-
mals Can See"6 ends thus:
4 Courtesy of TIME, Copyright Time, Inc. 1948.
5 From The Mind of the Maker by Dorothy Sayers, copyright, 1942, by
Harcourt, Brace and Company, Inc.
0 "The Colors That Animals Can See," from The Personality of Animals by
H. Munro Fox.
302 THE PARAGRAPH
After we have arranged these new cards, we have not long to wait.
Very soon bees arrive again, and it can be seen that they fly straight on
to the blue card; none goes to the red card.
Now we might be tempted to begin the next paragraph with:
"This seems to indicate two things. The first is . . ." But what the
author wrote was: "This behavior of the bees seems to indicate two
things. ..." A little reflection will indicate that his judgment was
sound. The author intends to state clearly a process of proof. He has
been wise therefore to make very precise what "this" refers to. The
mistake of vague and indefinite reference can be quite serious. It
is so common an error that the writer had better make sure that
"this" or "that" standing at the beginning of a paragraph refer
unmistakably to some specific noun.
USE OF THE PARAGRAPH TO INDICATE
DIALOGUE
There is one further and special use of the paragraph. This use
is conventional, though the convention is an important and inflexi-
ble one. In writing dialogue, we begin a new paragraph with each
change of speaker. (A long speech by one speaker may, of course,
need to be divided into two or more paragraphs: that is, the con-
vention does not require the converse, that each new speaker be
allowed only one paragraph.) The utility of the convention is obvi-
ous: by beginning a new paragraph each time the speaker changes,
we make it much easier for the reader to keep straight who is
speaking. For an illustration, see page 276.
SUMMARY
A PARAGRAPH is a unit of thought. We mark off these units of
thought by indenting the first line. No precise rules govern para-
graph length, but common sense dictates that very short and very
long paragraphs be used rarely. A succession of very short para-
graphs (or of very long paragraphs) would be of little use in indi-
cating to the reader the divisions of the writer's thought.
Since a paragraph is a unit of thought, it has an ordered structure.
The three great interrelated principles of order (unity, coherence,
SUMMARY 303
and emphasis) obviously apply to the paragraph. Now, in this text,
these principles have received their fullest discussion in connection
with the whole theme— in the chapters treating description, narra-
tion, exposition, and argument. But paragraphs, as meaningful parts
of the whole, involve the principle of order. Paragraphs exemplify
these principles in a double sense. As an individual structure the
paragraph has its own unity, coherence, and emphasis. As a part
of the larger structure, the paragraph contributes to the unity,
coherence, and emphasis of the total composition.
The interplay between these relationships is intimate. That is
why we have been able to draw from the earlier chapters, which
deal with the whole theme, principles that apply to the structure
of the paragraph as such. That is why these same earlier chapters
furnish so many illustrations of paragraph construction. In other
words, the reader should realize that when he comes to this chap-
ter on the paragraph, he already knows a great deal about the
paragraph. He has actually been studying the structural principles
of the paragraph all along.
As for the part-to-whole relationship (the paragraph as related
to the whole composition), a further word may be said. As parts
of a larger structure, paragraphs often have specialized functions.
The opening paragraph (or paragraphs), for example, must intro-
duce the whole essay; the final paragraph (or paragraphs) must
bring it to a suitable conclusion. Within the essay itself, there may
be many paragraphs of specialized function: one paragraph states
a particular argument; another provides an illustration; still another
effects a transition between two sections of the essay.
These part-to-whole relationships, least of all, however, can be
studied by considering the paragraph in isolation. Here too the
reader will learn most by studying the paragraph in relation to the
whole. (The reader might look, for example, at the opening para-
graphs of the various essays in the selections printed at the end of
this text. From such an examination he would probably learn much
more about how to construct introductory paragraphs than from
any general discussion.) Study of the paragraph, therefore, leads us
back to the general problems of composition. The reader will pro-
vide his own best conclusion to this summary by going back to
Chapter 1 and rereading pages 13-23.
CHAPTER
8
The Sentence
OUR DISCUSSION in earlier chapters has dealt with rhetorical
problems; that is, we have been concerned with making our expres-
sion clear and convincing to the reader. Our discussion of the whole
theme and of its subdivisions, of the process of composition con-
sidered generally and considered in its various kinds (description,
exposition, and so on), has been conducted from the point of view
of rhetoric. We have asked: How can we select, arrange, and dis-
pose our materials so as to make them register with maximum
impact on the reader? Thus, we have applied the principles of
rhetorical organization to the composition as a whole, to its parts
(the paragraphs), and now are to apply them to its smallest part,
the SENTENCE.
RHETORIC AND GRAMMAR
But with the sentence, this smallest rhetorical unit, we encounter
another problem. It is the problem of grammar. In earlier chapters
we could take the problem of grammar for granted, for, since the
larger units of a composition are made up of sentences, we could
assume that the demands of GRAMMAR had been met. In this chap-
ter, although we shall still be primarily concerned with how to
make our sentences effective (the rhetorical problem), we shall have
to touch upon specifically grammatical problems. These have to do
with the rules and conventions that govern English sentence struc-
ture. We might illustrate the relation between grammar and rhetoric
in this way: The grammar of a game of chess, say, would be the
RHETORIC AND GRAMMAR 305
rules of the game— what moves are possible if one is to play the
game fairly and correctly. The rhetoric of chess, on the other hand,
would be the principles which govern the playing of a winning
game— what moves we ought to make and in what sequence, if we
hope to play effectively and well. If we are to write English effec-
tively, we must have a knowledge of rhetoric; but if we are to write
English at all, we must have a knowledge of English grammar.
In this book the reader's knowledge of English grammar is
assumed. The book is specifically a rhetoric, not a grammar. Yet,
in the sentence, the two problems of grammar and rhetoric inter-
penetrate so thoroughly that it would be impractical, even if it were
possible, to leave the grammatical aspect out of account.
A sentence is usually defined as a complete thought expressed
through a subject and a predicate. Unfortunately, the definition is
of little value to anyone who does not already know what "com-
plete" means in this context, or who does not already know what
predication is. The reader using this book presumably does know;
and yet it may be of some value to review the definition, particu-
larly since we shall attempt to relate the sentence to the basic
principles of rhetorical structure: unity, coherence, and emphasis.
A sentence has unity (is a complete thought) and its parts cohere
(that is, are related to each other in a special way so as to produce
that unity). But does emphasis also figure importantly in making
a sentence a sentence? It does, for every complete sentence, as we
shall see, must have a special focus of interest— a specific centering
of emphasis, which constitutes the nucleus around which the parts
cohere.
We shall need some concrete illustrations, however, if we are
to make this point clear. We have said that a sentence is a complete
thought; it says something about something. If one simply says, for
example, "the box/' we have the "something" but we do not have
the "aboutness." If one should say "the large burning box in the
back yard," the "aboutness" is still lacking. The box has been named,
and there is even some fullness of description, but the thought is
still incomplete: we feel that nothing has been "said about" this
rather fully described object. If, on the other hand, one should say
"the large box burns," the "aboutness" is provided. We have a
sentence. The reader, however, might very well put this objection:
306 THE SENTENCE
that there is no real difference between "the large burning box"
and "the large box burns," for both connect "large box" with the
idea of "burning." Why does one group of words "say" something
about the box, whereas the other group does not? How is the formal
difference between the two groups of words significant? By way
of an answer we can say that the very form of "The large box burns"
indicates that the matter of interest is in the fact of burning, whereas
the form of "the large burning box" reduces the fact of burning to
the naming of the box, and leaves our expectancy unsatisfied.
A sentence makes a PREDICATION. Predication means that some-
thing is said "about" the thing named— that the speaker has done
more than merely point to it or name it, or characterize it. A sen-
tence requires a SUBJECT (something named) and a predicate (a
FINITE verb). But predication, as we have just seen, may be de-
scribed as a way of focusing our interest. The finite verb is required
in predication, for it is the function of the finite verb to supply that
focus— to define what is of special importance in the speaker's
statement.1 Consider, for example, "the burning box is large" and
"the large box is burning." In both sentences, "largeness" and "burn-
ing" are associated with the box, and in both there is predication.
But the first sentence emphasizes the largeness as the important
thing about the box; the second, the burning. On the other hand,
"the large burning box," as we have noted, is not a sentence at all.
"Burning," it is true, is a form of a verb. "Burning" names an action
or a state of being, and it associates that action or state of being
with "box." But it makes no predication, for it is not enough that
we connect the thing named with some word which names an
action. The verb must be "finite." In English, as well as in most
other languages, the finite verb is the signal of predication. "The
large burning box," therefore, remains unfocused. No point of
emphasis is supplied, no focal point around which the other parts
1 The reader is to be reminded here that a "finite" verb means literally a
limited verb— limited with reference to person, number, tense, rnood, and
aspect. Thus goes may be used only with a singular subject in the third person,
and refers only to present time, whereas the "infinite" forms like the gerund
going and the infinitive to go, refer to the general idea of going. These infinite
forms of the verb (gerunds, infinitives, and participles) may, of course, be
limited as to tense: broken is a past participle; to have gone is a past infinitive;
even so, the general distinction holds. The finite forms are limited and specific,
and because specific, can be used to provide a focus for the sentence.
RHETORIC AND GRAMMAR 307
of the sentence may be made to cohere so as to give us that special
kind of unity which characterizes the complete thought that is a
sentence. If we hear the words "the large burning box" read aloud,
we wait for the sentence to be finished— for something to be "said"
about the box.
In this brief discussion of predication we have gone over ground
with which the reader is expected to be familiar. Presumably
he knows what a sentence is, and can distinguish between the finite
verb forms and the infinite forms (infinitives, gerunds, and parti-
ciples). Yet the special sense in which the sentence is related to
unity, coherence and emphasis, is worth stressing. In this smallest
rhetorical unit, the sentence, these fundamental principles of rhet-
oric coalesce with principles of grammatical construction. We or-
ganize our sentences around finite verbs. They are not only rhetori-
cally our most vigorous and emphatic words. They constitute the
core, even grammatically considered, of the sentence.
It may not be amiss at this point to say a further word about a
topic mentioned earlier, the way in which we "hear" sentences. A
complete sentence (i.e., "The box is burning") is always accom-
panied in speech by one of those changes in the pitch of the voice
and one of the distinct final pauses that, together, signal to the
hearer "end of utterance." This pitch-pause combination does not
accompany "The burning box" or "That the box is burning," and
so on. The reader might test this for himself by reading these
sequences aloud. When we hear them read aloud, we wait for
something else to follow. The way in which we "hear" sentences
constitutes for most native speakers of English a practical means
of testing any alleged sentence for completeness.
THE FIXED WORD ORDER OF THE NORMAL
SENTENCE"
The parts of a normal English sentence are arranged in a special
way. We have first the subject, then the finite verb, then the indirect
object (if any), and last the direct object or any other complement
of the verb (if any).
2 For much of the material in this and the following sections of this chapter,
the authors are indebted to Professor Harold Whitehall of Indiana Univer-
sity.
James
talked.
James
told
James
was telling \
James
told
Roger
James
was telling
me
That James was ill
caused
me
James
told
Roger
308 THE SENTENCE
Subject Verb * Indirect object Direct object f
stories,
stories,
stories.
that he was ill.
anxiety,
to stop.
* Finite verb, or finite verb plus verbals.
f Or other complement of the verb.
| was ( finite verb ) -f telling ( verbal— in this instance, a present participle ) .
The reader will notice that in these examples we have left out
all modifiers, either adjectival or adverbial. The position of modi-
fiers will be discussed later; here we are concerned with the order
of the basic components of the sentence. What the reader needs
to see is that the order is a fixed order. We cannot say, for example,
"John told stories Roger," though of course we can say, "J°rm told
stories to Roger."
The reader should also observe that we have talked about the
word position in the normal English sentence, not the average
English sentence. For something more important than an average
is at stake. We are concerned here with a norm, a standard
pattern which is so deep-rooted in our sense of the language that
most of us are quite unconscious of the fact that we observe it
instinctively all the time. It is important, however, that we here
see it quite consciously and explicitly, for a realization of the fact
that English has a characteristic pattern of fixed word order can
illuminate the deviations from this order. To sum up, in calling
attention to the fixed word order we are not attempting to give
the reader any new information, but rather to make him notice
the pattern which he has been unconsciously observing since child-
hood.
VARIATIONS FROM FIXED WORD ORDER
Now, deviation from a norm is always a means of emphasis. li
a man wears a red hat, he emphasizes the hat and himself. The
wearing of spats on an American street, just because it deviates
from the norm, calls attention to the wearer's feet, though, con-
versely, the lack of spats in a large group of people wearing spats
THE FIXED WORD ORDER OF THE NORMAL SENTENCE 309
would likewise call attention to the feet. Deviation from the fixed
word positions of the sentence are emphatic as all variations from
a norm tend to be emphatic. For example, compare "I do not believe
that" and "That, I do not believe." The second sentence, by invert-
ing the normal order, throws heavy emphasis on "that."
Constant emphasis, however, defeats its own end, and becomes
banal and trite. Presumably the first pulp writer who wrote "Came
the dawn," instead of the normal "The dawn came," was trying to
secure emphasis, an emphasis which would give a certain rhetorical
effect. But the writers of Hollywood in the days of silent pictures,
by using "Came the dawn" over and over again, wore the caption
to rags. All of which is by way of saying that we have every right
to change the fixed word positions in order to emphasize some word,
but that we vary from the normal order at our peril, and that mean-
ingless departures from the norm make our writing empty and
pretentious. Assuming, however, that we have good reason to em-
phasize some part of the sentence, how are the emphases secured?
We have already illustrated one means, that of inversion:
That, I do not believe.
Books, he had read in plenty.
In interrogative sentences, of course, we want to emphasize the
interrogative word or the verb. We regularly invert the order in
English for a question.
What does he want?
When did you see him last?
Didn't you know?
Knew you not? (archaic)
What are some of the other means for securing emphasis?
EMPHASIS ON THE SUBJECT
Our simplest way of emphasizing the subject is to begin the sen-
tence with "It is," "It was," and so on, or "There is," "There was,"
and so on. For example, compare "James told me stories" with "It
was James who (that) told me stories." Or compare "A man knew
seventeen languages" with "There was a man who knew seventeen
languages." In each of these instances, the effect of the reformula-
tion is to emphasize "James" and "the man" by throwing everything
310 THE SENTENCE
that follows into a subordinate clause. But it ought to be apparent
that a constant and thoughtless use of "It is" and "There is" not
only fails to secure emphasis but makes the sentences needlessly
bumbling.
EMPHASIS ON THE OBJECTS (OR COMPLEMENTS)
OF THE VERB
If we wish to emphasize the indirect object, we put it in the posi-
tion of the normal subject and make the verb passive. Thus we get,
not "James told me stories" but "I was told stories by James." By a
similar process, we can throw emphasis upon the direct object:
"Stories were told to me by James."
Now this process of converting the object of the verb (either
direct or indirect) into the subject, is so familiar that the reader
may well wonder that it is worth mentioning here at all, particu-
larly in a text that is concerned with problems of rhetoric and
touches upon grammatical relationships only incidentally. Yet the
point involved is a very important one. If we can see that these
passive constructions violate the normal English sentence pattern,
it may be easier for us to see that, like all emphatic variations, they
are to be used sparingly and only when we want a special emphasis
on what would be, in normal order, the object of the verb. Indeed,
the warning frequently given in composition books against "weak
passive" constructions becomes clearer when we see that the weak
passive becomes weak because it is essentially an overused, and
therefore misused, device for emphasis.
Here are some examples of weak passives:
1. The book was picked up by me.
2. The problem of maintaining friendly relations and at the same
time a proper firmness was seen.
3. The matter has been taken up for consideration, and as soon
as a solution can be arrived at, settlement will be made.
Now it is apparent that in the first sentence no emphasis on book
is intended or required. The writer has thoughtlessly drifted into
the passive construction. He needs to restore the normal sentence
order from which there was no good reason to depart. He should
simply write "I picked up the book." (There are, of course, contexts
in which book might deserve emphasis. One can easily imagine a
THE FIXED WORD ORDER OF THE NORMAL SENTENCE 311
story in which a character said: "But the book— not the paperweight
—was picked up by me!')
Something more than carelessness probably accounts for the sec-
ond and third examples. The real subject (what would be the sub-
ject in normal sentence order) is either vague or unknown. The
writer has not troubled to define it, or else he timidly refuses tc
define it. Let us say that in the third sentence the true subject ii
"the assistant manager in charge of claims/' The assistant manage]
shrinks from taking responsibility, or his stenographer hesitates tc
put him down as responsible, or feels, quite foolishly, that "we" ii
somehow inelegant. Thus we get the sentence as it stands, rathei
than "Mr. Johnson has taken the matter up and hopes to make
settlement soon," or "We are considering the matter and hope tc
make settlement soon."
Such weak and awkward constructions have come to dominate
a great deal of modern prose— especially "official" writing— writing
that comes from government bureaus, business offices, and com
mittees. The writer ought to be on his guard against its influence
We can sum up by saying that the normal word order of the
English sentence is (1) subject, (2) verb, (3) indirect object (if any)
and (4) direct object or other verbal complement (if any). There
is nothing inelegant about this arrangement. It constitutes the basi;
of a sound English style. The writer should keep to this norma
pattern unless he has a good reason for departing from it. In check
ing the first draft of a piece of writing it is good practice to justify
every deviation from the normal sentence pattern.
POSITION OF THE MODIFIERS
We now need to consider the position in the sentence occupiec
by the various modifiers— by the adjectives and adverbs, and b)
the phrases and clauses which function either as adjectives O]
adverbs. The position of some of these modifiers is rather rigidl)
fixed; that of others is optional, and since there is no prescribec
position for them, the ordering of these "movable" modifiers is i
matter of taste, emphasis, and expressiveness. We can say that the
fixed modifiers are placed largely in accordance with grammatica
rules; the position of the movable modifiers is assigned largely ir
terms of rhetorical considerations.
312 THE SENTENCE
FIXED MODIFIERS
Let us consider first the fixed modifiers. These include most ad-
jectives, and phrases and clauses which have the function of adjec-
tives. Relative clauses, adjectival phrases, and adjectival infinitives
follow the substantive which they modify. We must write, for ex-
ample:
The man to see is Jim.
The man 7 knew was Jim.
The man whom I mentioned was Jim.
The house in the country was for sale.
We cannot write:
The to see man is Jim.
or:
The I knew man was Jim.
Single adjectives, on the contrary, just reverse this rule. The
normal position of a single adjective is before the substantive that
it modifies. For example, we would normally write:
A bright day dawned.
A long black automobile rounded the corner.
He gave an extended, involved, and tortuous argument.
Predicate adjectives, of course, do not come under this rule. We
say that they modify the substantive "through the verb/' and they
normally come after the verb. Consider these illustrations.
The rose was red.
The third night seemed long.
The house was for sale.
On occasion, however, we do reverse the normal positions. Exam-
ples will readily occur to the reader. Here are a few:
Comrades all!
Chapter ten.
John the Baptist.
A car, long and black, rounded the corner.
A small face, dirty, appeared at the window.
Black is my true love's hair.
POSITION OF MODIFIERS 313
As we have seen earlier, variation from the norm is emphatic, and
in all these illustrations the reversal of normal position has the
effect of emphasizing the adjectives used.
One qualification of this principle, however, must be made. Some
of the examples given seem to represent, not an emphatic variation,
but the normal pattern: e.g., chapter ten and John the Baptist. But
in expressions of this sort, as a little reflection will show, the adjec-
tive is important and normally requires stress. Furthermore, there
are other expressions in which we normally encounter the adjective
following the noun: first, certain fossilized expressions derived from
French law, such as "body politic" and "heir apparent"; and second,
expressions such as "the day following," "the funds available," which
actually represent elliptical expressions which we would have to
fill out as follows: "the day following (this day)," "the funds avail-
able (to us)."
These classes of exceptions, however, do not affect the general
rule, that an adjective normally precedes its substantive, and that
the reversal of this position throws emphasis upon the adjective.
We observed earlier that thoughtless use of emphatic position
or overuse of emphatic position defeats its own ends. The principle
applies to modifiers. John Bunyan, in his Pilgrims Progress, used
the phrase "the house beautiful." In the context provided by Bunyan
the expression is well used. But, with it as model, the advertisers
nowadays produce such absurdities as "the memorial park beauti-
ful," "the body beautiful," and "the hair-do glamorous." Variation
from the normal position of the adjective, like other emphatic de-
vices, ought to be used sparingly and cautiously.
To sum up, the position of adjectives and adjectival phrases and
clauses allows very little variation. The position of most adjectival
modifiers is definitely fixed. The reader's real problem here is to
avoid clumsiness and absurdity through a careless placing of such
modifiers.
In this connection, relative clauses (which we must remember
are adjectival modifiers) call for a further word. Relative clauses
may be unlinked as in the sentence "The man I knew was Jim" or
linked as in "The man whom I knew was Jim." The link words are
the pronouns who (whom), restricted to human beings; which, re-
stricted to animals and inanimate objects; and that, unrestricted.
A relative clause which immediately follows the substantive modi-
314 THE SENTENCE
fied requires no link word; otherwise it does, and the choice of the
proper link word may be necessary for clarity. Compare:
1. The man in the automobile that I recognized was Jim.
with:
2. The man in the automobile whom I recognized was Jim.
Note that sentence 1 is ambiguous as sentence 2 is not.
Relative clauses occasion difficulty in still other ways. We may
make a clumsy reduplication of clauses:
The man who had just come in whom I had never met was a
Mr. Rogers.
Better to write:
The new arrival, whom I had never met, was a Mr. Rogers,
or:
A Mr. Rogers, whom I had never met, had just come in.
Sometimes we carelessly make a relative clause modify a general
idea which is implied but not expressed. Thus:
She had been hurt and bitterly disappointed, which accounted
for her strange conduct.
Better to write:
Her hurt and bitter disappointment accounted for her strange
conduct.
or:
She had been hurt and bitterly disappointed, a fact which ac-
counted for her strange conduct.
MOVABLE MODIFIERS
The attentive reader will have noticed that there is one kind
of adjectival modifier, the participial phrase, that is not fixed, but
is rather freely movable. Consider, for example:
Smoking a cigarette, James sauntered down the street.
James, smoking a cigarette, sauntered down the street.
James sauntered down the street, smoking a cigarette.
POSITION OF MODIFIERS 315
All three sentences are perfectly good English. There is no one
correct position for this participial phrase. In choosing where to
place it, we are governed by considerations of taste and emphasis.
Nearly all the adverbs and adverbial modifiers, moreover, are
movable in this way. Here are sentences which will illustrate some
of the various positions which adverbial modifiers may occupy.
1. Because I respect him, I gave him candid advice.
2. I gave him, because I respect him, candid advice.
3. I gave him candid advice because 1 respect him.
4. James, with a low mumble, took the letter.
5. I was presumably breaking the law.
6. I made, with all the grace I could summon, my amends.
7. There, at ten o clock, I arrived as 1 had been told.
8. At ten o'clock, I arrived there, as I had been told.
9. There, as I had been told, I arrived at ten o clock.
In these examples, the various arrangements of the movable modi-
fiers make little difference to the general sense of the sentence; but
they may make considerable difference in emphasis. Sentences 7, 8,
and 9, for example, say much the same thing. But sentence 7 tends
to stress the place; sentence 8, the time of arrival. Sentence 9 also
emphasizes the place and suggests that the instructions had been
primarily concerned with designating the place. Control of emphasis
and of shadings of meaning is the mark of a skillful writer. He will
place his movable modifiers carefully, not thoughtlessly.
The proper arrangement of the movable modifiers is necessary
for nuance of meaning and exact emphasis, but in some instances
proper arrangement may be necessary to prevent downright con-
fusion. For example, consider this sentence:
The boy who sold the most tickets today will receive the prize.
Does the sentence mean that the prize will be given today? Or that
the prize will be given to the boy who sold most tickets today?
If we mean the former, we should write:
The boy who sold the most tickets will be given the prize today,
or:
The prize will be given today to the boy who sold the most tickets.
If we mean the latter, we should write:
The prize will be given to the boy who sold the most tickets today.
316 THE SENTENCE
Our illustrative sentences suggest that adverbial modifiers may
occur at almost any position in the sentence: at the beginning of
the sentence (1, 7, 8, and 9), at the end of the sentence (3, 7, 8,
and 9), between the subject and the verb (4), between the finite
verb and verbal (5), between the verb and its object (6), and
between the indirect object and the direct object (2). But the last
two positions are somewhat special. One would hardly write:
He sang pleasantly the song,
though he might write:
He sang pleasantly the song that I had taught him.
One would hardly write:
I gave him quickly candid advice,
though, as we have seen, one might write:
I gave him, because I respect him, candid advice.
The principle would seem to be this: that if the modifier or the
direct object is sufficiently weighted with words, the modifier may
precede the direct object. But the whole problem of placing the
movable modifier calls for taste and tact. Even an experienced
writer may need to experiment with possible positions before he
feels that he has placed his movable modifiers most effectively.
One further principle emerges from a consideration of our exam-
ples. Placed before or after a sentence, movable modifiers modify
the sentence as a whole; placed internally, they modify the relation
between the words that precede and the words that follow them.
Consider the different shadings of meaning in the following sen-
tences:
Presumably, the thief had gained entrance through a window.
The thief, presumably, had gained entrance through a window.
In the first sentence, it is the total statement that we are to presume.
In the second, the presumption is limited: what we presume is that
the entrant was the thief.
There is one class of adverbial modifiers, however, which is not
freely movable. These are adverbs which state a direction, adverbs
like in, back, to, up, and down. These adverbs (which we may call
POSITION OF MODIFIERS 317
directives) cannot precede a verb or verbal. For example, we can
write:
James gave it back.
but not:
James back gave it.
We can write:
The water had leaked out.
but not:
The water had out leaked,
or:
The water out had leaked.
Moreover, these directives, if used in a series of adverbial modi-
fiers, must precede the other adverbial modifiers. Thus:
I put the cat out last night,
not:
I put the cat last night out.
But these directive adverbs can precede the subject of the sentence
when the verb expresses explicit motion. Thus:
Back ran Jim to third base when the outfielder made his throw
to the catcher.
or:
Home the little fellow darted as fast as he could run.
These last instances reveal once more our pattern of emphatic
variation: back and home which, as we have seen, normally follow
the verb, are emphasized when they are placed at the beginning of
the sentence.
The reader already knows how to use directives, of course. Na-
tive speakers have unconsciously been using them correctly all
their lives. The intention here, and elsewhere in this discussion of
fixed and movable modifiers, is not to cram the reader's head with
sets of rules and categories of exceptions to the rules. Most native
speakers observe the rules (and their exceptions) quite automati-
cally.
318 THE SENTENCE
But having noted the exceptions, we are allowed to sum up the
general pattern in two simple statements:
1. Adjectival modifiers are relatively fixed: variation from the
normal position constitutes a means for emphasizing the modifier.
2. Adverbial modifiers are rather freely movable: careful placing
of the modifiers constitutes a means of controlling the finer shadings
of meaning.
Moreover, the foregoing discussion sheds real illumination on
the problem of the "dangling participle."
THE DANGLING PARTICIPLE
Participles are verbal adjectives. Since they are adjectives, they
must modify some substantive in the sentence. Yet, as we have seen,
like adverbs, they are movable modifiers. This fact explains why we
so easily forget that they are adjectives, and treat them as if they
were truly adverbs. Here is an example:
Walking along the road, a cloud of dust obscured the neighbor-
ing fields.
Such absurdities are, as we have seen, produced by the writer's
changing the construction in the course of writing the sentence.
He begins with an adjectival modification and then forgets to pro-
vide a substantive for the participle to modify. The remedy, of
course, is to make the construction consistent— to write:
As we walked along the road, a cloud of dust obscured the neigh-
boring fields.
or:
Walking along the road, we encountered a cloud of dust which
obscured the neighboring fields.
GENERAL PRINCIPLES OF SENTENCE
STRUCTURE
PARALLELISM
Thus far we have considered the structure of the sentence from
one point of view: that of the arrangement of the basic constituents
of the sentence, and the arrangement of the various kinds of modi-
GENERAL PRINCIPLES OF SENTENCE STRUCTURE 31*
fiers. But( there are other principles which may determine the struc-
ture of a sentence. One of these is PARALLELISM: the adjustment of
grammatical pattern to rhetorical pattern. In its simplest terms,
parallelism means no more than that like meanings should be put
in like constructions.
The very richness of English tempts us to violate parallelism.
For example, we have two noun forms of the verb. We can use the
infinitive "to swim" or the gerund "swimming/* Consequently, the
careless writer may blunder into a sentence like this:
To swim and hunting are my favorite sports.
But the distinction between infinitive and gerund awkwardly dis-
tracts the reader from what is a co-ordinate relation. We ought to
write:
Swimming and hunting are my favorite sports,
or:
To swim and to hunt are my favorite sports.
It is, however, our great variety of movable modifiers that most
often leads us into this kind of blundering. We write, for example:
Being lazy by nature and because I am clumsy, I have never
liked tennis.
Such violations of parallelism easily creep into first drafts—even into
the first drafts of a good writer. Careful rewriting is the answer.
We must not forget, however, that the principle of parallelism
may be used positively. So used, it becomes a powerful rhetorical
device. By stressing parallel constructions we emphasize the ideas
expressed, and we can thus play one sort of meaning off against the
other. Sentences constructed on this principle are sometimes called
"balanced sentences." Here are some examples:
1. As the hart panteth after the water brooks, so panteth my soul
after Thee, O God.
2. He was sick of life, but he was afraid of death; and he shuddered
at every sight or sound which reminded him of the inevitable
hour.
320 THE SENTENCE
3. To examine such compositions singly, cannot be required; they
have doubtless brighter and darker parts; but when they are
once found to be generally dull, all further labour may be spared;
for to what use can the work be criticized that will not be read?
The parallel elements may be represented in the following scheme:
1. as so
hart soul
panteth panteth (repetition)
water brooks Thee
2. sick afraid
life death
3. singly generally
required spared
once found all further
be criticized be read /
CO-ORDINATION
I Co-ordination may be regarded as an aspect of parallelism^ We
have seen that like meanings should be put in like constructions.
By the same token, only sentence elements of like importance may
be linked together as equals. Conversely,^ a less important element
must be made subordinate to the more important.). Consider the
following sentence:
I stayed at home; I was ill.
/'
What is the relation between the two statements? (The writer has
merely associated them. He has not defined the relation of one
to the other. He might define the relationship in various ways:
Because I was ill, I stayed at home.
While I was staying at home, I was ill.
Although I stayed at home, I was ill.
Feeling ill, I stayed at home.
I stayed at home, quite ill.
Simple uncritical writing (that of a child, say) tends to present a
succession of co-ordinate units: "Then the bear got hungry. He
came out of his den. He remembered the honey tree. And he started
GENERAL PRINCIPLES OF SENTENCE STRUCTURE 321
walking toward the honey tree." The mature and discriminating
writer indicates the relation of his statements, one to another,
subordinating the less important to the more important^, thus:
Having done this, she thought it prudent to drop a few words
before the bishop, letting him know that she had acquainted
the Puddingdale family with their good fortune so that he might
perceive that he stood committed to the appointment.
f'The writer who points up relationships, instead of leaving them
to be inferred by the reader, obviously makes the reader's task
easier. He gives not only facts, but an integration of facts: the
very pattern of subordination suggests an interpretation. If, how-
ever, the writer, by using subordination, assumes this burden of
interpretation, he must not falsify his interpretation by careless
and thoughtless subordination. He must think through the reJa-
tion of part to part. Unless he thinks it through, he may write sen-
tences like this:
My head was feeling heavy when I took an aspirin.
In this sentence the motive for the act is treated as if it were the
matter of importance; the act itself has been relegated to the subor-
dinate position. Rather than confuse the reader with a subordination
which inverts the real relationship, the writer would have done
better simply to have written:
My head was feeling heavy; I took an aspirin.
It is easy, of course, to see what the proper subordination would be:
Because my head was feeling heavy, I took an aspirin,
or:
When my head began to feel heavy, I took an aspirin.
Here are two further examples of improper subordination:
1. The workman snored loudly and he had a red face.
Alter to:
The workman, who had a red face, snored loudly,
or to:
The red-faced workman snored loudly.
322 THE SENTENCE
2. Mr. Jones is our neighbor and he drove by in a large automobile.
Alter to:
Mr. Jones, who is our neighbor, drove by in a large automobile,
or to:
Mr. Jones, our neighbor, drove by in a large automobile.
Yet, though subordination is important as a means for tightening
up a naive and oversimple style, the writer ought not to be brow-
beaten into constant subordination. In certain contexts a good
writer might prefer:
The workman snored loudly. He had a red face.
This form of the statement does bring into sharp focus the detail
of the red face. It might even suggest a leisurely observer, looking
on with some amusement.)For discussion of some other effects se-
cured by a simple and uncomplicated style, the reader might look
at page 400.
We may sum up this topic as follows ^'Grammatical subordination
must conform to the rhetorical sense; it must not mislead by in-
verting it. Positively, it is an important means for securing con-
densation. Careful subordination tends to give the sense of a
thoughtful observer who has sifted his ideas and arranged them
with precision. '
LOOSE SENTENCES AND PERIODIC SENTENCES
We can view sentence structure in still another way. We can
distinguish between those sentences in which the sense of the sen-
tence is held up until almost the end (PERIODIC SENTENCES), and
those in which it is not held up (LOOSE SENTENCES). Holding up the
sense creates suspense: we do not know how the sentence is "com-
ing out" until we have reached, or nearly reached, the end of it.
Here are some examples:
1. "It was partly at such junctures as these and partly at quite
different ones that, with the turn my matters had now taken,
my predicament, as I have called it, grew most sensible."— HENRY
JAMES.
GENERAL PRINCIPLES OF SENTENCE STRUCTURE 323
If we convert the sentence to loose structure, we get something
like this:
With the turn my matters had now taken, my predicament, as I
have called it, grew most sensible, partly at such junctures as
these and partly at quite different ones.
2. "But of all those Highlanders who looked on the recent turn of
fortune with painful apprehension the fiercest and the most
powerful were the Macdonalds."— LORD MACAULAY
Converted to loose structure, the sentence reads:
But the Macdonalds were the fiercest and the most powerful of
all those Highlanders who looked on the recent turn of fortune
with painful apprehension.
The loose sentence is the "normal" sentence in English; the
structure of the periodic sentence, the "abnormal." As we have seen
in this chapter, deviation from the norm always tends to be em-
phatic. The periodic sentence, in skillful hands, is powerfully
emphatic. By inversion, by use of the "It was" construction, or by
interposition of movable modifiers between subject and predicate,
the sentence and its primary statement are made to end together.
But like all deviations from the norm, the periodic sentence— and
the balanced sentence—are somewhat artificial. Overused, such
sentences would soon weary.
SENTENCE LENGTH AND SENTENCE
VARIATION
How long should a sentence be? It may be as short as one word.
"Go!" is a perfectly good sentence: it has a predicate with subject
implied. On the other hand, a sentence may be forty or fifty words
long; and by tacking on further elements with and's and but's, we
could construct sentences of indefinite length. These are the pos-
sible extremes. But with the sentence, as with the paragraph, com-
mon sense and taste set reasonable limits. A succession of very
short sentences tends to be monotonous. Extremely long sentences
tend to bog the reader down in a quagmire of words.
This is not, of course, to say that the writer should not feel free
to use a one-word sentence whenever he needs it, or even a long
324 THE SENTENCE
succession of short sentences to gain special effects (see p. 399 for
an example). By the same token, he ought to feel free to use very
long sentences to gain special effects. The following sentence from
Lytton Strachey 's Queen Victoria will illustrate.
Perhaps her fading mind called up once more the shadows of the past
to float before it, and retraced, for the last time, the vanished visions
of that long history— passing back and back, through the cloud of years,
to older and ever older memories— to the spring woods at Osborne, so
full of primroses for Lord Beaconsfield— to Lord Palmerston's queer
clothes and high demeanour, and Albert's face under the green lamp,
and Albert's first stag at Balmoral, and Albert in his blue and silver
uniform, and the Baron coming in through a doorway, and Lord M.
dreaming at Windsor with the rooks cawing in the elm-trees, and the
Archbishop of Canterbury on his knees in the dawn, and the old King's
turkey-cock ejaculations, and Uncle Leopold's soft voice at Claremont,
and Lehzen with the globes, and her mother's feathers sweeping down
towards her, and a great old repeater-watch of her father's in its tortoise-
shell case, and a yellow rug, and some friendly flounces of sprigged
muslin, and the trees and the grass at Kensington.— LYTTON STRACHEY:
Queen Victoria, Chap. 10.8
Strachey is imagining what may have passed through the old
Queen's dying mind as she slipped from consciousness. Moreover,
he imagines the succession of memories as going backward in time,
through those of adult life, to those of youth, and on back to the
memories of childhood. The loosely linked series is justified on
two counts: the memories are presented as those of a dying mind,
and, as the memories go backward in time, they become those of
a child. Thus dramatically considered, the jumping from scene to
scene (as suggested by the dashes) and the loose tacking on of
additional scenes (by and's) are justified. This sentence, which
closes Strachey's book with what amounts to a recapitulation of
Victoria's life, is thus used to gain a special effect.
Unless, however, the writer is striving for some special effect, he
ought to look with some suspicion on very short and especially on
very long sentences. Two considerations demand that he be sus-
picious of the extremes: the normal requirements and limitations
of the human mind which dictate (1) how much we can take in
8 From Queen Victoria by Lytton Strachey, copyright, 1921, by Harcourt,
Brace and Company, Inc.
SENTENCE LENGTH AND SENTENCE VARIATION 325
satisfactorily, and with satisfaction, "at one bite"; and (2) a need
for variety.
Let us consider a particular case. Look back at the paragraph
from Virginia Woolf quoted on page 235. These thirteen sentences
range in length from three words to fifty-two. The fourth sentence
is quite long; the seventh sentence, very long. But three short sen-
tences lead up to the fourth sentence, and two short sentences sepa-
rate the fourth and seventh sentences.
Santayana's essay on Dickens 4 will repay close study for the skill
in which sentence variety is maintained. Santayana's sentences tend
to be long. They are carefully constructed and are frequently quite
complex. But he is careful not to tire the reader. The following
passage will illustrate.
Having humility, that most liberating of sentiments, having a true
vision of human existence and joy in that vision, Dickens had in a super-
lative degree the gift of humour, of mimicry, of unrestrained farce.
But after this sentence, we are given the simple statement:
He was the perfect comedian.
And having thus had time to catch our breaths, we are ready to go
on with "When people say Dickens . . ."
Alternation of long and short sentences is but one means, how-
ever, by which to secure variety. Another, and a most important
means, consists in varying the structure of the sentence. The ex-
amples from Santayana will illustrate: the sentence "He was the
perfect comedian" is not only shorter than the sentence that pre-
cedes it; it represents a return to the simplest type of structure
(subject + predicate + predicate complement) after the quite com-
plex structure of the preceding sentence.
Sentences that repeat a pattern become monotonous. Here is an
example:
I was twenty that April and I made the glen my book. I idled over it.
I watched the rhododendron snow its petals on the dark pools that spun
them round in a swirl of brown foam and beached them on a tiny coast
glittering with mica and fool's gold. I got it by heart, however, the drip-
ping rocks, the ferny grottos, the eternal freshness, the sense of loam, of
4 "Dickens," from Soliloquies in England and Later Soliloquies by George
Santayana.
326 THE SENTENCE
deep sweet decay, of a chain of life continuous and rich with the ages.
I gathered there the walking fern that walks across its little forest world
by striking root with its long tips, tip to root and root to tip walking away
from the localities that knew it once. I was aware that the walking fern
has its oriental counterpart. I knew also that Shortia, the flower that was
lost for a century after Michaux found it "dans les hautes montagnes de
Carolinie" has its next of kin upon the mountains of Japan. I sometimes
met mountain people hunting for ginseng for the Chinese market; long
ago the Chinese all but exterminated that herbalistic panacea of theirs,
and now they turn for it to the only other source, the Appalachians.
The "I was—I idled— I gathered" formula is relieved somewhat by
the long descriptive phrases and relative clauses. Even so, it is
irritatingly monotonous. Here is the way in which Donald Culross
Peattie actually wrote the passage:
The glen was my book, that April I was twenty. I idled over it, watch-
ing the rhododendron snow its petals on the dark pools that spun them
round in a swirl of brown foam and beached them on a tiny coast glit-
tering with mica and fool's gold. But I got it by heart, the dripping rocks,
the ferny grottos, the eternal freshness, the sense of loam, of deep sweet
decay, of a chain of life continuous and rich with the ages. The walking
fern I gathered there, that walks across its little forest world by striking
root with its long tips, tip to root and root to tip walking away from
the localities that knew it once, has its oriental counterpart; of that I was
aware. And I knew that Shortia, the flower that was lost for a century
after Michaux found it, "dans les hautes montagnes de Carolinie*' has its
next of kin upon the mountains of Japan. Sometimes I met mountain
people hunting for ginseng for the Chinese market; long ago the Chinese
all but exterminated that herbalistic panacea of theirs, and now they
turn for it to the only other source, the Appalachians.— DONALD CULROSS
PEATTIE: Flowering Earth, Chap. 12.5
There are many ways in which to vary sentence structure. Nearly
everything said earlier in this chapter can be brought to bear on
this problem. We can invert the normal pattern, or rearrange the
pattern to throw emphasis on what is normally the subject or com-
plement; we can subordinate severely or rather lightly. Most of
all, we can dispose the modifiers, particularly the movable modi-
fiers, so as to vary the pattern almost infinitely. Variety is, of
5 From Flowering Earth by Donald Culross Peattie. Copyright, 1939, by
Donald Culross Peattie. Courtesy of G. P. Putnam's Sons.
SENTENCE LENGTH AND SENTENCE VARIATION 327
course, never to be the overriding consideration. A sentence ought
to take its characteristic shape primarily in its own right: the
structure best adapted to its particular job. The writer will usually
find that he is thoroughly occupied in discharging this obligation.
Yet it is well to remind ourselves here again of the claims of the
whole composition. We never write a "collection of sentences"— we
write an essay, a theme, a total composition. The good sentence
honors the claims exerted upon it by the total composition. And in
our writing, and especially in our rewriting, we need to see that
we have avoided irritating monotony of sentence length or of sen-
tence structure.
SUMMARY
A SENTENCE is a complete thought expressed through a PREDICATE.
In this chapter we are primarily concerned with the sentence as a
rhetorical unit: that is, with the effectiveness of various kinds of
sentences. Yet the terms UNITY, COHERENCE, and EMPHASIS, though
primarily rhetorical terms, have their grammatical equivalents. A
sentence is more than a vague cluster of ideas: its grammatical com-
pleteness (unity) requires a certain kind of coherence of parts (sub-
ject, predicate, complements, modifiers) organized around a point of
emphasis, a focus of interest, which is indicated by the finite verb.
In the normal sentence the basic constituents of the sentence are
arranged in a fixed order:
1. Subject + verb + indirect object (if any) + direct object or
other verb complements (if any)
2a. Adjectives precede the substantive they modify. (Predicate
adjectives are governed by rule 1.)
2b. Adjectival phrases and clauses follow the substantive they
modify.
3a. Adverbs and adverbial modifiers (plus participial phrases)
are not fixed as to position, but movable.
3b. Movable modifiers placed at the beginning or end of a sen-
tence modify the whole sentence; placed internally, they modify
the relation between the words preceding and the words following
them.
Deviations from the normal pattern show EMPHASIS, and like other
emphatic devices are to be used sparingly and with caution.
328 THE SENTENCE
Sentence structure also may be viewed in terms of PARALLELISM
and CO-ORDINATION.
Parallelism: like ideas demand like grammatical constructions.
Co-ordination: only elements of like importance are to be linked
as equals; the less important element is to be subordinated to the
more important.
Violation of these principles results in sentences that are not only
ineffective and awkward but grammatically incorrect. But we can
stress these principles, if we like, for positive rhetorical effect. The
consequent variation from the normal sentence is, like all de-
partures from the norm, emphatic. The PERIODIC SENTENCE (in which
the sense of the sentence is held up until the end) is emphatic in the
same way and for the same reason. These more consciously rhetori-
cal types of sentence structure quickly lose their power when
overused.
The writer will do well to master the normal pattern of sentence
structure. There is nothing to be ashamed of in its sturdy simplicity.
It will constitute, as it ought to constitute, the staple of his prose.
But, just in proportion as the writer grasps the normal pattern
plainly as a norm, he is enabled to use effectively departures from
the norm— both for the expressiveness of the particular sentence and
for general sentence variety. He can, first of all, try to place his
movable modifiers with more care. He can occasionally vary the
basic pattern itself in order to emphasize a particular sentence
element— the more safely if he knows that his variation is for the
sake of emphasis. He can occasionally experiment with the more
elaborate departures from the norm such as the balanced and peri-
odic sentences.
CHAPTER
9
Style
GENERAL DEFINITION OF STYLE
WE USE the general term STYLE to indicate the manner in which
something is said or done. We talk, for instance, of a pole vaulter's
style; or we speak of an old style of handwriting; we talk about a
coat or a dress of a certain style; and accordingly we speak of a
writer's style— his manner of saying a thing— his special way of
expressing an idea. But it is plain that we use the term loosely and
generally. Style evidently can mean a great many different things.
A discussion of style had better begin, therefore, by making per-
fectly clear how the term is to be used. We have already suggested
that style is used to indicate "how" a thing is said as distinguished
from "what" is said. Suppose we want someone to shut the door. We
can speak in a courteous or in an abrupt manner; we can make a
request or a demand: we might say, "I expect you would like to
close that door," or "Would you mind shutting that door," or "Shut
that door now!" All three sentences have the same "content";
"what" they say is much the same; but the style, the manner, varies
a great deal.
The way in which a thing is said evidently qualifies what is said:
that is, style helps define and determine content. For the practicing
writer, it is on this level that the problem of style becomes impor-
tant. He cannot say accurately what he wants to say unless he also
masters the "how" of saying it. This is the problem that will largely
concern us in the chapters that follow. Yet we ought to mention
two other senses in which we use the word style, if only to isolate
and emphasize the basic sense.
330 STYLE
THREE ASPECTS OF LITERARY STYLE
First, style can be used to designate a manner of writing char-
acteristic of a whole age. A writer of the sixteenth century uses a
different style from that of a twentieth-century writer, or, for that
matter, from a writer of the late seventeenth century. The King
James Version of the Bible (1611) has "the sower went forth to sow."
A modern writer would normally write "the sower went out to
sow." Addison, in one of his Spectator papers (1711), writes:
". . . several of those Gentlemen who value themselves upon their
Families, and overlook such as are bred to Trade, bear the Tools
of their Forefathers in their Coats of Arms/' Today we would write:
". . . gentlemen who are proud of their families and look down
upon people who are in business" or perhaps "upon businessmen";
and we would have to say "on," not "in their coats of arms." Some
of the writing of the past, therefore, seems as quaint to us as the
fashion of dress that obtained centuries ago. This aspect of style,
however, need not concern us very much. We can assume that all
of us who write in the twentieth century will share certain period
likenesses which will set off our writing, good and bad, from the
writing of earlier periods.
Second, style can be used to designate a personal and individual
manner. Two tennis players, for example, though trained under the
same coach, may each have his own individual style. We may
mean by style, therefore, the special way in which each writer
expresses himself. We can frequently recognize something written
by a friend, even though it is merely read aloud to us, because we
feel that the way in which it is written reflects the friend's per-
sonality: Bill Jones would put it in just this way, whereas Jim Smith
would put it in that way.
Thus far we have mentioned three levels on which one encoun-
ters the problem of style. A neat summary of the three levels is
provided if we consider, in each instance, what it is that shapes
the style. First, and most important, there is style as shaped by the
writer's specific purpose—the choice and arrangement of words as
determined by the audience addressed and the purpose at hand.
Second, we have style as shaped by the writer's general environ-
ment. Third, we have style as shaped by the writer's own person-
THREE ASPECTS OF LITERARY STYLE 331
ality. The second of these, we have said, need not concern us very
much in this book. The third is a highly pervasive thing: we shall
probably do well to postpone consideration of it to Chapter 13. It
is with the first— the choice and arrangement of words as an adapta-
tion to the writer's specific purpose— that the rest of this chapter
will be concerned. But at this point we ought to have a concrete
illustration showing how these three levels of style are related to
each other. Let us return for a moment to Bill Jones.
Our friend Bill Jones may have his own personal way of saying
a thing (style as expression of personality), in spite of the fact that
his way of saying it will, in some respects, resemble the way in
which his contemporaries say it (style as expression of a period):
but Bill Jones, nevertheless, will probably write in several different
styles, as he takes into account the audience he addresses and the
particular occasion on which he writes. For example, he will some-
times use a colloquial style, in conversation with his fellows; at
other times, when the occasion demands a certain dignity, he may
prefer to use a much more formal style. We constantly make such
distinctions: a letter of application for a job demands one style; a
note to an intimate friend, quite another.
STYLE AS AN INTERPLAY OF ELEMENTS
In an essay entitled "Learned Words and Popular Words," Green-
ough and Kittredge write: "Every educated person has at least two
ways of speaking his mother tongue. The first is that which he
employs in his family, among his familiar friends, and on ordinary
occasions. The second is that which he uses in discoursing on
more complicated subjects and in addressing persons with whom
he is less intimately acquainted. It is, in short, the language which
he employs when he is 'on his dignity/ as he puts on evening dress
when he is going to dine. The difference between these two forms
of language consists, in great measure, in a difference of vocabulary."
It should be noted that Greenough and Kittredge are careful to
specify "at least two ways of speaking his mother tongue," for if we
are to be accurate, there are many more than two ways of speaking
it, and an even larger number of ways of writing it. Indeed, we can
say that between the extremes of a highly ceremonious formality,
332 STYLE
on the one hand, and utterly intimate informality, on the other,
there are hundreds of intermediate shadings. In the chapters that
follow we shall want to talk about some of these shadings, and how
they are produced. Greenough and Kittredge are also perfectly
right in saying that it is a "difference of vocabulary" which largely
determines levels of style. But, important as the choice of vocabu-
lary is, it is only one of the many elements which go to make up a
style.
The real difficulty in discussing style comes just here. Style, as
was pointed out in the Introduction (p. 6), is an over-all effect.
It is an effect determined by the interplay of sentence structure,
vocabulary, figures of speech, rhythm, and many other elements.
It is not always easy for a reader to pick out the element which is
most important, or even largely important, in giving the style of
the writer its special quality. It is quite impossible for a writer
to produce a given quality of style by mechanically measuring out
so much of this element and so much of that. A modern author
has put the matter in this way: "Style is not an isolable quality of
writing; it is writing itself." But if style is simply writing itself, how
will it be possible to give the writer any practical pointers for
developing a proper style of his own? The very complexity of the
interaction of form and content, element and element, may seem
to render the problem hopeless.
THE PLAN OF THE FOLLOWING CHAPTERS
ON STYLE
The problem of style is certainly difficult, but it is not hopeless.
Granted that the separate devices cannot finally be isolated, still
nothing forbids our singling out the various elements for purposes
of study. In the four chapters which follow, we shall discuss some
of the more important aspects of style: DICTION (the choice of
words), METAPHOR (the use of comparisons and figures of speech),
TONE (the manifestation of the writer's attitude toward his material
and toward his audience), and RHYTHM (the pattern of stresses and
pauses); we shall also, in passing, touch on various other aspects
of style. Yet, even though we must, in order to treat the subject
at all, try to isolate the various means by which the writer secures
his effect, we must keep reminding ourselves that they are not really
THE PLAN OF THE FOLLOWING CHAPTERS ON STYLE 333
"isolable." Style is an over-all quality; consequently the discussion
of one aspect of style necessarily overlaps other aspects.
A concrete example will serve to illustrate this necessary over-
lapping. Take the indignant expression "He is a dirty rat." This
sentence is certainly a humble example of style, but it will serve.
For it has a certain quality which differs, say, from "The man is
treacherous/' or "The man has evil intentions/' and that quality is
the result of a complex of elements. Diction is certainly involved,
but so is metaphor: the "he" in question is not literally a small,
gray-furred mammal. Attitude is plainly involved, for the sentence
is not so much a proposition as an expression of feeling. One could
argue that even rhythm may be involved. If we compare "He is a
dirty rat" with "He is a contemptible little verminous animal," we
sense the difference in effect: the second expression is less violent,
more considered and calculated, more grandly contemptuous than
the first. It is just possible that the more elaborate and formal
rhythm of the second sentence has something to do with this effect.
To sum up, all four chapters that follow have to do with style.
They constitute the divisions of a general discussion of this topic;
but these chapters are not offered as a logical division of the topic.
They are not that. They do not constitute an exhaustive classifica-
tion, nor are they mutually exclusive. They overlap at points. Still,
it can be claimed that they represent a practical classification.
The obvious point at which to begin any discussion of style is
with DICTION. The choice of vocabulary is primary. Moreover, the
chapter on diction necessarily lays the groundwork of the chapters
that follow. The chapter on METAPHOR grows naturally out of it.
For metaphor, and figures of speech generally, can be regarded as
extensions of words— a stretching of words beyond their literal
meanings, in order to gain further expressiveness. Through meta-
phor the writer transcends "dictionary" meanings, bending and
shaping language to his particular purpose.
The chapter of TONE, like that on metaphor, grows out of the
discussion of diction. For the chapter on tone extends the discus-
sion of the ways in which a coloring of meaning, a shading of
emphasis, a hint as to attitude, may be given, not merely by a par-
ticular word (a matter discussed under diction) but also by a whole
phrase, or sentence, or the total composition.
The fourth chapter in this series, "The Final Integration," is,
334 STYLE
as its title suggests, something of a summary of the problems of
style. It deals with general matters of over-all effect such as RHYTHM,
but more especially with the way in which a successful style is made
to bear the stamp of the writer's whole personality.
We have already said that these divisions of the general topic of
style do not constitute a logical classification of the various aspects
of style. The reader ought at the very beginning to recognize this
and to expect some necessary overlapping. But the writer has it
in his power to make of this necessity a virtue if he will allow the
overlapping to serve as a constant reminder that "style is not an
isolable quality of writing; it is writing itself."
CHAPTER
10
Diction
GOOD diction is the choice of the right words. Accurate, effective
expression obviously requires the right words— the words which
will represent, not nearly, not approximately, but precisely and
exactly what we want to say. This is a simple rule and it covers the
whole problem of writing; but in application the rule is far from
simple. The good writer must choose the right words, yes; but
which are the right words? The criterion for judging "rightness"
is not simple but highly complex.
Now diction would be no problem if there existed for each object
and each idea just one word which denoted specifically that object
or idea, one name and only one name for each separate thing. Un-
fortunately, language is not like that. Words are not strictly denota-
tive. Some words in English, it is true, do represent the only name
we have for a particular object or substance. Lemming, for example,
is the only specific name for a certain small mouse-like rodent;
purine is the only specific name of a compound whose chemical
formula is Cr)H4N4. The ideal scientific language would be a lan-
guage of pure denotation. But the language of pure science (that
of mathematics, say) constitutes a very special case.
DENOTATION AND CONNOTATION
.Actually the writer faces quite another kind of situation: in-
stead of one word and only one word for each thing, he ordinarily
finds competing for his attention a number of words all of which
denote exactly or approximately the same thing. Moreover, even
336 DICTION
those words which have exactly the same DENOTATION (that is, those
which explicitly refer to the same thing) may have different CONNO-
TATIONS: they may imply different shadings of meaning. (Every
word has one denotation, but probably more than one connotation.)
For example, brightness, radiance, effulgence, brilliance may be
said to have the same denotation, but there is a considerable dif-
ference among them in what they connote. Radiance, for example,
implies beams radiating from a source, as the words brilliance or
brightness do not. Brilliance, on the other hand, suggests an in-
tensity of light which effulgence and brightness do not. Again,
brightness is a more homely, everyday word than are radiance,
brilliance, and effulgence. These are only a few suggested contrasts
among the connotations of these words, all of which describe a
quality of light. Varying connotations in words with the same deno-
tation may also be illustrated from words which refer to concrete
objects. Compare the simple words bucket and pail. The denota-
tions are much the same. We might apply either word to name
one and the same vessel. But in present-day America, at least,
bucket is more likely to be the ordinary word, with associations of
everyday activity, whereas pail will seem a little more old-fashioned
and endowed with more "poetic" suggestions. It will connote for
some readers a bygone era of pretty milkmaids in an idyllic setting.
But not necessarily, someone will exclaim, remembering the senti-
mental song entitled, "The Old Oaken Bucket." For words change
from period to period and their connotations change, as a rule, much
more rapidly than do their denotations.
Words, then, are not static, changeless counters, but are affected
intimately, especially on the level of connotation, by the changing,
developing, restless life of the men themselves who use them. Some
words wear out and lose their force. Some words go downhill and
lose respectability. Other words rise in the scale, and, like mob,
which was no better than slang in the eighteenth century, acquire
respectability. }
In 1710 Jonathan Swift concocted the following letter to illustrate
some of the faults in the English of his day:
Sir,
I coutJ"9* get the things you sent for all about Town.— I thot to ha'
come down nyself, and then I'd ha' lor out 'urn; but I han't don't, and I
DENOTATION AND CONNOTATION 337
cant doty that's pozz.— Tom begins to g'imself airs because he's going
with the plenipo's.— Tis said, the French King will bamboozf us agen,
which causes many speculations. The Jacks, and others of that kidney,
are very uppish, and alert upont, as you may see by their phizzs.— Will
Hazzard has got the hipps, having lost to the tune of five hundred pound,
tho he understands play very well, nobody better. He has promis't me
upon rep, to leave off play; but you know 'tis a weakness he's too apt to,
give into, tho he has as much wit as any man, nobody more. He has
lain incog ever since.— The mobb's very quiet with us now.— I believe
you thot I banter d you in my last like a country put.— I sha'nt leave
Town this month, 6-c.
Swift proceeds to comment on this letter, among other things on
its diction:
The third refinement observable in the letter I send you, consists in
the choice of certain words invented by some pretty fellows; such as
banter, bamboozle, country put, and kidney, as it is there applied; some
of which are now struggling for the vogue, and others are in possession,
of it. I have done my utmost for some years past to stop the progress of
mobb and banter, but have been plainly borne down by numbers, and
betrayed by those who promised to assist me.
The process of growth and decay in language is so strong that
many words in the course of generations have shifted, not only
their connotations, but their denotations as well; and some have
even reversed their original meanings.) Later in this chapter we
shall have occasion to return to the history of words when we dis-
cuss the use of the dictionary. At this point, suffic^ it to say that the
writer must take into account the connotations of a word as well as
its precise denotation. He has the task of controlling words in two
dimensions. Thus, in a romantic tale one might appropriately use
the word steed rather than horse. But in ordinary contexts one cer-
tainly would not say or write, "Saddle my steeds—unless he were
being deliberately playful or ironic. On the other hand there are
still other contexts in which, instead of the rather neutral word,
horse, it might be appropriate to use words like plug or nag— terms
which are as derisive or humorous in tone as steed is poe.tic and
"literary."J)
338 DICTION
TWO DISTINCTIONS: C O N C R E T E- A B ST R A CT AND SPECIFIC-
GENERAL
•' There are, of course, words whose connotations are not impor-
tant. Obviously this will be true of the so-called empty words like
and> if, the, however. But even among the "full" words, some will
be much richer in connotations than others. As one would expect,
the richest and most colorful words will tend to be those that are
CONCRETE and SPECIFIC; the most nearly neutral and colorless, those
that are ABSTRACT and GENERAL. For example, peach, pear, quince,
apple, apricot are concrete and specific. Why do we call these
words both concrete and specific? Let us take the easier distinc-
tion first. Peach, pear, quince, apple, and apricot name specific
members of a class of objects, the general name of which is fruit.
Peach, therefore, is specific; fruit, general?) Again: ship is a general
word, but brig, schooner, lugger, yawl, and brigantine are specific:
they are members of a class of which ship is the class name.
(J3ut why do we call peach, pear . . . apricot concrete? The dis-
tinction between concrete and abstract has to do with the treat-
ment of qualities. Concrete- comes from a Latin word that means
"grown together"; abstract, from another Latin word that means
"taken away." The word peach certainly implies qualities: a certain
shape, a certain color, a certain sweetness. But peach implies these
qualities as "grown together"— as we actually find them embodied
in a peach. We can, however, abstract (take away) these various
qualities from the actual peach, and refer to them in isolation:
sweetness, fuzziness, softness. If we do so, we get a set of abstract
words. Sweetness, for instance, isolates a quality common to peaches
(and to many other things): the quality is thought of as an idea in
itself. To give other examples: heat is an abstract word, but furnace
is concrete; force is abstract, but dynamo is concrete; insanity
is abstract, but madman is concrete.
Words that refer to ideas, qualities, and characteristics as such
are usually abstract. Words that name classes of objects and
actions are usually general. Words that refer to particular objects
and actions are usually concrete and specific. (In this connection,
the writer might reread the discussion of the process of abstrac-
tion on page 33.)
It ought to be plain that the two classifications just discussed
DENOTATION AND CONNOTATION 339
are not mutually exclusive, and that consequently the same word
may occupy two categories. Peach and pear, as we have seen, are
concrete and specific.^ Ship, since it signifies an object but also
names a class of objects, is both concrete and general, fin the same
way, abstract words may be either general or specific. Courtesy,
kindness, and bravery are abstract words: they denote qualities
of conduct. But in relation to gentlemanliness, another abstract
word, they are specific; for courtesy, kindness, and bravery are spe-
cific elements of the more general virtue gentlemanliness. Courtesy,
therefore, is abstract and specific; gentlemanliness, abstract and
general.)
This last example suggests a further point :i general and abstract
are not to be applied absolutely but in relation to other words.
Some words are more general, or more abstract, than others. Coat,
for example, is more specific than garment, for a coat is a kind of
garment; but coat is, on the other hand, more general than hunting
jacket, for a hunting jacket is a kind of coat.
THE MISUSE OF ABSTRACT AND GENERAL WORDS
Much writing that is woolly and clouded, difficult to read, clogged
and ineffective, is writing that is filled with general and abstract
words. For example: "Quite significantly, the emphasis is being
placed upon vocational intelligence, which is based upon adequate
occupational information for all pupils in secondary schools. . . .
This emphasis upon vocational guidance for the purpose of making
young people intelligent concerning the world of occupations and
the requirements for entering occupations need not conflict seri-
ously with other views of guidance that take into account everything
pertaining to the education of the pupil/'
There are a number of things wrong with this flabby statement,
but, among other things, there is the large number of abstract
words. The author might have written: "High schools today insist
that the student learn enough about jobs to choose his own job
wisely. Tommy and Mary Anne need to learn what various jobs
pay, what training they require, and what kinds of people find them
interesting. Tommy and Mary Anne can learn these things while
they are learning the other things that schools are supposed to
teach. Both kinds of learning are preparations for life, and one need
not interfere with the other." The rewritten version still makes use
340 DICTION
of general and abstract words (training, preparation, and so on),
but some of the cloudiest of the abstractions (vocational intelli-
gence, occupational information) have been removed, and the re-
written version is not only simpler, but has more force.
I We are not to assume, however, that concrete and specific words
are somehow in themselves "better" than abstract and general
words. They are better for some purposes; for others, not. Many
subjects require general and abstract words.
For example, compare these two ways of saying the same thing.
(1) "A child needs sympathy." (2) "A child does not like frowns.
Cold looks cow him. He is fearful when he hears harsh words/'
The second account is long-winded; even so, the concrete words do
not manage to give fully the meaning of the one abstract word
sympathy.
Or, compare (1) "He lived in a house of medium size." (2) "His
home did not have the suburban air of a bungalow, and it certainly
had nothing of the rustic style of a lodge. It was much smaller than
a mansion, but somewhat larger than a cottage." Mansion, cottage,
bungalow, and lodge (not to mention cabin, hut, villa, and chdteau)
are overspecific for the writer's purpose here: he needs the simple,
general term house. Our pronouns provide another illustration. The
English personal pronouns sometimes prove to be overspecific. In
some contexts, it would be most convenient if we had a pronoun
which could mean either "he" or "she" ("his" or "her," "him" or
"her"), without forcing us either to specify, or to use the masculine
form with the understanding that it applied to either sex: "Someone
has left his or her pen" (or "his pen").
The writer cannot, and need not try to, avoid abstract and
general words. But he ought not to fall into the slovenly habit of
using them without thought. In any case, he should remember that
a sprinkling of concrete and specific words can be used to lighten
the numbing weight of cumulative abstractions. To illustrate, com-
pare (1) "A child needs sympathy. Tolerance of his mistakes and
the sense of understanding and comradeship provide the proper
stimulus for his developing personality. Conversely, an environment
defective in sympathy and understanding can be positively thwart-
ing; it can lead to repressions and thus lay the foundation for ruin-
ous personality problems." (2) "A child needs sympathy. He didn't
intend to smash the vase or to hurt the cat when he pulled its tail.
DENOTATION AND CONNOTATION 341
Tolerance of mistakes and some sense of understanding is neces-
sary if he is to feel that he is a comrade. Acceptance as a comrade
stimulates him to become a better comrade. He grows and develops
toward responsibility. But he finds it hard to grow normally in a
cold and repressive atmosphere. The meaningless spanking— mean-
ingless to him, since he had no intention of breaking the vase— drives
him in on himself. He becomes confused and repressed. Some of
these confusions and repressions may linger into adult life/'
In choosing our words, the overriding consideration, of course,
will always be the particular effect which the writer wishes to
secure. Description and narration, for example, thrive on the con-
crete and the specific/) Notice the number of concrete and specific
terms in the following passage:
He knew the inchoate sharp excitement of hot dandelions in young
Spring grass at noon; the smell of cellars, cobwebs, and built-on secret
earth; in July, of watermelons bedded in sweet hay, inside a farmer's
covered wagon; of cantaloupe and crated peaches; and the scent of
orange rind, bitter-sweet, before a fire of coals. —THOMAS WOLFE: Look
Homeward, Angel, Chap. 8.
( Exposition and argument, on the other hand, by their very nature,
call for a diction in which general and abstract words are important^
Marx's interpretation of the past is explicit and realistic; his forecast of
the future seems to me vague and idealistic. I have called it utopianv
but you object to that word. I do not insist on it. I will even surrender
the word "idealistic." But the point is this. Marx finds that in the past
the effective force that has determined social change is the economic
class conflict. He points out that this economic class conflict is working
to undermine our capitalistic society. Very well. If then I project this
explanation of social changes into the future, what does it tell me? It
seems to tell me that there will be in the future what there has been in
the past— an endless economic class conflict, and endless replacement
of one dominant class by another, an endless transformation of institu-
tions and ideas in accordance with the changes effected by the class
conflict.— CARL BECKER: "The Marxian View of History." x
Scientific statements, for the reasons given on pages 33-36, may
require a diction that is still more abstract and general. To cite
1 From Every Man His Own Historian: Essays on History and Politics by
Carl L. Becker. Copyright, 1935, by F. S. Crofts & Company, Inc. Permission
granted by Appleton-Century-Crofts, Inc.
342 DICTION
an extreme example, "The square of the hypotenuse of a right
triangle is equal to the sum of the squares of the other two sides."
For its purpose, the diction here is admirable. The statement con-
cerns itself, not with a triangular field or a triangular box or a tri-
angular ptece of metal. It deals with triangularity itself. The right
triangle of this statement is an abstraction: so also are square,
hypotenuse, and even sides, for the "sides of a right triangle" are
abstractions too. They are not sides of wood or metal or plastic,
but pure distances between defined points. We have here a general
proposition that must hold true for all right triangles. The diction
used is therefore properly abstract and general.
With terms of this extreme degree of abstraction, connotations
disappear altogether/ Exact science needs no colorful words. Scien-
tific terms aspire to become pure denotations: terms that are in-
flexibly fixed, terms completely devoid of all blurring overtones.
Science strictly conceived not only does not need connotative words;
the connotations would constitute a positive nuisance. .
LANGUAGE GROWTH BY EXTENSION
OF MEANING
We have said that a word not o^y has a specific meaning (deno-
tation) but also implied meanings (connotations). The connotations
are obviously less definite than the denotation, and therefore less
stable and more amenable to change. In scientific language, as we
have seen, the denotations are rigidly stabilized and the hazy and
shifting connotations are, in so far as possible, eliminated. In a
colorful and racy use of language, just the reverse is the case. The
connotations are rich and important. We are tempted to use a word,
not LITERALLY (that is, adhering strictly to the denotation), but
FIGURATIVELY, stressing some connotation of the word. It is through
such a process that words have shifted their meanings in the past;
but this process of extension of meaning is constantly at work in
our own time. Let us consider an illustration of the process.
MEANINGS EXTENDED BY ANALOGY
The casual and unthinking view of language sees each word as
fastened neatly and tightly to a certain specific object: "cat" means
a certain kind of small, furry mammal that purrs, likes cream, and
LANGUAGE GROWTH BY EXTENSION OF MEANING 343
is the natural enemy of mice; "ladder" means a contraption con-
sisting of parallel strips to which are fastened crossbars on which
we rest our feet as we climb the ladder; "spade" means an instru-
ment for digging in the earth. But words are not actually so neatly
fastened to the objects for which they stand. Even when we are
determined to speak forthrightly, and "call a spade a spade," we
rarely do so. It is against the nature of language that we should
be able to do so.
For example, Anna, who is determined to call a spade a spade,
says: "111 tell you frankly why I don't like Mary. Yesterday she saw
a ladder in my stocking and a few minutes later I overheard her
telling Jane that I was always slovenly. That's typical of Mary. She
is a perfect cat." But obviously one is not calling a spade a spade
when one calls a female human being a cat, or a special kind of
unraveling in a stocking a ladder.
Cat and ladder are not being used literally here: their meanings
have been extended on the basis of analogy. In the case of ladder,
the extension of meaning is very easy to grasp: a "run," with the
horizontal threads crossing the gap between the sides of the run,
does resemble a ladder. Cat represents a slightly further extension:
a cat, furry and soft, yet armed with sharp claws which it conceals
but can bare in an instant, may be thought to resemble a woman
who is outwardly friendly but is capable of inflicting wounding
comments.
The situation we have just considered is thoroughly typical. Many
common words have been extended from their original meanings
in just this fashion. We speak of the "eye" of a needle, the "mouth"
of a river, the "legs" of a chair, the "foot" of a bed. The hole in
the end of a needle might have been given a special name; but
instead, men called it an "eye" because of its fancied likeness to
the human eye. So too with examples such as these: a keen mind,
a bright disposition, a sunny smile, a black look. Someone saw an
analogy between the way in which a keen blade cut through wood
and the way in which a good mind penetrated the problem with
which it was concerned. The smile obviously does not really shed
sunlight, but it may seem to affect one as sunlight does, and in a
way quite the opposite of the black look.
But the point to be made here does not concern the basis for the
analogy, whether of physical resemblance (the jaws of a vice), simi-
344 DICTION
larity of function (key to a puzzle), similarity of effect (a shining
example), or what not. The point to be made is rather that people
normally use words in this way, extending, stretching, twisting their
meanings so that they apply to other objects or actions or situations
than those to which they originally applied. This is the METAPHORI-
CAL process. The essence of metaphor inheres in this transfer of
meaning— in the application of a word that literally means one
thing to something else.
Thus far we have taken our illustrations from common words.
But less common words and learned words will illustrate the same
process of extension of meaning. Indeed, most of our words that
express complex ideas and relationships have been built up out of
simpler words. For example, we say "His generosity caused him
to overlook my fault." Overlook here means to "disregard or ignore
indulgently/' But overlook is obviously made up of the simple
words look and over. To look over an object may imply that one
does not let his gaze rest upon that object: his eyes pass over it
without noticing it. Overlook, then, in the senge of "disregard," is
an extension and specialization of one of the implied meanings of
look over. We have said "one of the meanings," for look over obvi-
ously implies other possible meanings. (Compare the archaic sense
of overlook in the passage quoted from Addison, p. 330. ) Consider
the nearly parallel expression "to see over." From it we get the word
oversee. This word normally means today to direct, to supervise-
something quite different from "overlook." Supervise is built out of
the same concepts as oversee, for super in Latin means over, and
-vise comes from the Latin verb videre (past participle visus) which
means to see. A bishop, by the way, is literally an overseer. For
bishop comes originally from two Greek words: epi, which means
over, and skopein which means to look. Thus, such diverse words as
overlook, oversee, overseer, supervise, and bishop represent particu-
lar extensions of much the same primitive literal meaning.
THE DICTIONARY: A RECORD OF MEANINGS
The etymology (that is, the derivation and history) of a word is
often highly interesting in itself, but knowledge of word origins
is also of great practical usefulness. The full mastery of a particular
word frequently entails knowing its root meaning. Possessing that
meaning, we acquire a firm grasp on its various later meanings, for
LANGUAGE GROWTH BY EXTENSION OF MEANING 345
we can see them as extended and specialized meanings that have
grown out of the original meaning.
Here, for example, is what The American College Dictionary
gives for the word litter : 2
lit'ter (lft/or), n. 1. things scattered about; scattered
rubbish. 2. a condition of disorder or untidiness. 3. a
number of young brought forth at one birth. 4. a
framework of canvas stretched between two parallel
bars, for the transportation of the sick and the wounded.
6. a vehicle carried by men or animals, consisting of a
bed or couch, often covered and curtained, suspended
between shafts. 6. straw, hay, etc., used as bedding for
animals, or as a protection for plants. 7. the rubbish of
dead leaves and twigs scattered upon the floor of the
forest. — - v.t. 8. to strew (a place) with scattered ob-
jects. 0. to scatter (objects) in disorder. 10. to be
strewed about (a place) in disorder (fol. by up). 11. to
give birth to (young)- said chiefly of animals. 12. to
supply (an animal) with litter for a bed. 13. to use
(straw, hay, etc.) for litter. 14. to cover (a floor, etc.)
with litter, or straw, hay, etc. — v.i. 15. to give birth to
a litter. [ME htere, t. AF, der. lit bed, g. L lectus'] — Syn.
3. See brood.
The word is a noun (n.). Seven meanings for the noun are given.
But the word is also a transitive verb (v.t.). Seven meanings are
given for litter as a transitive verb. But litter is also an intransitive
verb (v.i.), for which one meaning is given.3 The word occurs in
Middle English (ME literc), was taken from Anglo-French (t. AF),
was derived from a word meaning bed (der. lit bed) and goes back
finally to Latin bed, lectus (g. L lectus). Synonyms (words of nearly
the same meaning) for the third meaning of litter will be found
under brood (Syn. 3. See brood).
Let us consider the various meanings given for Utter. At first
glance there seems little to connect meaning 2, "a condition of
disorder or untidiness" with 3, "a number of young brought forth
at a birth," and even less with meaning 4, "a framework of canvas
2 From The American College Dictionary, ed. by Clarence L. Barnhart, copy-
right, 1947, by Random House, Inc.
3 We have said earlier ( p. 336 ) that every word has one denotation, but
probably more than one connotation. Are we to regard the fifteen meanings
given here for Utter as fifteen denotations, with the further consequence that
we are to think of the dictionary's account as an account of fifteen different
words? Probably so, particularly in view of the fact that some of the meanings
are so far apart: i.e., ( 1 ) scattered rubbish and (3) a number of young brought
forth at a birth. But if we think of the original meaning ( bed) as the denotation
(p. 342), then we can understand how the fifteen meanings specified are
related to this root meaning, as implied meanings (connotations) of a word
are related to its denotation.
346 DICTION
... for the transportation of the sick and the wounded." But once
we grasp the fact that litter comes originally from a Latin word
meaning bed, it is fairly easy to see how the various apparently
unconnected meanings of litter developed. Meanings 4 4 and 5 obvi-
ously refer to special sorts of portable beds; and the term bedding
in definition 6 provides a link to meanings 12, 13, and 14. For if
beds originally consisted of straw or rushes heaped together, it is
easy to see how any scattering of straw or hay might come to be
called a litter, and the process of strewing it a process of littering.
Meanings 1, 2, 8, and 9 are obvious further extensions, for in these
meanings the emphasis has been shifted from the purpose of mak-
ing a kind of bed to an aimless and untidy strewing about.
Meanings 3, 11, and 15 derive from the original meaning, bed,
by another chain of development. The mother animal frequently
makes a sort of rude bed in which she lies to give birth, and by
association the rude bed (litter) comes to be used for what is found
in the bed, the young animals themselves.
Let us consider one further example, this time from Webster's
Collegiate Dictionary. Here is what the dictionary gives for the
common word sad:
sad (sSd), adj. ; SAD'DEH (-?r) ; SAD'DEST. CAS. tacd satis-
fied, sated ] 1. Archaic. Firmly established. 2. Af-
fected with or expressive of grief; downcast; gloomy. 3.
Characterized by or associated with sorrow; melancholy;
as, the sad light of the moon. 4 Afflictive; grievous. 5.
Dull; somber;— of colors. 6. a Shocking; wicked; —
often playfully. D Slang. Inferior. — Syn. Solemn, sober;
sorrowful, dejected, depressed. — Ant. Joyous; gay.
By permission. From Webster's Collegiate Dictionary
Fifth Edition
Copyright, 1936, 1941, by G. & C. Merriam Co.
The word is an adjective (adj.). The forms of the comparative and
superlative degrees are given; then its derivation (from Anglo-Saxon
saed). Next, the dictionary lists five meanings, one of which it desig-
nates as archaic (1) and another as slang (6b). There follows a list
of synonyms (words of approximately the same meaning) and of
antonyms (words of opposed meaning).
Even so brief an account as this suggests a history of shifting
meanings. Inspection of a larger dictionary such as Webster's New
International Dictionary or the Oxford English Dictionary (A New
4 The meanings are not numbered in the order of probable development.
LANGUAGE GROWTH BY EXTENSION OF MEANING 347
English Dictionary), with its fuller information as to the derivation
of the word and its finer discrimination of meanings (including the
various earlier meanings), enables us to make out a detailed history
of the meanings of the word.
Sad is closely related to the German word satt (full to repletion)
and to the Latin word satis (enough) from which we get such mod-
ern English words as satiate and satisfied. But a man who has had
a big dinner is torpid and heavy, not lively or restless, and so sad
came to carry the suggestion of calm, stable, earnest. Shakespeare
frequently uses it to mean the opposite of "trifling" or "frivolous."
But a person who seems thus sober and serious may be so because
he is grieved or melancholy, and the word gradually took on its
modern meaning, "mournful" or "grieved." But we must not end
this account without mentioning other lines of development. The
sense of torpid or heavy was extended from animate beings, which
can eat to repletion, to inanimate things which cannot—to bread,
for example, that fails to rise, or to a heavy laundry iron. (The
reader should look up, in this connection, the word sadiron. )
Meaning 5 (dull; somber;— of colors) represents still another such
extension. It means the kind of color which a sobersides (as opposed
to a gay and sprightly person) would wear— dull, sober colors.
Has the process of extension now ceased? Hardly, Meaning 6a
represents a fairly late instance of it. In mock deprecation, a young
fellow might be called "a sad young dog"— as if his conduct caused
horror and grief. Meaning 6b is a later extension still, one that has
not yet been approved by the dictionary as "good English." In such
a phrase as "sad sack" this meaning of sad has temporarily gained
wide currency (though in America we tend to prefer the word
sorry: a sorry team, a sorry outfit, a sorry job). If meaning 6b ever
establishes itself, the dictionary will presumably remove the char-
acterization "slang." (Some terms which began as slang have found
their way into the language and into good usage; but a vastly
greater number have enjoyed a brief popularity, have been dis-
carded, and are now forgotten.)
The definition of a word is, then, a somewhat more complex
business than one might suppose. There is frequently not just "the"
meaning, but interrelated sets of meanings, some of which are
current and some of which are not; some of which are established
348 DICTION
and some of which are not; some of which have been accepted into
good society and some of which are merely clinging to the fringes
of society. A word which is appropriate in one context obviously
might be grossly out of place in another.
THE COMPANY A WORD KEEPS: COLLOQUIAL,
INFORMAL, AND FORMAL
Earlier, in discussing the connotations of words, we touched
briefly upon the way in which connotations may determine the
appropriateness of a word for a particular context ( p. 337 ) . ^The word
steed, we saw, would be proper for some contexts, nag for others,
and horse for still others. But the problem of appropriateness is
important and deserves fuller treatment.,)
In the first place, there is what may be called the dignity and
social standing of the word. (Like human beings, a word tends to
be known by the company it keepsYWords like caboodle and gump-
tion are good colloquial words and perfectly appropriate to the
informal give-and-take of conversatiori^(But they would be out of
place in a dignified and formal utterance. For example, a speech
welcoming a great public figure in which he was complimented
on his "statesman-like gumption" would be absurd. To take another
example, many of us use the slang term guy, and though, like much
slang, it has lost what pungency it may once have had, its rather
flippant breeziness is not inappropriate in some contexts. But it
would be foolish to welcome our elder statesman by complimenting
him on being a "wise and venerable guy/' The shoe, it is only
fair to say, can pinch the other foot. Certain literary and rather
highfalutin terms, in a colloquial context, sound just as absurd.
We do not praise a friend for his "dexterity" or for his "erudition"—
not at least when we meet him on the street, or chat with him
across the table.
The fact that words are known by the company they keep does
not, however, justify snobbishness in diction. Pomposity is, in the
end, probably in even worse taste than the blurting out of a
slang term on a formal occasion. Tact and common sense have
to be used) But the comments made above do point to certain levels
of usage 'of which most of us are already more or less aware. The
THE COMPANY A WORD KEEPS 349
various levels of diction (and their necessary overlappings) are
conveniently represented in the following diagram: 6
The three circles X, Y, Z, represent the three sets of
language habits indicated above.
X — formal literary English, the words, the expressions,
and the structures one finds in serious books.
Y — colloquial English, the words, expressions, and the
structures of the informal but polite conversation
of cultivated people.
Z — illiterate English, the words, the expressions, and
the structures of the language of the uneducated.
b, c, and e represent the overlappings of the three types
of English.
c — that which is common to all three: formal literary
English, colloquial English, and illiterate English.
b — that which is common to both formal literary
English and colloquial English,
e — that which is common to both colloquial English
and illiterate English.
a, d, and f represent those portions of each type of
English that are peculiar to that particular set of
language habits.
In this matter of levels of diction, the dictionary can be of real
help. It marks as such, colloquial words, slang, technical words, and
so on. Yet even recourse to the dictionary is not a substitute for the
writer's developing a feeling for language. In this matter the dic-
tionary can help, but wide reading can help even more.
HOW CONNOTATIONS CONTROL MEANINGS
Thus far we have seen how connotations determine what may
be called the social tone of a word. But we must go on to consider
the very important way in which the connotations actually deter-
mine, though sometimes subtly, the effect of the word— that is, the
way in which the connotations actually determine meaning. In our
5 From The American College Dictionary, ed. by Clarence L. Barnhart, copy-
right, 1947, by Random House, Inc.
350 DICTION
time especially, propaganda and advertising have made this whole
matter very important.
A group of words having more or less the same denotation may
range in their connotations from highly favorable to highly unfavor-
able. For example, we may call an agriculturist a "farmer," a
"planter," a "tiller of the soil," or, in more exalted fashion, "the
partner of Mother Nature"; but we can also refer to him as a "rube,"
a "hayseed," or a "hick." Few of our words merely name something.
They imply a judgment about its value as well. They make a favor-
able or an unfavorable evaluation. Consider, for example, the fol-
lowing table of rough synonyms:
Favorable Neutral Unfavorable
highest military leader- general staff army brass
ship
motor sedan, cabriolet, automobile jallopy
convertible
special agent informer stool pigeon
expert advisers technical advisers brain trust
cherub child brat
Democratic (or Repub- party leader political boss
lican) statesman
self-control discipline regimentation
By choosing terms with the right connotations, one can easily
color his whole account of a man or a happening or an idea. Much
of the effectiveness of this method depends upon the fact that the
writer ostensibly is only pointing to certain things, only naming
them: the damaging (or ennobling) connotations are, as it were,
smuggled in surreptitiously. This is the method frequently used by
a writer like Westbrook Pegler or H. L. Mencken. Notice how
heavily the following passage from one of Mencken's essays leans
upon this device. (The italics are supplied by the present authors.)
"The ride of the Valkyrie" has a certain intrinsic value as pure music;
played by a competent orchestra it may give civilized pleasure. But as
it is commonly performed in an opera house, with a posse of fat beldames
throwing themselves about the stage, it can produce the effect of a dose
of ipecacua. The sort of person who actually delights in such spectacles
is the sort of person who delights in plush furniture. Such half-wits are
in a majority in every opera house west of the Rhine. They go to the
opera, not to hear music, not even to hear bad music, but merely to see
HOW CONNOTATIONS CONTROL MEANINGS 351
a more or less obscene circus.— H. L. MENCKEN: "Opera," Prejudices:
Second Series.6
The power of connotations is also illustrated by our recourse to
EUPHEMISMS. Certain words, even necessary words, which refer to
unpleasant things, are avoided in favor of softening expressions or
indirect references. "Bastard," in many contexts, is felt to be too
brutal, and so "illegitimate" is substituted for it. Even a word like
"died" may be avoided in favor of "deceased," or "passed away,"
or "went to his reward." Undertakers have taken to calling them-
selves "morticians," and butchers in some parts of the country pre-
fer to be known as "meat-cutters." Whatever one may think of the
substitutions, they at least testify to the strength of connotations,
and the desire of men to avoid words with unpleasant or disparag-
ing associations.
Another obvious means of influencing the reader's attitude is the
use of what I. A. Richards calls "projectile" adjectives: that is,
adjectives which function, not so much to give an objective descrip-
tion, as to express the writer's or speaker's feelings. For example, a
child will say "a mean old teacher," whether the teacher is old or
young. "Beautiful," "fine," "nice," "miserable," "great," "grand" are
typical projectile adjectives. The "miserable wretch" may actually
be smiling happily. The woman who has just been called "a great
little wife" may be large or small. Great and little here do not meas-
ure size— they are projectile adjectives.
How some of these adjectives (and the adverbs derived from
them) came to acquire their expressive force involves a study of
the history of the word. In nearly every case the process has been
that of extension. ( See p. 347, above. ) The original meaning of fine
is "finished," "brought to perfection." But the favorable associations
with which we regard carefully done workmanship came to be
extended to things which were not polished or intricately made.
Conversely, the favorable associations aroused by great as it signi-
fies the magnitude of certain objects (a great tree, a great pile of
wheat) came to be extended to objects that lack magnitude. And
so we can have "a great little wife" or "a fine country of mountains
and forests."
6 Reprinted from Prejudices: Second Series by H. L. Mencken, by permis-
sion of Alfred A. Knopf, Inc. Copyright 1920 by Alfred A. Knopf, Inc. Copy-
right 1948 by H. L. Mencken.
352 DICTION
Mention of the origin of projectile adjectives points to a third
obvious device for influencing attitudes: the association of the thing
in question with something pleasant or unpleasant, noble or ignoble.
We express contempt by calling a man a "rat" or a "louse" or a
"worm"; a certain admiration for his cleverness, by calling him a
"fox"; hatred (and perhaps fear), by calling him a "snake." In gen-
eral, the animal creation is a rich source of expressions of attitude
toward other human beings, particularly of hostile or contemptuous
attitudes. But we may use associations drawn from all sorts of
areas: "He is a tower of strength," "He is as hard as flint," She is
as neat as a pin."
Here follows the account of an incident as it might be reported
by a relatively impartial writer:
Democratic [or Republican] Senator Briggs expressed surprise at being
met by reporters. He told them that he had no comment to make on
the "Whitlow deal." He said that he had not known that Whitlow was
in the employ of General Aircraft, and observed that the suggestion
that he had received favors from Whitlow was an attempt to discredit
him.
s
How might a hostile reporter describe the incident? He would per-
haps give an account something like this:
Senator Briggs, Democratic [or Republican] wheel-horse, was ob-
viously startled to find himself confronted by newspapermen. He stub-
bornly refused to comment on what he called the "Whitlow deal," and
professed not to have known that Whitlow was a lobbyist. The Senator
complained that he was being smeared.
The second account seems to be substantially the same as the
first The "facts" are not appreciably altered. But the emotional
coloring, and with it, the intended effect on the reader, have been
sharply altered. The senator is now a "wheel-horse," with its sugges-
tions of a hardened and (probably) calloused political conscience.
Whitlow is a "lobbyist," and again suggestions of political corrup-
tion are insinuated. Moreover, the senator's actions and speech
("obviously startled," "stubbornly refused," "professed not to have
known/' and "complained") are made to suggest guilt.
Now the point in this comparison of the two accounts is not to
indicate that the dryer, more objective account is necessarily
HOW CONNOTATIONS CONTROL MEANINGS 353
"truer" and therefore to be preferred. Our estimable fictitious sena-
tor may in fact be quite guilty, and the writer of the second account
may have given us the more accurate account of what actually
happened in the interview. (It is even conceivable that the first
account was written by a reporter who was pretty certain of the
senator's guilty conduct but whose editor had ordered him to play
down any suggestion of guilt. In that event, the first account would
have to be regarded as the biased account.) The point to be made
is this: that the coloring of attitudes in a piece of writing is ex-
tremely important, and is indeed an integral part of its "meaning."
WORN-OUT WORDS AND CLICHES
We began this chapter by saying that the problem of diction is
that of finding the right words— the words which will say exactly
what the writer wants to say. But we have seen that exactness in
language cannot be secured simply and mechanically, that the ex-
actness works on a number of levels. /Words are not static. They
are not changeless, inflexible counters/They have a history; they
have biographies; and even, one is tempted to say, personalities.
Most of all, since they are not changeless and inflexible, but to
some extent plastic, changing their shape a little under the pressure
of the context in which they occur, they offer a continual stimulus
and challenge to the imagination of the writer^
The perfectly normal human habit of extending meanings beyond
the "fixed" meaning has been discussed briefly. But it is an impor-
tant topic and will be treated much more fully in Chapter 11
("Metaphor"). In discussing a related topic, the way in which words
may be used to imply value and to color an argument, we have
laid the ground work for another important topic which will be
discussed at large in Chapter 12 ("Situation and Tone"). We ought
not, however, to conclude this chapter without noticing what we
may call the degenerative disease that attacks and weakens lan-
guage.
For as we have seen earlier^language changes, develops, grows,
and by the same token, language wears ou£)(We are not thinking,
however, of the normal sloughing off of words that have died nat-
ural deaths, and now either do not occur in a modern dictionary
at all, or if they do occur, are marked obsolete (shoon for shoes) or
354 DICTION
archaic (e'en for even). We are thinking rather of words that have
been thoughtlessly used in particular contexts so often that they
have lost nearly all their force. Whether we call these threadbare
expressions "trite" or "hackneyed," or term them "stereotypes" and
"cliches," is of little importance. Their common fault is this: they
pretend to say more than the common expression says, and there-
fore call attention to their shabbiness.
COMMON STEREOTYPES, INCLUDING SLANG
, Jargon is produced by writers who do not think out what they
want to say, but find a worn groove in the language down which
they let their thoughts slide. (Books on rhetoric sometimes sup-
ply lists of threadbare expressions against which the reader is
warned: "the more the merrier," "last but not least," "to trip the
light fantastic toe." But hackneyed phrases of this sort have prob-
ably by now become too literary, too old-fashioned, to offer much
temptation to a modern writer— even to a lazy one. But stereotyp-
ing continues, and much of the writing and conversation to which
we are constantly exposed is a tissue of trite expressions) The sports
page, for example, will yield stereotypes in abundance.^ Mr. Frank
Sullivan amusingly exhibits some of these in the form of question
and answer.
Q. If [the teams] don't roll up a score what do they do?
A. They battle to a scoreless tie.
Q. What do they hang up?
A. A victory. Or, they pull down a victory.
Q. Which means that they do what to the opposing team?
A. They take the measure of the opposing team, or take it into camp.
Q. And the opposing team?
A. Drops a game, or bows in defeat.
Q. This dropping, or bowing, constitutes what kind of blow for the
losing team?
A. It is a crushing blow to its hopes of annexing the Eastern champion-
ship. Visions of the Rose Bowl fade.
Q. So what follows as a result of the defeat?
A. A drastic shakeup follows as a result of the shellacking at the hands
of Cornell last Saturday.
Q. And what is developed?
A. A new line of attack.
WORN. OUT WORDS AND CLICHES 355
Q. Mr. Smith, how is the first quarter of a football game commonly
referred to?
A. As the initial period.
—FRANK SULLIVAN: "Football Is King." 7
/"
Society page editors have their own brand of stereotypes: "social
function," "society bud," "gala affair." To come closer home still,
there is slang. (5Some slang expressions may once have been pungent
and colorful.jThe sports writer who first described the strike-out
of a slugging batter by saying "he made three dents in the atmos-
phere" conveyed the scene sharply and humorously. When slang
is thus "tailor-made" for the occasion, it may be bright and per-
ceptive (though, if it is still fresh and vivic}, it is a question whether
it ought to be viewed as "slang" at all)( But as most of us use it,
slang is a worn and impoverished language, not sprightly and ir-
reverently lively, but stale and dead: "the party was a washout";
"I am fed up"; "he crabbed a lot"; "he blew his top." The real sin
committed here is not so much that of bringing slang's flippant asso-
ciations into a serious context. We do not often commit this fault.
The real sin in using slang consists in using a thin and impoverished
language^)
JARGON: THE DEGENERATIVE DISEASE OF PROSE
We have to step up, however, to a somewhat more exalted plane
to find the stereotypes which most damage modern prose and which
are calculated to do the student most harm. (These are such expres-
sions as "along the lines of," "in the last analysis," "socio-economic
considerations," "the world of business affairs," "according to a
usually reliable source." Such locutions puff out many an official
document, many a political speech, and, it must be admitted, many
a professor's lecture or article. \
This wordy, woolly style is sometimes called "officialese. yFormer
Congressman Maury Maverick has recently damned it as "gobbledy-
gook," submitting as a horrible sample the following extract:
Whereas, national defense requirements have created a shortage of
corundum (as hereafter defined) for the combined needs of defense and
private account, and the supply of corundum now is and will be in-
7 From "Football Is King," by Frank Sullivan, printed in The Atlantic
Monthly, by permission of the author.
356 DICTION
sufficient for defense and essential civilian requirements, unless the
supply of corundum is conserved and its use in certain products manu-
factured for civilian use is curtailed; and it is necessary in the public
interest and to promote the defense of the United States, to conserve
the supply and direct the distribution and use thereof. Now, therefore,
it is hereby ordered that . . .
But whether we call it officialese when it emanates from some gov-
ernment bureau, or gobbledygook, or simply jargon, its empty
wordiness is characteristic. Here are two somewhat more respect-
able samples culled from College English— a. fact which should
warn us that anyone can fall into jargon, even those who undertake
to teach others how to write effective English.
[1] If we start at one of the extremes of the continuum, we shall find a
grouping around a point of great vitality and wide appeal. Keenly aware
of the painstaking scholarship and of the high creative effort that over
the centuries has accumulated the body of subject matter we call "Eng-
lish," a group of our ablest teachers conceive their role to be to transmit
this product of human endeavor, this hard-won store of learning and of
art, this rich portion of man's heritage of culture, to the oncoming
generations, and to imbue them with some perception of its worth.
[2] But whether we are trained statisticians or not, we can improve the
results of our examination speeches and themes. First of all, we can,
without great difficulty, develop better controlled problems. There are
various degrees of control possible in examination speeches and themes,
and, within reasonable limits, it would seem as though the greater the
control the more meaningful the test results. Complete freedom of choice
of topic and material puts a premium upon accidental inspiration and
upon glibness rather than thoughtfulness. A single assigned topic is
palpably unfair since it may strike the interest and experience of some
and yet leave others untouched.
These two passages have been somewhat unfairly taken out of
context. Moreover, the topics discussed are not precisely colorful
and exciting. Is it fair, then, to condemn their authors for having
written jargon? How else could either writer have said what he had
to say?
It is true that we have torn the passages out of context, and it
is true that the subject matter is difficult. Yet even so, the symptoms
of jargon are present. Consider the second excerpt: "puts a premium
upon," "palpably unfair," are clearly stereotypes. Moreover, what
WORN-OUT WORDS AND CLICHES 357
does the author gain by specifying "without great difficulty," and
"'within reasonable limits'? Are these specifications necessary? Could
they not be assumed? Has not the writer put them in fot rhetorical
purposes, that is, to "dress up" his statement, rather than to make
necessary qualifications?
JARGON: SOME ANTIDOTES
(But jargon, of course, involves more than stereotypes, Jargon
is nearly always compounded of clusters of general and abstract
words, and though there is no certain prescription against jargon,
it is easy to state one or two practical antidotes.
1. The writer should try to use words that are as specific and
concrete as possible; that is, he should never use a word more gen-
eral and indefinite than he has to. Hazy and indefinite expressions
represent the easy way out for a writer who is too timid to commit
himself, or too lazy to think through what he wants to say.
2. The writer should avoid stereotypes of all kinds— prefabri-
cated phrasings which come easily to mind but which may not
represent precisely his own ideas and emotions. But note this care-
fully: he should never avoid an individual word because it seems
simple and common. If the sense calls for a simple, common word,
it is generally best to repeat the word, if necessary, again and again.
There is little to be said in favor of what is sometimes called ELE-
GANT VARIATION, that is, the substitution of some synonym in order
to avoid repetition. Here is an example: "Mr. Jones was a powerful
financier. As a tycoon he had a deep suspicion of socialism. He
shared the feelings of his associates who were also bankers!' The
variations are irritating and can be confusing. Either recast the
sentence or repeat financier.
On the other hand, the writer should try to avoid words strung
together— phrasings— which are common, and for that very reason,
probably stereotyped. He cannot avoid all common expressions, nor
should he try to avoid them, but he ought to learn to inspect them
carefully before he decides to use them. If he really needs to say
"along the lines of— if something is really "in consideration of
something else and an emphasis on consideration is relevant— then
let him use the expression by all means. But it is a good rule to
remember that though he need never shy away from an individual
358 DICTION
word because it is common, he ought to be very shy of phrases
that are common.
3. The writer should try to use live words, remembering that
finite verbs are the most powerful words that we have. We can find
an instance of the failure to do so in the second sentence of the first
excerpt quoted on page 356: "Keenly aware of the painstaking
scholarship and of the high creative effort that over the centuries
has accumulated the body of subject matter we call 'English/ a
group of our ablest teachers conceive their role to be to transmit this
product of human endeavor, this hard-won store of learning and
of art, this rich portion of man's heritage of culture, to the oncom-
ing generations. . . ." This sentence is packed with ideas, but the
only finite verb in it (aside from has accumulated and call, in the
two relative clauses) is the verb conceive. Aware, a participle, is
made to carry the weight of the first twenty-six words; and the
whole latter part of the sentence hangs from two successive infini-
tives, "to be to transmit." The sentence has so little stamina that
it sprawls. It sprawls because the writer has starved it of finite
verbs. The author might better have written: "Our ablest teachers
realize what effort has gone into the making of that body of subject
matter we call 'English/ They know it is a precious thing, for it
embodies the effort of painstaking scholars and of great poets and
novelists. They want to transmit this heritage of culture to the
oncoming generations."
Finite verbs are more powerful than strings of participles, ger-
unds, or infinitives. Moreover, a specific verb is usually stronger
than a more general verb qualified by modifiers. Compare "He
walked along slowly" with "He strolled/' "He sauntered/' "He
dawdled/' "He lagged." Frequently, it is true, we need the qualifiers.
But we ought not to forget the wealth of concreteness which the
English language possesses in its great number of verbs which
name specifically, and therefore powerfully, specific modes of action.
4. Finally, the writer ought to remember that simple sentences
in normal sentence order ( see p. 307 ) rarely degenerate into jargon.
An essay so written may be childishly simple, and it can become
monotonous; but it will seldom collapse into the spineless flabbiness
of jargon.
Jargon, however, is not to be dealt with summarily. It is our most
WORN- OUT WORDS AND CLICHES 359
pervasive kind of "bad" style, and, like style in general, it is the
product of the interplay of many elements. We shall have to recur
to this topic in some of the chapters that follow, particularly in the
discussion of metaphor.
SUMMARY
The discussion of DICTION carried on in this chapter may be sum-
marized rather concisely since the various aspects of diction are so
closely interrelated, y^ords, as we have seen, are not pure DENOTA-
TIONS, that is, words ^are not tied to one specific meaning and only
one specific meaning. They have CONNOTATIONS as well— implied
meanings, shadings of meanings, qualities of feeling which are
associated with them. These implied meanings are naturally more
powerful in words that refer to some specific thing or action. Conno-
tations are generally less vivid and less important in words which
are more general in their reference or which refer to some general-
ized quality or characteristic (abstract words).
The good writer must choose his words not only for appropriate
denotations but also for appropriate connotations. His problem, of
course, will vary with his purpose and with the occasion on which
he writes. At one extreme is technical and scientific writing in which
exact denotations are all-important and in which the writer's prob-
lem is to keep disturbing connotations out of his work. At the other
extreme is that kind of writing which attempts to give the impact
and quality of life itself. In such writing the connotations are of
immense importance.)
The dictionary is not merely a kind of logbook of precise mean-
ings. As we have seen, words are really clusters of interrelated
meanings. Some knowledge of how words grow, how meanings are
extended, how language is constantly shifting and changing, will
allow the writer to make a wiser use of the dictionary and of his
own personal experience of language.
From the general account of language just given, several impor-
tant propositions follow.
1. The writer must be careful to choose his words in terms of
their appropriateness within a particular context: some words are
dignified, some "literary/* some pleasantly informal, and so on.
360 DICTION
2. Few words are simple namings. They also interpret the thing
in question. They may be used to beg the question or to color an
argument, as the advertiser or the propagandist has learned.
3. Everything else being equal, the writer will prefer live words
to dead words or drugged words. He will avoid stereotyped phras-
ings of all sorts. He will avoid words which have been worn
smooth by overuse in certain contexts, but he may discover that
even words which seem to have lost all their vigor, if put in fresh
patternings, tailor-made to his specific purpose, come alive again.
4. In general, the writer will avoid wordiness, carefully choos-
ing the right words for his purpose, and then giving these words
elbow room in which to do their work.
CHAPTER
Metaphor
METAPHOR DEFINED
IN METAPHOR there is a transfer of meaning. We apply an old
word to a new situation) Thus, as we saw in Chapter 10, we speak
of the "eye" of a needle, the "legs" of a chair, the "bed" of a river.
As we saw also in that chapter, language normally grows by'lT
process of metaphorical extension. We proceed from the known to
the unknown. We extend old names to new objects. But most of
the illustrations of this process considered in Chapter 10 are in-
stances of "dead" metaphor. Compare, for example, "the bed of a
river" with "the dance of life." The first phrase carries no suggestion
that the bed is a place of repose or that the river is sleepy! We use
"bed of the river" technically, as a pure denotation from which the
connotations that apply to bed in its usual senses are quite absent.
But it is very different with the phrase "the dance of life." This
metaphor is still alive. (At least Havelock Ellis, who used it as the
title of one of his books, hoped that it would seem alive.) Here the
connotations— the suggestions, the associations— are thoroughly rele-
vant to Ellis's purpose. The connotations (of something rhythmic,
of patterned movement, even, perhaps, of gaiety and happiness)
are meant to be associated with life. We have characterized "bed of
a river" as a dead metaphor, but to say "dead metaphor" is, of
course, to make use of a metaphor, one based on an analogy with
the animal kingdom. Animals (and vegetation, for that matter)
can literally die: a metaphor cannot.
Our last metaphor, however, can illuminate the problem now be-
362 METAPHOR
ing considered and may be worth a little further extension. With
"dead" metaphors, we can say, rigor mortis has set in: they have no
flexibility, no force; they have stiffened into one meaning, connota-
tion has yielded to denotation. Metaphors that are still very much
alive prove that they are alive by possessing a certain flexibility; and
because they are still alive, they can be used to give color and
life to a piece of writing. They can still excite the imagination.
In metaphors that are recognizably metaphors, there are, of
course, varying degrees of life. The following are not very lively,
but they do show that metaphor is a perfectly normal and important
part of our normal speech: we say, for example, "John is a good
egg," "Jane is a peach," "He ran out on the deal," "That remark
threw him for a loss." Such expressions as these are rather worn and
faded. But their original metaphorical character is plain enough,
and we still think of them, and use them, as metaphors. The list of
expressions that are badly shopworn but are still recognizably
metaphors could be extended almost indefinitely: "hot as the devil,"
"cool as a cucumber," "independent as a hog on ice," "lazy as a
dog," "crazy as a bat," and so on.
IMPORTANCE OF METAPHOR IN EVERYDAY
LANGUAGE
Our preference for the concrete and the particular, as these ex-
amples show, is not only normal; it is deeply and stubbornly rooted
in the human mind. Consider the following situation: it is a hot
day. We can say "It is hot" or "It is very hot" or, piling on the
intensives, we can say "It is abominably and excruciatingly hot."
But most of us, afflicted with the heat, will resort to metaphor of
some kind: "It is hot as hell," or more elaborately, "It's hot as the
hinges of hell." Evidently metaphor is felt to add forcefulness, and
evidently the forcefulness has some relation to freshness of expres-
sion. The "hinges of hell" are not necessarily any hotter than other
parts of hell; the precise specification and additional concreteness
is an attempt to freshen the worn and dulled comparison, "as hot
as hell."
That is one point, then:( in metaphor, force and freshness tend
to go together/ Indeed, we are usually attracted to metaphor in the
first place because ordinary language seems trite. A second point
IMPORTANCE OF METAPHOR IN EVERYDAY LANGUAGE 363
to be made is this: metaphor tends to accompany the expression of
emotions and attitudes. A strictly scientific purpose would find
entirely adequate expression in the statement that it is now 97.6
degrees Fahrenheit and that the humidity is 88.
Let us consider another simple case. Suppose one feels an espe-
cial kind of happiness and tries to express his feelings. He can say,
"I feel happy." Or he can try to find a word which more accurately
hits off this special feeling: merry, gay, ecstatic, cheerful, glad, jolly,
or joyous. There are many synonyms for happy, as the dictionary
will quickly reveal, and they differ in their shades of meaning.
For example, jolly suggests a kind of heartiness and good humor
that goes with comfortable living; ecstatic suggests some kind of
transcendent experience of rapture; gay suggests a kind of spright-
liness, a nimble lightheartedness. We shall do well to consult the
dictionary to learn (or remind ourselves of) the wealth of resources
at our disposal. Even so, we rarely find an adjective which exactly
expresses our feelings. We tend to resort to metaphor. We say "I'm
happy as a June-bug" or "I feel like a million dollars" or "I'm
walking on air this morning" or "I feel like a colt in springtime,"
or, as a poet put it once:
My heart is like a singing bird
Whose nest is in a water 'd shoot;
My heart is like an apple-tree
Whose boughs are bent with thick-set fruit.
If the feeling is very special or complex, we are usually forced
to resort to metaphor. Here are the ways in which three writers
of fiction express the special kind of happiness which each of their
characters experiences.
The first is the happiness of a boy at the race track as he watches
the horses work out.
Well, out of the stables they come and the boys are on their backs
and it's lovely to be there. You hunch down on top of the fence and itch
inside you. Over in the sheds the niggers giggle and sing. Bacon is being
fried and coffee made. Everything smells lovely. Nothing smells better
than coffee and manure and horses and niggers and bacon frying and
pipes being smoked out of doors on a morning like that. It just gets
you, that's what it does.— SHERWOOD ANDERSON: "I Want to Know Why/' 1
1 From The Triumph of the Egg by Sherwood Anderson. Copyright 1921
by Eleanor Anderson.
364 METAPHOR
What makes this passage effective is the re-creation of the scene in
our imagination. This is done through the skillful use of descriptive
detail: the author summons up for us the atmosphere of the race
track. But he uses metaphor too—metaphor which is charged by
the atmosphere. The metaphor, it is true, is scarcely declared; but it
is there under the surface. The itch "inside you" is not a real itch;
and "It just gets you" is a metaphor, for all the fact that it is slang.
A more explicit (and highfalutin) way of saying it— the experience
seizes you, or takes hold of you powerfully— reveals the metaphor
clearly.
In the next example, the principal metaphor is perfectly explicit.
The experience described is that of a boy in love for the first time.
Her name sprang to my lips at moments in strange prayers and praises
which 1 myself did not understand. My eyes were often full of tears
(I could not tell why) and at times a flood from my heart seemed to
pour itself out into my bosom. I thought little of the future. I did not
know whether I would ever speak to her or not or, if I spoke to her,
how I could tell her of my confused adoration. But my body was like
a harp and her words and gestures were like fingers running upon the
wires.— JAMES JOYCE: "Araby." 2
The author uses three comparisons here: that of worship, that
of a flood, and that of a harp. The second is the easiest and most
obvious: the tears that well up in the boy's eyes suggest the flood
metaphor. The first is the least explicit but the most pervasive: the
metaphor may seem only hinted at in the phrase "strange prayers
and praises"; but it is picked up once more in the phrase "confused
adoration," for adore means literally "to pray to." This metaphor
prepares for the third, the summarizing comparison: "my body was
like a harp . . ." The boy responds to the loved one as a harp
responds to the harpist's touch. Note that the harp comparison
illuminates even "praises which I myself did not understand," for
the harp as instrument cannot understand the "praise," the "adora-
tion" which is elicited from it.
The third example describes the feelings of a shy man who has
blundered into a darkened room and unexpectedly been kissed
2 From Dubliners by James Joyce, copyright, 1925, by The Viking Press,
Inc., and now included in The Portable James Joyce, published by The Viking
Press, Inc., New York.
IMPORTANCE OF METAPHOR IN EVERYDAY LANGUAGE 365
before the young woman, keeping her tryst there, has realized that
he is not her lover.
At first he was tormented by shame and dread that the whole drawing-
room knew that he had just been kissed and embraced by a woman.
He shrank into himself and looked uneasily about him, but as he be-
came convinced that people were dancing and talking as calmly as ever,
he gave himself up entirely to the new sensation which he had never
experienced before in his life. Something strange was happening to him.
. . . His neck, round which soft, fragrant arms had so lately been
clasped, seemed to him to be anointed with oil; on his left cheek near
his moustache where the unknown had kissed him there was a faint
chilly tingling sensation as from peppermint drops, and the more he
rubbed the place the more distinct was the chilly sensation; all over,
from head to foot, he was full of a strange new feeling which grew
stronger and stronger.— ANTON CHEKHOV: "The Kiss." 3
The man's intense emotions are treated in their vividness almost
as if they were physical sensations. Notice, for example, "faint chilly
tingling sensation as from peppermint drops." The comparison com-
bines the sense of touch (chill) and taste. The sensation is slightly
queer, and, to the man, troubling, and quite delightful.
SLANG AS METAPHOR
In connection with metaphor it may be profitable to consider
again two abuses of language, slang and jargon, which have already
been touched upon in the preceding chapter (pp. 353-56 ).yThe im-
pulse to use slang springs from our sound general preference for the
concrete and the particular. Slang expressions are originally meta-
phors, and the problem of the misuse of slang cannot properly be
solved apart from the more general problem of the use and abuse
of figurative language. That is why it does very little good to tell
a writer— or for the writer to tell himself— not to use slang, for this
advice is essentially negative. The writer is right in wanting to
make his writing warm, colorful, and lively. What he needs to do,
therefore, is not to discard figurative language in favor of abstract
expressions; but rather to inspect all his figurative language, includ-
ing slang, in order to improve it as metaphor. He will try to elimi-
nate all metaphors which are worn and trite, or which seem preten-
3 From Anton Chekhov: The Party and Other Stories. Tr. Constance Garnett.
Copyright, 1917 by The Macmillan Company and used with their permission.
366 METAPHOR
tious, or which are discordant with the rest of the composition. The
practical result, of course, will be that in this process most of the
slang will be sloughed off, but sloughed off because it proves to be
poor and ineffective metaphor, not because it is figurative. For the
good writer tries to bring his metaphors to life, and to direct and
control them in that life. How to do this, of course, is a matter of
craftsmanship and experience.jBut it is an important thing to learn,
and it is our justification for devoting so much space in this text
to the subject of metaphor, (the writer Inust get firmly in mind that
this discussion of figurative language has not been inserted on the
supposition that the writer must learn to write a highfalutin and
pretentious "literary" style. He jieeds, on the contrary) to master
figurative language for the most practical of reasons. \
JARGON AND WORN-OUT METAPHOR
But why recur to the second general abuse of language, jargon,
in this chapter on metaphor? What possible connection canf jargon
have with(metaphor?"The first answer to this question can fee put
simply: (there is an important negative relational t is the very lack
of concrete words and of metaphorical vividness^ and particularity
that makes jargon cloudy and ineffective. A primary way to avoid
jargon, then, is to use concrete language— including its extension
into metaphor. The spinelessness of jargon is in part the result of
the writer's timid avoidance of vigorous metaphor. Even the most
timid writer, however, is not actually able to avoid all metaphor;
and with this observation we can give a second answer to the
question^ Jargon characteristically involves stereotypes of all kinds,
including stereotyped and therefore lifeless metaphor/) This con-
nection of jargon with secondhand metaphor is forcefully put by
the British critic, George Orwell.
Prose [nowadays] consists less and less of words chosen for the sake
of their meaning, and more and more of phrases tacked together like
the sections of a prefabricated henhouse. . . . There is a huge dump
of worn-out metaphors which have lost all evocative power and are
merely used because they save people the trouble of inventing phrases
for themselves. . . . Modern writing at its worst . . . consists in gum-
ming together long strips of words which have already been set in order
by someone else.
IMPORTANCE OF METAPHOR IN EVERYDAY LANGUAGE 367
(The reader will notice that Orwell himself uses metaphor very
effectively— "sections of a prefabricated henhouse," "dump of worn-
out metaphors," "gumming together long strips of words/' Orwell
thus vividly suggests his two points of indictment: the lazy and
careless craftsmanship of the writer of jargon, and the second-
hand quality of the materials he uses.)
Orwell goes on to illustrate his point by suggesting how a modern
writer of hand-me-down phrases would express the following pas-
sage from Ecclesiastes: "I returned, and saw under the sun, that
the race is not to the swift, nor the battle to the strong, neither yet
bread to the wise, nor yet riches to men of understanding, nor yet
favor to men of skill; but time and chance happeneth to them all."
Such a writer, says Orwell, would probably turn it out like this:
"Objective consideration of contemporary phenomena compels the
conclusion that success or failure in competitive activities exhibits
no tendency to be commensurate with innate capacity, but that a
considerable element of the unpredictable must invariably be taken
into account."
CONFUSED METAPHOR AND HALF-DEAD METAPHOR
Orwell has hardly exaggerated, and the faults which he points
out are found just as frequently in America as in Great Britain.
Consider the following passages taken from recent magazines.
In the sense that we have known it in the past, American agriculture is
a dying industry. The nation's largest single business still remaining in
the hands of private citizens is in the midst of a scientific revolution, and
the farm as an individual production unit— the final refuge from a
mechanical and goose-stepped civilization— is seeing its last days. For
chemistry and technology are bringing agriculture under control.
In broad terms, one may say that the farm is being wrecked by a
series of three major frontal attacks, any one of which is deadly enough
to have caused a serious crisis. . . .
The authors call American agriculture a "dying industry" but in
the next sentence they say that it is "in the midst of a scientific
revolution" and finally, that it "is seeing its last days." They attempt
to give liveliness to these statements by comparing American agri-
culture to a dying animal; but any sense of vigor in the metaphor
is pretty well lost when we have to consider agriculture first as an
368 METAPHOR
animal, next as a citizen living through a revolution, and finally
as a "refuge from a mechanized and goose-stepped civilization."
And if the reader is able to keep the metaphorical sense at all
through these confusions, that sense is completely canceled out by
the short statement that follows: ". . . chemistry and technology
are bringing agriculture under control/' An animal or a man who is
dying and has seen his last days is certainly under control, and the
pyramid of metaphors thus topples to a rather absurd anticlimax.
We can reconstruct the process of composition as follows: the
authors were actually not sure whether they wanted the metaphors
to come alive or remain decently dead. "Dying industry" they prob-
ably used as a dying metaphor—that is, they hoped that the meta-
phor would be lively in the first sentence, but decently dead and
forgotten by the time that the reader got to the next sentence. But,
in the floridly metaphorical atmosphere of the second sentence,
the metaphor implicit in "dying" comes to life too— to embarrass and
distract the new metaphor.
This confusion and irresponsibility in the use of metaphor is
revealed in the last sentence where the authors, still anxious to
maintain a kind of rhetorical liveliness, treat the farm under the
figure of a war. "The farm," they say, "is being wrecked by a series
of three major frontal attacks. . . ." But let us examine the figure
for only a moment. There can be only one frontal attack on any one
position. Frontal attacks must come, as the authors have themselves
indicated, in "series," one after the other. It might make sense to
say that the farm is being wrecked by a frontal attack which is
being carried on simultaneously with attacks on either flank. Or
it might make metaphorical sense to say that the farm has already
sustained two damaging frontal attacks and that the third such
attack is now in progress. This last statement is perhaps what the
authors intended (though actually, it is very difficult to be certain
as to what they did intend); but if they did intend the latter, they
have been betrayed into confusion by their desire to use the
"strong" word "frontal" when actually they had in mind no concep-
tion of a frontal attack as opposed to an attack from the side or
from the rear.
The first essential in providing background information would be to
present a comparative view of the societies of the world, from the
IMPORTANCE OF METAPHOR IN EVERYDAY LANGUAGE 369
simple primitive tribes to the complex civilized communities. Until the
student is able to place data upon his own society in a comparative
framework, he cannot be said to have gained any perspective or ob-
jectivity in that field. Such a cultivated emotional detachment is the
first step toward understanding.
The danger of having dead and inert metaphors come to life is
well illustrated by the statement "to place data upon his own society
in a comparative framework/' Obviously the author does not mean
"to place data upon"— though the temptation to take "place upon"
as a unit is almost irresistible. He meant to say that the student
must place, in a comparative framework, the data that concerns
his own society. But after we have made the correction, it becomes
apparent that "place" is still not the word the author wanted. He
would better have said that the student must relate data to a com-
parative scheme, or that the student must be able to order it in a
comparative framework. Further confusion is promoted by the main
clause of the sentence. How can placing data, or relating it, or
ordering it "in a comparative framework" be said to give perspec-
tive? One may place himself at a vantage point from which he can
see objects in perspective— that is, see them at a distance, from a
point of view. But the metaphor of a framework, followed closely
by a metaphor of getting perspective, results in a blurring and con-
fusion of both metaphors. The "framework" has to be taken, not as
a framework at all, but as an abstraction, for it behaves with em-
barrassment when forced into the dance of metaphors. The last
sentence of the paragraph indicates what the author meant to say;
that the student must stand back from— that is, detach himself from
—his material so that he can see it in perspective.
Students and professors are sometimes accused of leading a cloistered
existence comfortably removed from the dust and heat of everyday life.
There may be some truth in that accusation, but let us remember that
in the Dark Ages it was in the cloisters rather than in the market places
that the flame of the spirit was kept alive. How is it faring today at
Harvard and Yale, at Dartmouth and at Cornell? Are you determined to
use your education merely to get a good job, marry and settle down,—
in ordinary times that would be the natural aspiration,--or are some of
you chafing to defend the rights of the spirit in a rapidly materializing
world? Unless you are, the shadow of Hitlerism is likely to darken the
world for a long time to come.
370 METAPHOR
The first part of this passage echoes— and quite properly— Milton's
famous remark that he could not "praise a fugitive and cloistered
virtue . . . that never sallies out to seek her adversary, but slinks
out of the race, where that immortal garland is to be run for, not
without dust and heat." And the contrast between the cloisters and
the market place again is used soundly. But the author gets into
trouble when he speaks of "the rights of the spirit in a rapidly
materializing world." Mediums make (or pretend to make) spirits
"materialize." Does the author mean that the world too is a spirit
which is being made to materialize? Or is he trying to say that the
world is rapidly becoming unspiritualized— that it is preoccupied
with matter as opposed to the realm of spirit? The momentary
confusion is not clarified by the sentence that follows in which
"the shadow of Hitlerism" is made to threaten darkness to the
world. One is tempted to see Hitlerism as a shadow which is "ma-
terializing," that is, turning the world into solid murk and darkness.
Actually in this case there is little difficulty in untangling the chance
associations of spiritualist mediums from the rather straightforward
distinction between the realm of the spirit and the realm of the
material. But would not the sentence be more effective without this
confusion?
The writer of the passage which follows is attempting to describe
the effect of the comic books:
They defy the limits of accepted fact and convention, thus amortizing
to apoplexy the ossified arteries of routine thought. But by these very
tokens the picture-book fantasy cuts loose the hampering debris of art
and artifice and touches the tender spots of universal human desires and
aspirations, hidden customarily beneath long accumulated protective
coverings of indirection and disguise.
But can one defy a limit? One can, of course, defy another per-
son to set a limit. The comic books may break across boundaries,
may exceed limits, and their authors may defy authorities to set any
limits that they will respect. But here it is the comic books that are
made to "defy limits," probably because the author was looking for
a strong metaphor, and was willing to accept, without asking too
many questions of it, the first strong metaphor that he found. The
defiance hinted by the comic books has violent results. The comic
books amortize the "ossified arteries of routine thought." To "amor-
IMPORTANCE OF METAPHOR IN EVERYDAY LANGUAGE 371
tize" is to cancel a mortgage. And "amortize" like "mortgage" is
related etymologically to Latin mors, death. Even so, how can a
defiance extinguish a mortgage on the arteries of thought— to the
point of apoplexy? People who suffer from a hardening of the
arteries are subject to strokes of apoplexy. Perhaps the writer is
trying to say that the outrageous breaking of the conventions drives
certain readers to apoplexy. But he has his apoplectic stroke affect
the creaky and antiquated thoughts themselves. The result is a
rather amazing mixup.
In the next sentence, the comic books, having by their defiance
ruptured the arteries of conventional thought, proceed to cut loose
the "debris of art and artifice." Or rather, it is the fantasy which
cuts this debris loose. But "debris" means a scattered mass of mate-
rials. Can one cut a person loose from debris? Or does one not
rather dig a victim out of the debris which has fallen upon him.
And how can such debris be worn, as is evidently the case here, as
a "protective covering"? The cutting loose of wreckage, the pulling
off of a disguise, and the removal of a protective shell are thor-
oughly scrambled. And the confusion is not helped when we re-
member that the debris in question is composed of "art and arti-
fice" and that the agent which cuts it loose is fantasy—something
which one usually regards as associated with both art and artifice.
There is much to be said for a rich and concrete idiom. In return
for it, we might be willing to disregard a few metaphorical loose
ends. But there are limits, even though the comic books are said to
defy limits. The writer here is evidently buried up to his ears in a
debris which may be artifice but certainly is not art.
The excerpts examined are, we repeat, taken from "quality maga-
zines"—the last and worst one, from the magazine published by
Phi Beta Kappa. These are by no means the most absurd instances
that could be collected. But they are absurd enough to indicate
that "good" writers often manage their metaphors very poorly.
THE FUNCTION OF METAPHOR
Thus far we have given our attention to some of the abuses of
figurative language. It is high time to give a more positive account
of metaphor and to show some of the uses of figurative language.
After all, why do we use metaphor? What purpose does it serve?
372 METAPHOR
We have already assumed in earlier pages that (it has its value in
contributing color and liveliness,)but if we are to understand why
it is one of the great resources or the writer, we shall need to define
more clearly what its function is. This is all the more necessary
since(the conventional account of the uses of metaphor is calculated
to mislead. For example, we are in the habit of saying that the
purpose of metaphor is (1) to illustrate or (2) to embellish; but
these terms can easily suggest that figurative language is a kind
of "extra" which may be usefully or gracefully "added on" to a
statement, but which is never essential to the statement—never a
direct part of what is being said. In accordance with this conven-
tional view, the practical function of metaphor is to give a con-
crete illustration of some point which has been put more abstractly.
The artistic use is to provide a pleasing decoration like an attrac-
tive wallpaper pasted onto the wall, or like a silk ribbon tied around
a box of candy. But the trouble with this account is that, in either
case, the figure of speech seems to be something which can be
left off; and if we misconceive the purposes of metaphor by think-
ing of it as something external and additional, we shall never come
to understand why a mastery of metaphor is absolutely essential
to good writing>»
WHY SCIENTIFIC STATEMENT DOES NOT REQUIRE METAPHOR
Let us begin by disposing of a special kind of writing in which
metaphor is indeed unnecessary or merely an addition. If I wish
to say "2 + 2 = 4" or that "the square of the hypotenuse of a right
triangle is equal to the sum of the squares of the other two sides,"
I shall not require metaphor. Metaphor would be in the way. Such
statements as these, however, are very special: the terms used in
such statements are (or aspire to be) pure denotations. If such terms
have connotations at all, the connotations are surely irrelevant (see
p. 341 ) . Thus the "words" employed are not words in the usual sense.
They are not capable of metaphorical extension. They are very
special symbols, and the purest statements of this kind are able
to dispense with words altogether: thus, 2 + 2 = 4, or H2SO4 +
Fe -» FeSO4 + H2t-
But important as such statements are, they represent a strin-
gently limited discourse. Most of the discourse which interests us
as human beings and which we must use as writers, goes far beyond
THE FUNCTION OF METAPHOR 373
abstract relationships of this kind. Most of our discourse has to do
with the "full" world of our human experience— not the colorless,
soundless, abstract world of modern physics, say, or of mathe-
matics.4
METAPHOR AS ILLUSTRATION
It ought to be noted, however, that even the scientific writer very
often needs to go beyond this stringently limited abstract dis-
course, and even for him, metaphor, though frankly employed as
illustration, may be highly necessary and useful. The following
passage from Bertrand Russell's The Scientific Outlook will illus-
trate. The book is addressed to a general audience and Bertrand
Russell is attempting to convince his reader that "what is actually
experienced is much less than one would naturally suppose." He
proceeds to analyze a typical experience for us. Here follows his
analysis of what happens scientifically when we "see" someone.
You may say, for example, that you see your friend, Mr. Jones, walk-
ing along the street: but this is to go far beyond what you have any
right to say. You see a succession of coloured patches, traversing a
stationary background. These patches, by means of a Pavlov conditioned
reflex, bring into your mind the word "Jones>" and so you say you
see Jones; but other people, looking out of their windows from different
angles, will see something different, owing to the laws of perspective:
therefore, if they are all seeing Jones, there must be as many different
Joneses as there are spectators, and if there is only one true Jones, the
sight of him is not vouchsafed to anybody. If we assume for a moment
the truth of the account which physics gives, we shall explain what you
call "seeing Jones" in some such terms as the following. Little packets of
light, called "light quanta," shoot out from the sun, and some of these
reach a region where there are atoms of a certain kind, composing
Jones's face, and hands, and clothes. These atoms do not themselves
exist, but are merely a compendious way of alluding to possible occur-
rences. Some of the light quanta, when they reach Jones's atoms, upset
their internal economy. This causes him to become sunburnt, and to
manufacture vitamin D. Others are reflected, and of those that are re-
4 This is not, of course, to question the importance or the reality of such
worlds. The scientist can deal with his material in this abstract way, and in
no other way. His language is neither more nor less real than the language
of the poet or novelist. It is merely different. In this general connection, the
Deader might reread the discussion of abstract and concrete words (pp. 338-39 )»
374 METAPHOR
fleeted some enter your eye. They there cause a complicated disturbance
of the rods and cones, which, in turn, sends a current along the optic
nerve. When this current reaches the brain, it produces an event. The
event which it produces is that which you call "seeing Jones." As is
evident from this account, the connection of "seeing Jones" with Jones
is a remote, roundabout causal connection. Jones himself, meanwhile,
remains wrapped in mystery. He may be thinking about his dinner, or
about how his investments have gone to pieces, or about that umbrella
he lost; these thoughts are Jones, but these are not what you see.—
BERTRAND RUSSELL: The Scientific Outlook, Chap. 3.5
Notice that Russell completes his analysis with the last state-
ment of the passage; yet apparently he felt that the account might
prove too technical and that his reader might fail to understand.
Therefore he adds the following statement: "To say that you see
Jones is no more correct than it would be, if a ball bounced off a
wall in your garden and hit you, to say that the wall had hit you. In-
deed, the two cases are closely analogous." Most readers will be
grateful for this illustration. Most minds find abstractions so alien
to them that they need a concrete statement such as the analogy
provides. This is a truth which the writers of all books of scientific
popularization know, and, for that matter, it is one known by every
writer of directions for setting up a patent can opener. Even if the
writer is able, as Bertrand Russell is able here, to state his analysis
directly, the extra illustration— the concrete analogy drawn from
daily experience— is helpful.
METAPHOR AS ESSENTIAL STATEMENT
We may sum up then by saying that^in strict scientific state-
ment metaphor has no place, and that in a less strict scientific dis-
cussion metaphor is optional and additional. It provides an illustra-
tion, and, as the example from Russell shows, this may be of great
importance. But in most of the writing with which we are concerned
—political speeches, articles on international affairs, letters to friends,
expressions of opinions, attempts to persuade or convince, essays
which invite other people to share our own experiences and valua-
tions—in nearly all the ordinary writing which we shall do, metaphor
5 From The Scientific Outlook by Bertrand Russell, by permission of George
Allen and Unwin, Ltd.
METAPHOR AS ESSENTIAL STATEMENT 375
is not subsidiary and external but a primary device by which we
"say" what we want to say. Metaphor then is not to be thought
of as a roundabout way— an alternative way— of communicating an
experience. Often it constitutes the only possible way by which
we can convey the special quality of an experience. As one author-
ity on language puts it: we think by proceeding from the known
to the unknown, by extending a familiar term to an unfamiliar fact
or situation. As he defines them, metaphors are "essentially discov-
eries of new meanings ... by means of old names." Seen in these
terms, metaphor is not something external to thinking: it is central.
By the same token, it is not vague and emotional; it has its own
accuracy, for it frequently provides the only means by which a
thing can be "said." Metaphor is, then, an indispensable instrument
for interpreting experience.
Let us illustrate. In the sentence that follows, Helen Keller de-
scribes what tactile sensation means to a person who has always
been blind and deaf: "The immovable rock, with its juts and warped
surface, bends beneath my fingers into all manner of grooves and
hollows." The rock, of course, does not literally bend: it is "immov-
able." But under her sensitive fingers, which do duty for eyes, the
rock itself seems to respond dynamically to her touch. For what
is being described is not the fumbling of an ordinary person who
is blindfolded. We are, rather, being let into Helen Keller's "world,"
a world of exciting qualities which most of us do not know at all.
Metaphor here is the only means by which it may be made known
to us. For since this world does not exist in our experience, it can-
not be pointed to: it can only be created for us. (The reader should
compare with Helen Keller's account of touch, Bertrand Russell's
account of sight, page 374. We do not have to choose one and reject
the other. Both are true, but we must not confuse them. The two
accounts are radically different in purpose, and therefore in
method.)
Helen Keller's world may seem a special case. The world which
Miss Keller knows through her finger tips obviously can be known
by most of us who lack her sensitive finger tips only through anal-
ogy, suggestion, and imaginative insight. Yet the worlds of all of us
are more special than we think, determined as they are by our
values, moods, and emotional biases.
376 METAPHOR
SOME ILLUSTRATIONS OF ESSENTIAL, N O N D E C O R AT I V E
METAPHOR
Consider what metaphor does in the following two verses from
Ecclesiastes. "It is better to bear the rebuke of the wise, than for
a man to hear the song of fools. For as the crackling of thorns under
a pot, so is the laughter of a fool: this also is vanity."
This comparison, as we see, uses the dry, crackling sound of burn-
ing thorn branches to describe the laughter of a fool. Now, there
is a certain realistic basis for the comparison. But the metaphor is
far more than a phonetic description. It makes a value judgment
too: the fool's laughter, it is implied, is brittle, hollow, meaningless:
it is the noise that attends the going up in smoke of something
quite worthless— the rubbish of dried thorn branches. This is the
justification for the last clause, "this [the fool's laughter] also is a
vanity." But the metaphor does much more than to "illustrate" the
vanity. It is the metaphor itself that defines vanity and realizes
it for us— its specious brightness, its explosive chatter, its essential
emptiness.
Let us take one further example, this time from a novel. In her
Delta Wedding Miss Eudora Welty describes the sunset as seen
by a little girl through the window of a railway coach.
In the Delta the sunsets were reddest light. The sun went down lop-
sided and wide as a rose on a stem in the west, and the west was a
milk white edge, like the foam of the sea. The sky, the field, the little
track, and the bayou, over and over—all that had been bright or dark
was now one color. From the warm window sill the endless fields glowed
like a hearth in firelight.— EUDORA WELTY: Delta Wedding, Chap. l.e
Since this is a passage from a novel it is tempting to say that
here surely the figurative language is merely "decorative," an at-
tempt at a prettification of the scene. Even here, however, the meta-
phors have a much more important function. The sun, it is true, is
compared to a conventionally pretty object, a rose. But it is here a
"lopsided" rose. The "hearth" comparison is domestic rather than
beautiful in its associations. Actually, the metaphors work here to
create the scene and the mood. It is a particular sunset seen by a
particular character at a particular time. The scene is modified by
6 From Delta Wedding by Eudora Welty, copyright, 1945, 1946, by Eudora
Welty. Reprinted by permission o£Harcourt, Brace and Company, Inc.
METAPHOR AS ESSENTIAL STATEMENT 377
the mood which it has helped to generate; and the mood itself is
the reflection of a special personality. And it is this complex of
scene and mood and personality which the metaphors do so much
to reveal. The special quality of redness, almost unreal— the diffused
rosiness of the light— the sense of warmth— the scene perceived as
something framed and set apart and remote— all of these qualities
are suggested by the comparison of the sun to a lopsided rose, and
of the flat and endless fields to a hearth glowing in firelight. In this
total pattern of statement, "lopsided" is seen to be not merely whim-
sical, but to contribute its own mite of precision (the apparent dis-
tortion of the red globe of the sun as it touches the horizon) to a
statement that is aiming at great precision.
A few paragraphs above we admitted that the world of Helen
Keller's experience is a special world which can be conveyed to us
only through suggestion and analogy. Yet a little reflection will show
that the world of experience of each of us is far more special than
we think, for such a world is determined by our values, moods,
and emotional biases. The world as seen by the little girl in Delta
Wedding is thus special in this sense, and so too is that of the
Hebrew preacher who speaks in Ecclesiastes. If we are to communi-
cate our experience with any accuracy, figurative language is fre-
quently the only way by which such experience can be conveyed
at all. For by means of metaphor we grasp not only the object as an
entity, but its "meaning," its value to us as well. The "thing" which
Miss Welty wished to say was not that the sun was round or red
or an immense globe of superhot elements some ninety-three mil-
lion miles from the earth. What she wished to give us was the sun
as it appeared to the child as she watched it from the window of
the train. It is not the scientific sun— the abstraction taken from
some book on astronomy— with which the author is concerned, but
rather the sun as part of a total experience and of a very particular
and special experience.
One more example, just to make sure that the last illustration,
since it is from fiction, does not give the impression that metaphor
is somehow 'literary" and therefore unimportant. Here is the way
in which "Bugs" Baer describes the collapse of a prize fighter:
"Zale folded as gracefully as the Queen's fan and fell on his bat-
tered face alongside the ropes. His seconds carried him to his corner
like three window-dressers packing a melted dummy off during
378 METAPHOR
a heat wave on the sunny side of Broadway/' This description may
be judged to be good writing or bad, but it is easy to see why Baer
used figurative language. He was not trying to "tell" us about the
scene: he was trying to make us see the scene, vividly, freshly, fully,
as a somewhat cynical but highly interested observer might have
seen it.
The nature and uses of metaphor can be further illustrated from
passages quoted in the earlier chapter on description. For example,
let us look again at the metaphor which Faulkner uses in his de-
scription of Miss Emily (p. 208): "She looked bloated, like a body
long submerged in motionless water, and of that pallid hue." There
is an analogy, of course, between the appearance of the bloated and
unnaturally pallid woman and that of a drowned body. But the
author might have found other analogies, superficially quite as apt.
What specific function does the comparison serve? It serves to
interpret the woman for us. It describes the woman but it gives
more than mere physical description: it suggests that she has long
been immersed in a thick, unnatural medium like water. Moreover,
the water in which she has drowned is "motionless." There has
been a kind of stagnation. She has been removed from the whole
course of human activity.
Or consider Thoreau 's comparison of the state of Massachusetts
to a human body (p. 235). There is, it is true, some kind of resem-
blance between the shape of Cape Cod on the map and that of a
bended arm. But the physical analogy is pretty well exhausted with
this item; yet Thoreau goes on to give the state a "back" and "feet"
and another "fist" with which the state "keeps guard the while upon
her breast." Thoreau too is using his comparison to suggest that we
are to conceive of the state as a human being and as an alert and
vigilant human being.
WHAT MAKES A "GOOD" METAPHOR?
In this connection we ought to note that the physical similarity
of the items coippared is easily overestimated in judging the value
of a metaphor.j In many finely effective comparisons the degree of
physical similarity is not very great. Some element of resemblance,
there must be, of course. But a good comparison is not necessarily
one in which there is close resemblance: for "illustration," as we
WHAT MAKES A "GOOD" METAPHOR? 379
have seen, is not the primary purpose of metaphor. Moreover, even
a great deal of dissimilarity does not necessarily render the com-
parison a strained or forced oner)
THE ELEMENT OF SIMILARITY IN METAPHOR
To realize this last point, let us consider one of the tritest com-
parisons of all: ("her eyes were like stars." Far from seeming strained
or overingenious, the comparison will seem to most of us entirely
too simple and easy. And yet, even in this well-worn analogy, the
objects compared are really very dissimilar. Certainly the human
eyeball and the flaming mass of elements which make up the stars
have very little in common. But if this examination, which compares
the two objects as scientifically considered, seems somewhat un-
fair, one can go on to point out that the eyes, even those of a lovely
woman, do not much resemble the glinting points of light which are
the stars as we see them. The truth of the matter is that what
supports this oldest and most hackneyed of comparisons is not the
physical resemblances so much as the associations: the associations
of stars with brilliance, with the high and celestial. It is these asso-
ciations which have made the stars seem "like" the glances of the
eyes of someone loved.
Thus, every comparison has a very important subjective element
in it: its proper task is to interpret, to evaluate— not to point to
physical analogies. Its proper function is, as we have said, to define
attitude.)
Let us consider a few further illustrations: Samuel Butler, in his
satire, "Hudibras," gives this description of the dawn.
And like a lobster, boyl'd, the morn
From black to red began to turn.
We think of this as an absurd comparison, and so it is— appro-
priately so, for "Hudibras" is a humorous poem, and Butler is casting
good-humored scorn upon his hero. Why does the comparison strike
us as absurd? We are likely to say that it is absurd because the
dawn doesn't in the least resemble a boiled lobster. But the colors
to be seen in the shell of a boiled lobster may very closely resemble
the exact shade of red to be seen on some mornings. The absurdity,
then, does not come from the lack of physical resemblance: it comes
rather from the absurd contrast of the associations of cooking and
380 METAPHOR
the associations of morning—the sense of fresh coolness and natural
beauty. Butler has, for humorous effect, deliberately played the
connotations of lobster-boiling against the connotations of morn-
ing. It is the clash of connotations which creates the tone (see
Chapter 11) of good-humored contempt, befitting a mock epic such
as "Hudibras." (Objectively considered, the sun looks quite as much
like the shell of a boiled lobster as it looks like Miss Welty's lop-
sided rose— a figure which we have seen is not used for ludicrous
effect.)
The principle of contrast, however, may be used for very differ-
ent effects. Consider the use to which the element of contrast is put
in the following passage from Aldous Huxley's After Many a Sum-
mer Dies the Swan:
In the green and shadowy translucence, two huge fish hung suspended,
their snouts almost touching, motionless except for the occasional ripple
of a fin and the rhythmic panting of their gills. A few inches from their
staring eyes a rosary of bubbles streamed ceaselessly up toward the light.
The chain of bubbles may be thought to look like a string of
beads, and the rapt, motionless attitude of the staring fish may
allow one fancifully to see them as participants in a religious rite,
staring at the string of ascending bubbles as at a rosary. (The
adjectives "suspended" and "staring" and especially the phrase
"streamed ceaselessly up toward the light," tend to support the
analogy.) But the effect is not absurd as Butler's is: the effect is
rather that of sardonic irony. A reading of the novel would indicate
how the irony fits the bitter commentary which Huxley makes on
his hero's morbid grasping at life.
Here is another example of a metaphor used for ironic effect,
though for a still different kind of irony:
In the rear of this row of guns stood a house, cairn and white, amid
bursting shells. A congregation of horses tied to a long railing, were
tugging frenziedly at their bridles. Men were running hither and thither.
—STEPHEN CRANE: Red Badge of Courage.
Why "a congregation of horses" rather than "a line" or "a group"
of horses? Congregation (from Latin congrex) means literally a
"herding together," and (though it is a somewhat pedantic applica-
tion) "congregation" is thus literally accurate here. But as we com-
monly use the word, "congregation" implies a group of worshipers;
WHAT MAKES A "GOOD'' METAPHOR? 381
people who have come together of their own will, though this par-
ticular "congregation" is frantically trying to get away. The con-
trast is an ironic one, but the author has not left his choice of the
word to be justified by this obvious and rather brittle contrast: the
metaphor points to a richer and larger contrast. The "congregation
of horses" tied to the railing suggests the scene at some rural church
where the congregation within is implied by the "congregation"
of hitched horses without. The line of tied animals thus ironically
suggests a peaceful scene in contrast to the actual battle which is
raging around them.
THE ELEMENT OF CONTRAST IN METAPHOR
We think of metaphors (and related figurative expressions) as
"comparisons/* and yet it is plain that we might as accurately refer
to them as "contrasts." For the elements of dissimilarity between
the terms of a metaphor may be of just as much importance as the
elements of likeness. One can go further still: in an effective meta-
phor there must be a considerable degree of contrast. If we say
"the river roared like a flood" or "the dog raged like a wild beast,"
we feel that the metaphor in each case is weak or nonexistent. A
river is too much like a flood, and a dog, though a tame beast, too
much resembles a wild beast. If, on the other hand, we say, "the
fire roared like a flood" or "the fire raged like a wild beast," we feel
that these are metaphors (even if actually rather poor metaphors).
Fire and flood or fire and beast are sufficiently dissimilar for us to
feel that some metaphorical transfer occurs: in these cases there
are the "new namings" which constitute metaphor/
A famous English critic of the eighteenth century, Samuel John-
son, saw this point clearly in discussing a famous poetic comparison
of his time. In a poem on the battle of Blenheim, the poet had
compared the English general, Marlborough, to an angel "who
rides in the whirlwind and directs the storm." The general himself
was not engaged in dealing blows. In a sense he was above the
battle. But calm and aloof, like the angel, he directed the crushing
power of his regiments. Johnson's objection to the comparison was
not that the poet had not described properly Marlborough's func-
tion, but rather that the functions of Marlborough and of the angel
were too nearly the same for the comparison to have any imagina-
tive quality. Whether or not Johnson was fair to the comparison
382 METAPHOR
in question, the student may decide for himself by looking up Addi-
son's poem, "The Campaign." But there is no doubt at all that
Johnson was entirely right about the principle involved.
We are inclined to reject what we rather awkwardly call "far-
fetched" comparisons. (The term is awkward because it suggests
that the terms of a good comparison are close together, though we
have seen that even "eyes" and "stars" are not really very close—
see p. 379. ) But if comparisons must not be too "far-fetched," neither
must they be too "nearly-fetched." They have to be fetched some
distance if we are to have a recognizable metaphor at all.
CONSISTENCY IN METAPHOR
In this connection, it is convenient to take up the problem of
consistency in metaphor. How consistent with itself need a meta-
phor be? The point is worth discussing because most of us have
been made well aware of the absurdity of "mixed metaphors."
Everyone is familiar with the Congressman's oratorical declaration:
"I smell a rat. I see it floating in the air. But I shall nip it in the
bud." Moreover, earlier in this chapter the absurdity of the mixed
metaphors which occur in the passages on pages 367-69 has been
commented upon. But it would be a mistake if the student con-
cluded that any mixing of metaphors or any change from one meta-
phor to another is in itself bad.
(|t is perfectly true that an extended metaphor can sometimes
be used for very powerful effect, and it is further true that a meta-
phor which suddenly, or for no apparent reason, reverses our
expectations, can give us a sense of absurd confusion. But a meta-
phor need not be extended; and there are fine passages of prose
and poetry in which the author moves rapidly from one metaphor
to another.^ Is the following passage from Hamlet absurd because
the metapnor is "mixed"?
To be, or not to be— that is the question.
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles
And by opposing end them. To die— to sleep-
No more; and by a sleep to say we end
The heartache, and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to.
WHAT MAKES A "GOOD" METAPHOR? 383
The troubles are first conceived of as missiles— "slings and arrows"—
of fortune, but then they are characterized as a "sea of troubles."
One can "take arms" against a contingent of bowmen, but how can
one take arms against a sea? It is possible to conceive of myriad
troubles as a sea; and a great armed host, with its advancing ranks
and with its seemingly infinite reserves, ready to come up to replace
them, may be thought of as a sea. There is a sort of link, therefore,
between "slings and arrows of outrageous fortune" and "sea of
troubles." Yet do we not get into an absurdity when other elements
of the two figures are brought together as Shakespeare brings them
together here? How can a man take arms against the sea (as one
might against an army)? Only a madman would try to fight the
sea, as the Irish warrior Cuchulain was fabled to have done. Per-
haps so; but if so, there may be method in Hamlet's madness here
(and method in Shakespeare's arrangement of metaphors). The
troubles that attack Hamlet are, like the sea, infinite. He can hardly
hope to conquer them. But if he advances courageously into the
waves, he may "end them" nonetheless; for in swallowing him up,
his troubles end themselves: "by the sleep [of death] ... we
end / The heartache, and the thousand natural shocks / That flesh
is heir to." The figure is daring and it is difficult, but it does not
involve an absurdity.
Consider another sequence of metaphors which may seem even
more confusingly mixed. In the following passage Macbeth ex-
presses his sense of the meaninglessness of life:
... all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!
Life's but a walking shadow; a poor player,
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage,
And then is heard no more: it is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing.
Here again the images may seem to have no connection with one
another; but closer reading indicates that the images are knit to-
gether rather tightly.
Death is a sleep. Our bed is the dust from which we came. The
sun itself is finally but a candle by which we are lighted to this bed.
Macbeth, apathetic and wearied, feels ready for the bed of death,
384 METAPHOR
and he needs no candle to find it. He says, "Out, out, brief candle !"
But the image of the candle (which one carries to light himself to
bed) suggests another figure to signify the emptiness of life, the
shadow. (Life has no substance; it is mere appearance.) And this
figure suggests another: life is like an actor who plays a role.
The actor gives us but a shadow, an appearance. Moreover, the
appearance is brief: he "struts and frets" his little "hour upon the
stage/' With the words "And then is heard no more/' we shift from
a visual to an auditory figure. The actor's speech— considered coldly
and in detachment, as by a spectator who has just come into the
theater in the middle of the play— strikes the ear as a meaningless
rant. It is like the speech of an idiot: words pour forth, there is
sound and fury, but no meaning is conveyed. In this passage, then,
the various metaphors are related to each other; they grow out of
each other; and they enrich and develop a total meaning which is
consistent with itself.
These two examples can hardly do more than suggest some of
the possible justifications for certain kinds of "mixed" metaphor.
The subject, moreover, is too complex for one to lay down rules
which will indicate when metaphor is improperly "mixed" and
when it is not. But one common-sense principle is clear enough.
Looking at the problem from the standpoint of the writer, we may
say that he should not arouse expectations which he does not gratify.
If he leads the reader to expect a consistent elaboration of a figure,
he becomes inconsistent at his peril.
In general, however, as writers, our best defense against absurdly
mixed metaphors on the one hand, and against rigid theories of
consistency on the other, is to be found in a sound conception of
the function of metaphor. Let us repeat: /metaphor is not a mere
decoration. It is not an illustration— not a point-to-point analogical
likeness. It is not an alternate naming of the thing which is chosen
because it is "prettier" or "simpler." Rather it is our great instru-
ment for interpreting the thing in question. Metaphors are new
namings which seize upon the thing and interpret it lovingly, rev-
erently, contemptuously, mockingly, coldly, or warmly as the skill-
ful author may desire. The aptness of a comparison, therefore,
cannot be determined in isolation. The author's larger purpose, and
the whole context in which the comparison occurs, must be taken
into account.
WHAT MAKES A "GOOD" METAPHOR? 385
Because of the delicacy and the importance of these relations
between the terms of a metaphor and between the metaphor and
its context, we have chosen not to present the reader with the
classifications of figurative language that are frequently made in
rhetoric books. For many of these classifications are of no funda-
mental importance. We have not distinguished, for example, from
metaphorical language in general, SIMILE (an explicit comparison,
usually announced by like or as: "she glided into the room like a
swan," "as brittle as ice") or METONYMY (the use of a part to desig-
nate the whole: "he employed twenty hands on his farm"), and so
on. Such classifications, in our considered opinion, are of little im-
portance to the practicing writer. V
METAPHOR AND SYMBOL
There is, however, one further important relationship that ought
to be specified: the relation of metaphor to SYMBOL. A symbol is a
kind of sign. Thus, the flag is a symbol of the nation; the cross, of
Christianity; the letter a, of a particular vowel sound (or actually
in modern English, of a particular group of vowel sounds). Symbols
of this sort are conventional and arbitrary signs. For example, it is
conceivable that the United States of America might have adopted
some other flag, and once we had agreed to think of it as our flag,
that flag would have symbolized our nation just as much as Old
Glory now does. The Greek letter, alpha, corresponds to our Roman
letter a, though it has a somewhat different shape, thus a. Mathe-
matical and scientific symbols likewise are conventional and arbi-
trary signs.
Now metaphor has nothing to do with this kind of conventional
symbolism. In metaphor, as we have seen, words are not used liter-
ally but are extended beyond their conventional meanings. Yet
there is another kind of symbol which is not conventional and arbi-
trary. Washing one's hands, for example, does not necessarily signify
that one feels guilt. It usually means no more than that one wants
to get his hands clean. But when Shakespeare has Lady Macbeth,
in the sleep-walking scene in Macbeth, attempt to wash the imagi-
nary blood from her hands, her action becomes a symbol of her
feeling of guilt. The simple and ordinarily unimportant act turns
386 METAPHOR
into a revelation of character—becomes endowed with symbolic
force. Likewise, in De Maupassant's story, "The Diamond Neck-
lace" ( p. 273 ) , the paste diamonds come to stand for the vanity and
emptiness for which Madame Loisel has sacrificed her youth. With
this kind of symbolism, metaphor does have something in common.
In metaphor, a word is extended to a new meaning; in this kind
of symbolism, an object or incident is made to take on a larger
meaning. In the simplest terms, we may say that metaphor has to
do with the word (or the idea) and symbolism with the thing (or
the action).
METAPHOR AND THE CREATIVE
IMAGINATION
The distinction between such created symbols and merely arbi-
trary symbols can throw much light on the problem of metaphor.
In the first place, most of the effective symbols in literature, since
they are not arbitrary signs, are instances of the metaphorical proc-
ess—that is, they represent the endowing of some concrete object
or incident with further meaning. In "The Diamond Necklace/' for
example, the revelation that the diamonds, for which so much has
been sacrificed, are really paste becomes a kind of metaphor. A
writer rarely finds a symbol ready-made for him: he creates his
important symbols by the same process as that by which he creates
his other metaphors.
In the second place, a consideration of symbols throws light on
the problems that have to do with the validity of metaphor. Some
objects and incidents do seem to have a "natural" symbolic mean-
ing. Thus, blood may seem to be a natural symbol for violence;
darkness, for evil; or light, for truth. In a sense blood, darkness,
and light are such natural symbols; yet we need to observe two
things: (1) the "natural" symbolism is much more vague and gen-
eral than at first sight might be supposed. Blood can be used—
and has been used— to symbolize a wealth of very different things:
courage or heredity or race. Moreover, darkness can be used to
symbolize, not evil but goodness: at least one poet has used dark-
ness in this way. Henry Vaughan's poem "The Night" celebrates
darkness as the proper time for spiritual meditation and communion
METAPHOR AND THE CREATIVE IMAGINATION 387
with God. Moreover, light can symbolize evil: i.e., the hard, hot
light of the desert can be made to suggest the mocking falsity of
the mirage. (2) Even the natural and obvious symbols are inef-
fective unless they are presented to us freshly and dramatically.
The writer cannot use them merely at the conventional level and
still use them effectively. The moment that the word for the object
in question has become frozen at a certain level of significance, it
becomes a mere sign— an alternate name— and its emotional power
has all but vanished. Thus, as we have seen, the "eye of a needle"
no longer suggests any association with the human eye: "eye" has
become merely the conventional name for the thread-hole. No
metaphorical transfer is made: the original transfer of meaning
has become fixed permanently.
The ideal scientific language, it is sometimes said, would not use
metaphor at all: there would be one precise term for every object,
a term which would mean only one thing. For men who are irri-
tated by the ambiguities and confusions of metaphor, such a pros-
pect is tempting. A few years ago, Mr. Stuart Chase (in The
Tyranny of Words) came close to recommending that we abandon
metaphor altogether in favor of a strict, unambiguous use of words.
(Centuries earlier, in 1667, Thomas Sprat, the historian of the Royal
Society, complimented this group of new scientists on having "ex-
acted from all their members, a close, naked, natural way of speak-
ing; positive expressions; clear sense; a native easiness: bringing
all things as near the mathematical plainness as they can/')
But such a language, though admirable for exact scientific pur-
poses—mathematical formulae are better still (p. 342)— would be an
excessively limited instrument for other purposes. Now science
properly strives toward pure notation: thus, the specific gravity of
iron at 20° C. is 7.86; granite is an igneous rock; 2 + 2 = 4. But
most that we have to say is not pure notation: we want to tell a joke
or to describe a knockout or to say what it feels like to be in love.
Our normal discourse is "impure" with our own interpretations,
evaluations, and insights. And these interpretations are too inti-
mately related to ourselves for us to have a precise, ready-made
term for each thing that we have to say. It is better to have a lan-
guage which possesses flexibility— one which can be shaped and
re-formed to the most special use.
388 METAPHOR
SUMMARY
^METAPHOR is the use of a concrete term to signify a wider, more
general relationship. Language began as metaphor. Men came to
extend concrete terms by analogy to further relationships., Yet, basic
as the metaphorical process is, we tend to misapprehend its real
importance^ We tend to think of metaphor as a kind of external
decoration which may be applied or not, as the writer chooses, to
the essential statement, a statement which we think of as nakedly
logical.)
But, just as the development of language is from the concrete
to the abstract, not from the abstract to the concrete, so the normal
method of composition is from the concrete to the more abstract,
not from abstract schematic outlines to metaphorical expression^
The compulsion to use slang, for example, is an indication of tKe
normality of metaphor as opposed to abstract statement/ For slang,
though it is usually shabby and worn-out metaphor, is, nonetheless
metaphor; and the impulse to use it represents a basically sound
human impulse. Consequently, the most fruitful attitude toward
the misuse of slang will be that which acknowledges the natural
tendency toward metaphor and attempts to replace worn and inac-
curate metaphor with fresh and accurate metaphor.
{The misuse of metaphor is a peculiarly significant ailment of con-
temporary prose. It testifies, perhaps, to the fact that we have mis-
conceived the real function of metaphor, and having misconceived
it, blunder in our practice.*
f Since the metaphorical process is central to language, the con-
ventional emphases on metaphor as (1) illustrative or (2) decorative
go astray by suggesting that metaphor merely adds something un-
essential to expression. The primary function of metaphor is to
interpret experience for us— to mold and control attitudes. In all
discourse (except that which aspires to strict scientific notation)
this interpretative element is central. Metaphor, then, is not to be
thought of as a colorful but inaccurate way of saying something.
What we usually have to "say" includes this aspect of interpreta-
tion, and good metaphor has therefore its own kind of accuracy^
, The fact that metaphor is used primarily to control attitudes has
an important bearing on the problem of the validitv of metaphor.
SUMMARY 389
If we misunderstand metaphor, taking it to be simply a kind of
loose analogy, then the best metaphors will be those in which the
items compared are physically most nearly alike; and we shall be
disposed to reject all comparisons in which there is no close physi
cal resemblance between the items compared. If, on the contrary,
we see that metaphor is one of our prime instruments of interpreta
tion, we may be prepared to admit a large interpretative (subjec-
tive) element in metaphor, and further, to understand that the ele-
ment of contrast is necessary and important.
(A metaphor is a kind of symbol: that is, the concrete particular
comes to stand for something larger than itself. It is not, of course,
an arbitrary symbol like the cross or the flag or the letter A. For
when the metaphor no longer makes a transfer of meaning, it is a
dead metaphor just as the arbitrary symbol is frozen to one mean-
ing and means one, and only one, thing. But the great literary
symbols (and many humbler ones in our daily experience) do not
have their meaning assigned to them by an arbitrary convention.
They derive their meanings from a special context— they come to
mean something special and untranslatable. In this sense, they are
metaphors. We may use the term symbol when we think of the sign
itself; the term metaphor when we think of the process of transfer
of meaning.
When men think of the neatness and logical accuracy given by
scientific terms, they sometimes long for the elimination of all meta-
phor. But reflection indicates that such a language of terms, each
frozen to one denotation, is impossible: such a language could
express only "public/* agreed-upon relationships. With the elimina-
tion of the possibility of metaphor we should have eliminated con-
notations, the whole realm of personal evaluations through lan-
guage, and all those elements which make language flexible and
alive. For metaphor is ultimately the power to take a given and
known term and bend it to a fresher and richer use.
CHAPTER
12
Situation and Tone
TONE AS THE EXPRESSION OF ATTITUDE
EVERY piece of discourse implies a particular situation. A man is
attempting to convince a hostile audience; or a mother is attempting
to coax a child into doing something which the child dislikes; or a
legislator, who can assume agreement on ends, is trying to persuade
his colleagues that certain procedures constitute the best means
by which to secure these ends. Even technical treatises, which
attempt no persuasion, imply a special situation: the writer assumes
that he is writing for people whose interest in the truth is so absorb-
ing that rhetorical persuasions would be unnecessary and even posi-
tively irritating.
But if every discourse implies a situation in which the writer is
related to his audience, by the same token every piece of discourse
implies a certain TONE. This term "tone" is based frankly on a meta-
phor. We all know how important in actual speech the tone of voice
may be in indicating the precise meaning of the words themselves.
For instance, the words "very well," uttered in a certain tone of
voice, may imply enthusiastic agreement, but spoken in another
tone of voice they may indicate nothing more than surly compli-
ance. The "tone" of a piece of writing, in the same way, may show
the writer's attitude, and in so doing may heavily qualify the literal
meanings of the words themselves.
The importance of tone is easily illustrated by the misunder-
standings which personal letters so often provoke. In conversation
even a rather clumsy and inadequate knowledge of language can be
TONE AS THE EXPRESSION OF ATTITUDE 391
so supplemented by the actual tone of the voice that little serious
misunderstanding will occur. But when such a speaker writes a
letter— where, of course, the "tone of voice" has to be implied by
the words themselves— all sorts of misunderstandings can occur5
and frequently do occur. The practiced writer, on the other hand,
is able, even in this medium, to control what we have called the
"tone."
Some of the more obvious devices for controlling tone have al-
ready been discussed in Chapter 10 ( pp. 349-52 ) . There we saw that
diction itself is a most important means of expressing our ATTITUDES.
We can refer to a policeman as an "officer" or as a "cop"; we can
say "farmer" or "rube." There are other obvious means by which
we express our attitudes: by adjectives ("projectile adjectives" we
called them) which make direct valuations (nice, good, fine, miser-
able, and so on) and by simple comparisons which are also emo-
tional and subjective, with little or no objective content ("He's a
good egg," "She's a peach"). Such devices for indicating tone are
so simple that they could be discussed, as they have been, in the
chapter on diction. But tone is a pervasive thing which character-
izes a whole composition, and diction, strictly considered, is only
one of the many elements which the writer must manage in order
to secure a proper tone. In the pages that follow we are to consider
some of the larger problems.
THE IMPORTANCE OF TONE
In most of our writing the management of tone is an important
problem, for in most of our writing our attitudes are highly rele-
vant. An important part of what we are trying to "communicate"
is the attitude itself. This is true not only of poetry and fiction, it is
true also of most essays, sermons, orations, and letters. It is even
true of much of what we are inclined to regard as pure exposition.
For even in expository writing the author is rarely content to give
us mere facts, or mere propositions. He feels that to do this is to be
painfully and technically "dry."
A glance at the so-called articles of information in magazines
like the Atlantic and Harper's will indicate that even here the
establishment of the appropriate tone is of the highest importance.
For example, a typical expository article in Harpers (Wolfgang
392 SITUATION AND TONE
Langewiesche's "Making the Airplane Behave," May 1942) makes
very special use of tone, and is thus anything but a mechanically
"dry" piece of exposition. The author assumes that the reader is a
reasonably intelligent person who has a fairly wide acquaintance
with the modern world; specifically, that he knows how to drive an
automobile, that he does not have a technical equipment in physics,
but that he does have enough common sense to follow a clear illus-
tration. The exposition does not insist on technicalities any more
than the writer stands on his own dignity. His attitude toward his
reader is definitely informal. The tone of his article suggests that
flying is interesting and important, but that the author's attitude
toward it is sprightly.
How do we know all this? Well, consider the following para-
graph.
You try, for instance, steep turns in a strong wind. The ship will go
in some crazy, wrong-looking attitude; but when you check your instru-
ments you find that it is doing a correct job of flying and that the seat
of your pants and your eyes would have tricked you had you been
allowed to do the "co-ordinating/7
The informal "you try" rather than the more formal "one tries";
the phrase "the seat of your pants" rather than the more formal
"tactile pressure of the plane"; the informal "tricked" rather than
the more formal "deceived"— all of these point to the tone— that is,
they indicate the attitude which the author is taking toward his
audience and toward his subject matter.
WHAT DETERMINES TONE?
If, however, we are to define tone as the reflection of the author's
attitude, it is necessary to make a simple distinction. Tone is the
reflection of the author's attitude toward what? Toward his reader?
Or toward his material? For example, if one is writing about the
New Deal, his attitude may be one of admiration or contempt,
of approval or disapproval. That attitude will presumably color
the writing and constitute one source of its tone. But there is an-
other source to be considered: let us suppose that the writer does
approve of the New Deal. When he writes to persuade a hostile
audience he will probably adopt a tone quite different from that
WHAT DETERMINES TONE? 393
which he uses when he addresses himself to a friendly audience.
Moreover, he may wish to take into account the fact that his reader
is a child or an adult, a banker or a welder, a New Englander or a
Midwesterner. The writer's attitude toward his reader, therefore,
may be important in determining tone.
As we shall see later, there are many kinds of writing in which
the distinction between attitude toward material and attitude to-
ward audience has little importance. But in many kinds of writing
where there is a strong practical purpose— political speeches, ser-
mons, advertisements, propaganda— the writer's attitude toward his
audience is of immense importance. It may be the primary determi-
nant of the tone, and indeed of the whole strategy of the rhetorical
organization.
TONE AS AN ADJUSTMENT TO THE WRITER'S AUDIENCE
Let us consider some fairly obvious instances of tone determined
by the nature of the audience. Here is an advertisement for a
dandruff remover. Above a picture of two young women talking,
there is the caption, "It's Listerine, for you chum , . . but quick!
Those innocent-looking flakes and scales you see on scalp, hair or
dress-shoulders, are a warning. . . . This is no time to fool around
with smelly lotions or sticky salves that can't kill germs. You need
antiseptic action . . . and you need it quick."
The young women in the picture are clearly friends, and the
opening caption is represented as the comment of one to the other.
But the advice as given to a chum is meant to carry over to the
reader. As the advertisement frankly goes on to address the reader,
"This is no time to fool around with smelly lotions. . . . You need
antiseptic action. . . ."
What is the attitude toward the reader, then? The attitude of a
sprightly, intimate friend whose advice can be frank and straight
from the shoulder.
Let us look at another advertisement. This one, printed in color,
depicts a young woman seated on a luxurious bed looking dreamily
at a handsome blanket. The caption begins "For you to whom
beauty is a necessity. . . . Yours is a nature that thrives on beauty.
. . . Seize it as a vital factor in your daily living. To you a blanket
should be more than a source of warmth. Exquisite colors, luxuri-
394 SITUATION AND TONE
ously deep-nap, rich virgin-wool loveliness— these awaken in you an
emotional response far beyond the material."
These statements, of course, are not addressed merely to the
young woman pictured in the advertisement. They are addressed
to the reader as well, and they make certain flattering assumptions
about the reader: that she is a young woman of means who is at
home with the luxurious and who has a soul which deserves and
requires beauty as a necessity. Coarser natures may buy blankets
simply for warmth, but you, dear and lovely reader, ought to have
something more— even in a blanket.
The attitude toward the reader, of course, need not be flattering.
Here follows an example of a very different tone, though like the
advertisements just discussed, the tone here also is primarily con-
ditioned by the writer's attitude toward his reader. The example is
a letter written by Dr. Samuel Johnson to James Macpherson. In
the 1760's Macpherson had published several volumes of poetry
which he claimed to have translated from Gaelic l originals. Dr.
Samuel Johnson refused to believe in the existence of any Gaelic
originals of which the disputed poems were translations. He openly
pronounced his opinion that they were Macpherson's own compo-
sition. In reply to Macpherson's demands that he retract this charge
Johnson wrote the following letter:
Mr. James Macpherson:
I received your foolish and impudent letter. Any violence offered me
I shall do my best to repel; and what I cannot do for myself, the law
shall do for me. I hope I shall never be deterred from detecting what I
think to be a cheat, by the menaces of a ruffian.
What would you have me retract? I thought your book an imposture;
I think it an imposture still. For this opinion I have given my reasons
to the publick, which I here dare you to refute. Your rage I defy. Your
abilities, since your Homer,2 are not so formidable; and what I hear of
your morals, inclines me to pay regard not to what you shall say, but
to what you shall prove. You may print this if you will.— SAM. JOHNSON.
A most important part of this letter is the attitude taken toward
Macpherson. For Johnson might have stated the "facts" in a form
1 The original Celtic language of the Scottish Highlands.
2 Macpherson had published a translation of Homer.
WHAT DETERMINES TONE? 395
as simple as this: "I continue to hold the view that the Macpherson
translations are fraudulent" or "I repeat that I shall not believe in
any Gaelic originals until they are produced." And if we argue that
Johnson's expression of fearlessness also is a "fact" with which the
letter concerns itself, even this fact might have been expressed very
differently: thus, "I have no intention of expressing a retraction"
or "I mean to stand my ground on this matter" or "I am sorry that
I can make no retraction since I feel that there is nothing to retract."
The tone is of the utmost importance, then. How shall we char-
acterize the tone of the letter as Johnson actually wrote it? No
paraphrase of the letter will do justice to the tone; and an abstract
description of the tone is clumsy as well as inadequate. For the full
realization of the tone, we shall have to return to the letter itself.
But one can point to some important elements of the tone: a manly
contempt of threats, a confidence in truth and in his own integrity,
perhaps even a trace of sardonic amusement at baffled and petty
rage.
The following excerpt consists of the opening paragraphs of the
first of The Drapiers Letters, letters which Jonathan Swift wrote
to the Irish people, warning them against accepting any of the coins
which one William Wood had been given a patent to mint. Swift
felt that acceptance and circulation of the coins would injure the
economy of Ireland.
Brethren, friends, countrymen and fellow-subjects, what I intend now
to say to you, is, next to your duty to God, and the care of your salva-
tion, of the greatest concern to yourselves, and your children; your
bread and clothing, and every common necessary of life entirely depend
upon it. Therefore I do most earnestly exhort you as men, as Christians,
as parents, and as lovers of your country, to read this paper with the
utmost attention, or get it read to you by others; which that you may
do at least expense, I have ordered the printer to sell it at the lowest
rate.
It is a great fault among you, that when a person writes with no other
intention than to do you good, you will not be at the pains to read his
advices: One copy of this paper may serve a dozen of you, which will
be less than a farthing apiece. It is your folly that you have no common
or general interest in your view, not even the wisest among you, neither
do you know or enquire, or care who are your friends, or who are your
enemies.
396 SITUATION AND TONE
Swift assumes that his audience is not a learned one. He adopts
the simplest language. His phrase "or get it read to you" indicates
that he assumes, further, that many of the people whom he wishes
to reach cannot read. But in addition to the almost painful effort
to make himself completely clear, Swift implies that his readers are
childishly thoughtless, taking too little care of their own interests,
and confused as to their real friends. The tone is one of grave and
patient admonition. Swift emphasizes the importance of what he
is going to say; he appeals to his readers in terms of their deepest
allegiances as "Christians, as parents, and as lovers of [their] coun-
try," and patiently makes clear how little the paper will cost such
readers. He does not hesitate to tax their "folly," folly which ren-
ders them blind as to who their real friends are. The last point is,
of course, of crucial importance for the effectiveness of Swift's tract.
For unless his readers are willing to see that he is their real friend,
he can hardly expect that they will follow his advice.
TONE AS AN ADJUSTMENT TO THE WRITER'S MATERIAL
It might seem appropriate, just at this point, to take up the mat-
ter of formality and informality of tone, for it would seem that the
degree of formality of the utterance is largely determined by the
kind of audience that the author addresses. In any event, the degree
of formality is ostensibly an adjustment of manner to the audience
addressed. For example, the writer may choose to treat his reader
as a friend with whom he converses intimately and even casually.
Or the author may choose to address him with a good deal more
ceremony, respectful of his dignity and careful to take no liberties.
Even so, by writing "the author may choose," we have indicated
that formality or informality of tone is not determined automatically
by the nature of the audience addressed. The occasion may deter-
mine the tone even more than the audience. A serious subject, for
example, may call for a certain formality of tone, even though the
writer is addressing friends with whom he moves on terms of inti-
macy; and actually the writer most often addresses a general reader
whom he does not know personally, whom he may never see, and
whom he chooses to approach formally or informally because of
the nature of his subject and of his strategy for handling the subject.
With this matter of formality and informality, therefore, we have
actually moved away from the audience as the determiner of tone
WHAT DETERMINES TONE? 397
into more general problems of tone, problems in which tone is
shaped by other considerations.
But though we now turn to these more general problems of tone,
we have probably been wise to begin with the problem in its
easiest form, where there is a definite and particular audience to be
placated, defied, cajoled, mollified, or in general induced to act in a
certain way.
But what of the other kinds of writing in which the audience
addressed is less special and in which the writer is less interested
in an immediate result? What of fiction, poetry, formal essays,
articles of information? Is tone of no importance in these? Quite
the contrary, even though no matter of practical expedience is in-
volved. The tone of such writing may be of immense importance,
for the tone frequently suggests how we are to "take" what is said.
TONE AS A QUALIFICATION OF MEANING
A little reflection will show that full meaning is rarely conveyed
by literal statements. We constantly find that we must "read be-
tween the lines" in order to understand a letter, or to take into
account the tone of voice and the facial expressions in our conver-
sation with a friend. To take a simple example, John tells Ben:
"You have done well"; but the simple statement can convey any-
thing from hearty commendation to hesitant and reluctant ap-
proval, depending upon the way in which John says these words.
We can go further: "You have done well" can even mean, when
spoken in a certain tone of voice, that Ben has not done well at all,
for John may be speaking ironically.
IRONY AS A MODE OF TONE
IRONY always involves a discrepancy between the literal meaning
of a statement and the actual meaning. The ironical statement says
one thing on the surface, in actuality something rather different
In a lighthearted, laughingly ironical statement the literal meaning
may be only partially qualified; in a bitter and obvious irony (such
as we call SARCASM), the literal meaning may be entirely reversed.
Between delicate ironical qualification of a statement and sarcastic
reversal of a statement there are a thousand possible shadings, and
it is perhaps a pity that we do not have specific terms for them.
398 SITUATION AND TONE
But on second thought, our lack of the terms may be no real handi-
cap. What is important is that we be aware of the fact of ironical
qualification. Such qualification is important, even in everyday
practical writing; and if we are to learn to write, we must learn
how to qualify our statements so as to convey precisely what we
want to say, and only what we want to say.
We can say, then, that even in writing in which there is no prac-
tical problem of adjustment to a particular audience, even in writ-
ing addressed to an ideal reader, the matter of tone is of great
consequence. In fiction, for example, mastery of tone may become
almost the whole consequence; for tone, we must remember, repre-
sents the author's total attitude as it is reflected in the work; the
tone conveys the final shadings of meaning and interpretation which
he wishes to convey.
Tone may of course be handled successfully or unsuccessfully,
and a failure in tone can be thoroughly disastrous. Let us illus-
trate with examples both of failure and of success.
OVERSTATEMENT AND UNDERSTATEMENT
The following passage consists of the last two paragraphs of
Bret Harte's story, "The Outcasts of Poker Flat." In the story the
gambler and the prostitute rise to heroism as they try to shelter and
protect the innocent girl who has fallen into their company when
the whole party is overtaken by a severe snow storm in the moun-
tains. The paragraphs that follow describe the last days of the two
women, the innocent girl and the prostitute.
The wind lulled as if it feared to waken them. Feathery drifts of snow,
shaken from the long pine boughs, flew like white-winged birds, and
settled about them as they slept. The moon through the rifted clouds
looked down upon what had been the camp. But all human stain, all
trace of earthly travail, was hidden beneath the spotless mantle merci-
fully flung from above.
They slept all day that day and the next, nor did they waken when
voices and footsteps broke the silence of the camp. And when pitying
fingers brushed the snow from their wan faces, you could scarcely have
told from the equal peace that dwelt upon them which was she that
had sinned.
Here the author, in his anxiety to stress the pathos of the scene
and the redemption of the fallen woman, is not content to let the
TONE AS A QUALIFICATION OF MEANING 399
scene speak for itself. The wind "lulls'* the two women; the moon
looks down upon them; "a spotless mantle" is "mercifully flung
from above." The pseudopoetic language, the suggestion that nature
mercifully hides "all human stain," the general absence of restraint
and reserve—all indicate that the tone here is one of SENTIMENTAL-
ITY; that is, emotion in excess of the occasion. The author wants his
reader to respond powerfully and sympathetically. We are to feel
the pathos of the women's death.
What was Bret Harte's own attitude? One has to conclude that
either he himself was "soft" (that is, that Bret Harte was taken in by
his own attempt to "work up" an effect); or else that he was cyni-
cally trying to seduce his reader into an emotional response which
is not itself justified by the dramatic occasion that he provided.
In either case most sensitive readers will feel that the tone is senti-
mental. Sentimentality usually betrays itself by a conscious strain
to work up the reader's feelings. Of course, in a sense, any appeal
to our emotions represents an attempt "to work up" the effect. But
it is one thing to do this skillfully and legitimately by presenting a
scene with imaginative power, and it is quite a different thing to
cram the emotion down the reader's throat. Readers may disagree
on whether the response has been evoked legitimately or illegiti-
mately (that is, sentimentally), but the principle involved is cru-
cial. Otherwise any writer, however tawdry or mawkish, could
demand our response simply by making a direct assault on our
feelings.
Contrast with the passage from Bret Harte the following passage
(from Hemingway's A Farewell to Arms), which describes an inci-
dent in the retreat from Caporetto in World War I. The Germans
have broken through the Italian lines, and the speaker, an American
serving with the ambulances attached to the Italian army, has
just been picked up by the Italian battle police, who are question-
ing all who are separated from their units.
This officer too was separated from his troops. He was not allowed to
make an explanation. He cried when they read the sentence from the
pad of paper, and they were questioning another when they shot him.
They made a point of being intent on questioning the next man while the
man who had been questioned before was being shot. In this way there
was obviously nothing they could do about it. I did not know whether
I should wait to be questioned or make a break now. I was obviously a
400 SITUATION AND TONE
German in Italian uniform. I saw how their minds worked; if they had
minds and if they worked. They were all young men and they were
saving their country. The second army was being re-formed beyond the
Tagliamento. They were executing officers of the rank of major and
above who were separated from their troops. They were dealing sum-
marily with German agitators in Italian uniform. They wore steel hel-
mets. Only two of us had steel helmets. Some of the carabinieri had
them. The other carabinieri wore the wide hat. Airplanes we called
them. We stood in the rain and were taken out one at a time to be ques-
tioned and shot. So far they had shot every one they had questioned.
The questioners had that beautiful detachment and devotion to stern
justice of men dealing in death without being in any danger of it. They
were questioning a full colonel of a line regiment.— ERNEST HEMINGWAY:
A Farewell to Arms, Chap. 30.3
This passage ably illustrates the effectiveness in some contexts
of UNDERSTATEMENT. The speaker's comments on the actions of his
captors are studiedly dry. He allows the actions to speak for them-
selves, his own commentary upon them being implied by the very
act of refraining from the expected comment. The short sentences,
the summary style, the repetitions— all point up the irony. (Under-
statement is a form of irony: the ironical contrast inheres in the
discrepancy between what one would be expected to say and his
actual refusal to say it.) Understatement then is the staple rhetorical
device here, but the irony is occasionally allowed to become overt
in such a passage as "if they had minds and if they worked/'
Why does the author (who has on the whole avoided detailed
description) give us the detail about the steel helmets? Because
it points farther the ironical contrast: the men who have been under
fire have not had the protection of the helmets. The men who are
questioning them with that "devotion to stern justice of men deal-
ing in death without being in any danger of it" do not need the
helmets which they wear. Indeed, the steel helmets become a kind
of symbol of the men who wear them: their reasoning and their
justice is "steel-headed"— in a double sense.
Repetition in this passage also becomes an important adjunct
of the ironical understatement. The word "questioned" (or "ques-
tioning") for example, occurs in this passage no less than seven
3 From A Farewell to Arms by Ernest Hemingway, copyright, 1929, by
Charles Scribner's Sons.
TONE AS A QUALIFICATION OF MEANING 401
times. As first used, it is used innocently and normally: it merely
means "interrogated," with the implication that answers are ex-
pected and that the answers given are attended to. But by the end
of the passage it has become "loaded" with other meanings: it has
come to mean to the speaker, and to us, "sentenced to death." That
is, the "questioning" is an empty form; the answers do not matter,
No one will pay attention to them anyway. But the speaker, as the
narration continues, does not change his term or qualify it. He is
content to continue to use the word "questioned" or "questioning,""
and his continuing to repeat the original word becomes thus a form
of understatement.
If the tone of this excerpt from A Farewell to Arms can fairly be
described as that of understatement, the tone of the excerpt from
Bret Harte is that of OVERSTATEMENT. But we are not, of course, to
conclude that understatement is always successful or that over-
statement always fails. The point to be made, rather, is this: that,
for the writer of fiction and poetry, tone is important, just as im-
portant as it is for the writer who wishes to produce some prac-
tical effect. True, the poet or the writer of fiction can assume a
fixed audience— an ideal reader— but even so, his attitude toward his
material is of the utmost importance— even if he is writing con-
sciously only for himself. It is easy to see that the political writer,
say, uses rhetorical blandishments at his peril; if he seems to play
fast and loose with the truth, he may defeat his purpose by con-
vincing his reader that he is using a specious rhetoric— trying to per-
suade the reader to accept a lie by playing on his emotions. But the
writer of poetry and fiction, we ought to observe, does not try to
win acceptance of a lie either— fiction, though not "true," is not a
lie. And even though his fiction is designed to stir the reader's
emotions, he is not thereby entitled to use any device calculated
to stir the emotions. For him, too, there is a problem of integrity;
the emotional response must seem to spring legitimately from the
situation which he presents.
SOME PRACTICAL DON'TS
The problem of tone, then, is most important. There are obvi-
ously too many shadings of tone for us to be able to set up ar
402 SITUATION AND TONE
elaborate classification. But it is possible to set down a few "don'ts"
which have a very general application.
1. Writing down. One must not "write down" to his audience.
The sense of oversimple statement and painfully careful explana-
tion can disgust the reader as quickly as any offense of which the
writer is capable. Prose which is properly suited to an audience of
eight-year-olds would prove completely tiresome, or, on the other
hand, unintentionally funny, to a mature audience. Swift, for ex-
ample, would have adopted a very different tone, had The Drapiers
Letters been addressed to a lettered audience.
2. False enthusiasm. The reader is also likely to resent any hint
of synthetic breeziness and false camaraderie. It is a fault into which
modern advertising is tending to press the whole civilization. Bug-
eyed young matrons oo-la-la-ing over the purchase of sheets or
toothbrushes, and the all-too-infectious joviality of supersalesmen,
more and more fill the advertisements. The writer obviously wishes
to gain a kind of liveliness and warmth in his style, but an artificial
concoction of informality and sprightliness can be more depressing
than a rather painful dryness.
3. Sentimentality. This third fault is hardly likely to appear in
most simple expository writing, but as we have seen in earlier
chapters there is very little writing which is "simple expository."
Sentimentality may show itself as simply gushiness or as a kind of
hair-trigger emotional sensitiveness. But whatever form it takes,
sentimentality always involves an implied demand, on the part of
the writer, for more emotional response than the situation war-
rants; and it implies, on the part of the sentimental reader, a will-
ingness to respond emotionally when the response is not actually
justified.
SOME PRACTICAL APPLICATIONS
It scarcely needs to be said that the rules given on page 401 must
not be applied mechanically. The problem of attitude is intimately
bound up with the particular occasion presented, and what would
be "writing down" in one situation might possibly be overwriting
in another situation. Perhaps our best mode of procedure is to con-
sider a series of examples of tone as growing out of particular
situations.
SOME PRACTICAL APPLICATIONS 403
TONE IN PERSUASION
First let us consider an example of persuasive exposition. In
the passage that follows, Thomas Huxley is writing for an audience
of intelligent laymen about scientific method. It is a nontechnical
audience, but it is an audience capable of following an argument.
Huxley takes pains to make himself clear, but he is not "writing
down." In this passage he is concluding his argument that parts of
England were once covered by the sea, and going on to argue that
the period during which they were covered by the sea must have
been a very long one.
I think you will now allow that I did not overstate my case when I
asserted that we have as strong grounds for believing that all the vast
area of dry land, at present occupied by the chalk, was once at the
bottom of the sea, as we have for any matter of history whatever; while
there is no justification for any other belief.
No less certain it is that the time during which the countries we now
call south-east England, France, Germany, Poland, Russia, Egypt, Arabia,
Syria, were more or less completely covered by a deep sea, was of con-
siderable duration. We have already seen that the chalk is, in places, more
than a thousand feet thick. I think you will agree with me, that it must
have taken some time for the skeletons of animalcules of a hundredth
of an inch in diameter to heap up such a mass as that. I have said that
throughout the thickness of the chalk the remains of other animals are
scattered. These remains are often in the most exquisite state of preserva-
tion. The valves of the shellfishes are commonly adherent; the long
spines of some of the sea-urchins, which would be detached by the
smallest jar, often remain in their places. In a word, it is certain that
these animals have lived and died when the place which they now
occupy was the surface of as much of the chalk as had then been de-
posited; and that each has been covered up by the layer of Globigerina
mud, upon which the creatures imbedded a little higher up have, in
like manner, lived and died. But some of these remains prove the
existence of reptiles of vast size in the chalk sea. These lived their time,
and had their ancestors and descendants, which assuredly implies time,
reptiles being of slow growth.— THOMAS HUXLEY: "On a Piece of Chalk/*
Discourses.
It will of course occur to the reader that Huxley might have
shortened his discussion considerably by omitting such phrases as
"I think that you will now allow," "I think you will agree with me,"
404 SITUATION AND TONE
"we have already seen," "I have said that/' "it is certain that." Why
did he include them? He included them because he wished to re-
assure his audience, to indicate to them the validity and reason-
ableness of the inferences he was making, and to make certain that
all seemed perfectly coherent. Such phrases, indeed, tell us a great
deal about the way in which Huxley envisaged his audience and
about his attitude toward that audience.
Huxley evidently respects his typical hearer, even though his
hearer has no technical knowledge of geology. Huxley does not
water down his conclusions for him. He refuses to overwhelm him
with authority. As a matter of fact, Huxley does just the reverse
of this: he presents him with the evidence, and attempts to show
him why certain conclusions and only certain conclusions can be
fairly inferred from the evidence. Huxley, it is obvious, has com-
plete confidence in the case that he is making; but his confidence
nowhere reflects itself as arrogance.
To take up one further illustration: Why does Huxley go to the
pains that he does to show that the easily detached spines of some
of the sea-urchins often remain in place? It is another evidence
of his respect for the intelligence of his audience. He does this
obviously in order to forestall the possible objection that the re-
mains of the sea-urchins were thrown up on the chalk at some later
date. That the spines are still in place indicates that the creatures
must "have lived and died when the place that they now occupy
was the surface of as much of the chalk as had then been de-
posited."
The next passage will illustrate persuasive argument.
From 1937, when he made his "quarantine" speech in Chicago until
the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor, President Roosevelt struggled with
the problem of making our bankrupt foreign position solvent. As early
as 1937 it was clear that the American situation demanded an immediate,
intensified expansion of our armed forces, the fortification of our strategic
commitments in Alaska, Guam, the Philippines, and Panama, and the
formation of arrangements for mutual aid with Great Britain, France,
and China— our obvious allies in an attack which was being prepared
against them and against us alike. But this prudent course was held to
be politically imprudent. This is another way of saying that the Ameri-
can people would not agree to protect their vital interests because they
had no foreign policy which disclosed their vital interests.
SOME PRACTICAL APPLICATIONS 405
Thus from 1937 to 1940 President Roosevelt moved anxiously and
hesitantly between his knowledge of what ought to be done and his
estimate of how much the people would understand what ought to be
done. I shall not attempt to answer the question whether he could have
made the people understand how great was their peril because their
commitments were totally unbalanced. The illusions of a century stood
in the way of their understanding, and it may be that no words, but
only the awful experience of total war, could even partially dispel the
illusion.— WALTER LIPPMANN: 17. S. Foreign Policy: Shield of the Repub-
lic, Chap. 4.4
Lippmann's general thesis is that we have lacked a meaningful
foreign policy for a very long time, and that our misunderstanding
of the problem has been general— not confined to one party or
group. The purpose of his book is to persuade the American citizen
to agree with him that the problem of foreign policy has been con-
sistently misunderstood, and to accept now a different conception
of it. But Lippmann's purpose is to win over to his thesis all Ameri-
can citizens, not merely those that are Republicans or those that are
Democrats.
In illustrating his thesis from an episode in Roosevelt's presi-
dency, it is not to Lippmann's purpose either to attack or to defend
Roosevelt. Presumably Lippmann is sympathetic with Roosevelt's
dilemma. But whether he is sympathetic or whether he is not, his
primary purpose in this book is to make his general point, if pos-
sible, without alienating the reader who may be enthusiastically
pro-Roosevelt or bitterly anti-Roosevelt. This purpose definitely
determines the tone of this passage.
How powerfully it determines the tone can easily be demon-
strated by rewriting a few of the sentences. Suppose Lippmann's
attitude toward Roosevelt were more sharply critical ( or that Lipp-
mann did not mind alienating the fiercely pro-Roosevelt reader).
Instead of "But this prudent course was held to be politically im-
prudent," he might have written: "But Roosevelt held this prudent
course to be politically imprudent," or more bitterly, "But Roose-
velt allowed political expediency to overrule what was the prudent
course for the nation." Again, in the first sentence of the second
paragraph, he might have substituted for "moved anxiously and
4 From Walter Lippmann, Foreign Policy: Shield of the Republic by per-
mission of Little, Brown and Company and the Atlantic Monthly Press.
406 SITUATION AND TONE
hesitantly" the one word "vacillated." In the next sentence, he
might have written, not '1 shall not attempt to answer the ques-
tion . . . ," but "I prefer not to try to answer the question," or
"Perhaps we had better leave to Roosevelt's conscience the ques-
tion/' Such changes as these, plus minor changes to bring the rest
of the passage into line with them, would alter the tone drasti-
cally, and with it, the total import of the whole passage.
SOME KINDS OF IRONY
In the passage that follows, the author, William Makepeace
Thackeray, makes his tone clearly evident, and indeed raucously
evident. The passage quoted is taken from Vanity Fair, Chap. 48.
The author has for a moment dropped his role as narrator of the
novel and describes an occasion on which he saw King George IV.
The King? There he was. Beefeaters were before the august box; the
Marquis of Steyne (Lord of the Powder Closet) and other great officers
of state were behind the chair on which he sate, He sate— florid of
face, portly of person, covered with orders, and in a rich curling head of
hair. How we sang, God Save Him! How the house rocked and shouted
with that magnificent music. . . . Ladies wept; mothers clasped their
children; some fainted with emotion. . . . Yes, we saw him. Fate cannot
deprive us of that. Others have seen Napoleon. Some few still exist who
have beheld Frederick the Great, Doctor Johnson, Marie Antoinette, etc.:
be it our reasonable boast to our children that we saw George the Good,
the Magnificent, the Great.
In this mock-ecstatic tribute to George IV, Thackeray makes use
of an obvious sarcasm. The literal profession of his awe of the
great person is completely reversed by the tone in which the pro-
fession is given. Though pretending to praise, Thackeray indicates
clearly enough what his real attitude is: by his exaggerated use of
capitals and italics; by his hyperbolic laudation; by the qualities
which he singles out for notice— "florid of face, portly of person."
Thackeray's sarcasm is almost too obvious. It verges on the bur-
lesque. But irony can be used in much more subtle and much more
effective fashion. Notice how John Dryden uses irony in his refer-
ence to Jeremy Collier in the passage quoted below. Collier, a
clergyman, had violently attacked the writers of plays, including
Dryden, for their obscenity and immorality. Here follows Dryden's
answer:
SOME PRACTICAL APPLICATIONS 407
I shall say the less of Mr. Collier, because in many things he has taxed
me justly; and I have pleaded guilty to all thoughts and expressions of
mine, which can be truly argued of obscenity, profaneness, or immoral-
ity, and retract them. If he be my enemy, let him triumph; if he be my
friend, as I have given him no personal occasion to be otherwise, he
will be glad of my repentance. It becomes me not to draw my pen in
the defense of a bad cause, when I have so often drawn it for a good
one. Yet it were not difficult to prove, that in many places he has per-
verted my meaning by his glosses, and interpreted my words into blas-
phemy and bawdry, of which they were not guilty. Besides that, he is
too much given to horse-play in his raillery, and comes to battle like a
dictator from the plough. I will not say, The Zeal of God's House has
eaten him up; but I am sure it has devoured some part of his good
manners and civility. It might also be doubted, whether it were alto-
gether zeal which prompted him to this rough manner of proceeding;
perhaps it became not one of his function to rake into the rubbish of
ancient and modern plays; a divine might have employed his pains to
better purpose, than in the nastiness of Plautus and Aristophanes, whose
examples, as they excuse not me, so it might be possibly supposed, that
he read them not without some pleasure.
It is highly important, in view of Dryden's later sentences, that
he should begin with a manly confession of his own guilt. Dryden
makes his confession quietly but quite positively— "I have pleaded
guilty to all thoughts ... if he be my friend ... he will be glad
of my repentance/' The next sentence— "It becomes me not to draw
my pen . . /'—breathes a confidence in his own general integrity
which accounts for the fact that he can afford to plead guilty, but
it also looks forward to the treatment which he proposes to deal
out to Collier because of the character of Collier's attack. Dryden's
own counterattack is gradually developed as the paragraph goes
on. It comes with deadly effect because it is made quietly and
because it has been prepared for. More obvious irony would make
his castigation of Collier seem heavy-handed and strained, As it is,
Dryden has managed to suggest powerfully a sense of his own
composure and self-confidence, and further to suggest Collier's
own frenetic and bad-humored attitude.
TONE IN PUBLIC UTTERANCE AND PRIVATE UTTERANCE
John Diyden's answer to Collier is, as we have just observed,
a fine example of the subtlety of tone that may be achieved by a
408 SITUATION AND TONE
writer who can count upon cultivated readers. The public orator
will usually aim at a different kind of effect and will make use of
rhetorical devices appropriate to that effect. The passage which
follows is the last paragraph of the now famous speech which
Winston Churchill delivered before the House of Commons on
June 4, 1940, just after the British Army had been successfully
removed from Dunkirk.
I have, myself, full confidence that if all do their duty, if nothing is
neglected, and if the best arrangements are made, as they are being
made, we shall prove ourselves once again able to defend our island
home, to ride out the storm of war, and to outlive the menace of
tyranny, if necessary for years, if necessaiy alone. At any rate, that is
what we are going to try to do. That is the resolve of His Majesty's
Government— every man of them. That is the will of Parliament and the
nation. The British Empire and the French Republic, linked together
in their cause and in their need, will defend to the death their native
soil, aiding each other like good comrades to the utmost of their strength.
Even though large tracts of Europe and many old and famous States
have fallen or may fall into the grip of the Gestapo and all the odious
apparatus of Nazi rule, we shall not flag or fail. We shall go on to the
end, we shall fight in France, we shall fight on the seas and oceans, we
shall fight with growing confidence and growing strength in the air,
we shall defend our island, whatever the cost may be, we shall fight
on the beaches, we shall fight on the landing grounds, we shall fight in
the fields and in the streets, we shall fight in the hills; we shall never
surrender, and even if, which I do not for a moment believe, this island
or a large part of it were subjugated and starving, then our Empire
beyond the seas, armed and guarded by the British Fleet, would carry
on the struggle, until, in God's good time, the new world, with all its
power and might, steps forth to the rescue and the liberation of the old.
—WINSTON CHURCHILL: Blood, Sweat, and Tears.5
Churchill's purpose was to rally the British people in a firm deter-
mination to continue their resistance in spite of the disastrous loss
of North France and the Channel ports. But he was speaking, of
course, also to a world audience, an audience which also had to be
given confidence in British determination to carry on the war.
Notice the amount of repetition in this closing paragraph. Is it
5 From Blood, Sweat, and Tears by Winston Churchill, copyright, 1941, by
G. P. Putnam's Sons.
SOME PRACTICAL APPLICATIONS 409
justified? Why does it not grow monotonous? Would it be par-
ticularly effective in oral delivery? Notice too that the specification
of the places where the British will continue to fight makes a kind
of progression, moving from France, from which the British Army
had just been evacuated, to "our island," and then on to "our
Empire beyond the seas/' Does this progression prevent the repe-
tition of "we shall fight" from becoming monotonous? Notice too
that Churchill is willing to entertain the possibility that "this island"
may be subjugated. Does the admission of the possibility under-
mine the sense of resolution? Or does it strengthen it?
The reader might also notice that the peroration of this speech
is closely linked to the events which had just occurred at Dunkirk
where the Navy had rendered splendid service. Does this linkage
help give new strength to the otherwise rather worn metaphor
"storm of war"? Does it help account for Churchill's putting his
mention of the British Fleet in climactic position?
This speech by Churchill represents the effect sought by the
orator on a high occasion. It is political in the best sense of the
term, for the speaker was not only speaking to an audience but
speaking consciously as the mouthpiece of a whole people. Yet the
rhetorical effect sought would be quite out of place in the passage
which follows, a passage which is also political, but "private" and
personal. It is an excerpt from one of Thomas Jefferson's letters
to his friend and former political rival, John Adams.
... I agree with you that there is a natural aristocracy among men. The?
grounds of this are virtue and talents. Formerly, bodily powers gave
place among the aristoi. But, since the invention of gunpowder has armed
the weak as well as the strong with missile death, bodily strength, like
beauty, good humor, politeness, and other accomplishments, has become
but an auxiliary ground for distinction. There is also an artificial aris-
tocracy, founded on wealth and birth, without either virtue or talents;
for with these it would belong to the first class. The natural aristocracy
I consider as the most precious gift of nature, for the instruction, the
trusts, and government of society. And, indeed, it would have been in-
consistent in creation to have formed man for the social state, and not
to have provided virtue and wisdom enough to manage the concerns of
the society. May we not even say that that form of government is the
best which provides the most effectually for a pure selection of these
natural aristoi into the offices of government? The artificial aristocracy
410 SITUATION AND TONE
is a mischievous ingredient in government, and provision should be made
to prevent its ascendancy. On the question what is the best provision,
you and I differ; but we differ as rational friends, using the free exercise
of our own reason, and mutually indulging its errors. You think it best
to put the pseudo aristoi into a separate chamber of legislation, where
they may be hindered from doing mischief by their co-ordinate branches,
and where, also, they may be a protection to wealth against the agrarian
and plundering enterprises of the majority of the people. I think that
to give them power in order to prevent them from doing mischief is
arming them for it, and increasing instead of remedying the evil. For, if
the co-ordinate branches can arrest their action, so may they that of
the co-ordinates. Mischief may be done negatively as well as positively.
Of this a cabal in the Senate of the United States has furnished many
proofs. Nor do I believe them necessary to protect the wealthy, because
enough of these will find their way into every branch of the legislation
to protect themselves. From fifteen to twenty legislatures of our own,
in action for thirty years past, have proved that no fears of an equaliza-
tion of property are to be apprehended from them. I think the best
remedy is exactly that provided by all our constitutions, to leave to the
citizens the free election and separation of the aristoi from the pseudo
aristoi, of the wheat from the chaff. In general they will elect the really
good and wise. In some instances, wealth may corrupt, and birth blind
them; but not in sufficient degree to endanger society.
The tone of this passage is not formal and public, but informal
and private, as befits a letter from a wise and seasoned statesman
to a wise and seasoned friend. Jefferson disagrees with Adams, but
.there is no rancor in the disagreement. (They differ "as rational
friends/') Indeed, the paragraph in question represents Jefferson's
attempt to put their fundamental disagreement in its clearest light.
He can appeal to the political experience shared by both of them,
and this means that he need not go into detail with some of his
illustrations. He can also count upon Adams' own sense of language
and even on his knowledge of Greek; and so Jefferson uses the term
aristoi (which means "the best") naturally and gracefully. More-
over, Jefferson does not need to identify "best." Adams will know
that he means those "best fitted to hold office."
Jefferson does not claim too much. He can make reasonable con-
cessions (note the last sentence in the excerpt), for this is not a
lawyer's brief in which he must put the best possible face on the
position he maintains, nor is it a public speech which must offer
SOME PRACTICAL APPLICATIONS 411
no loopholes to his opponents. It is a letter, a letter to a "rational
friend," and the tone has the candor and the reasonableness of such
a letter.
TONE: FAMILIAR AND FORMAL
The so-called FAMILIAR ESSAY depends upon tone for its special
character. Indeed, without employing the concept of tone, it is
difficult to define the familiar essay at all. For the essence of the
familiar essay does not reside in subject or theme or even style, if
we use style in the most general sense of that term. The essence
resides in a certain geniality of tone. There are familiar essays on all
sorts of subjects and they make use of long sentences or short, vivid
descriptions or no descriptions at all, quotations from the classic
English authors or no quotations. The one matter which they have
in common is a special attitude toward the audience, and varia-
tions of tone which reflect this attitude.
THE IMPORTANCE OF TONE IN THE FAMILIAR ESSAY
In this connection consider the opening paragraphs of a cele-
brated familiar essay, Charles Lamb's "Mrs. Battle's Opinions on
Whist/'
"A clear fire, a clean hearth, and the rigour of the game." This was the
celebrated wish of old Sarah Battle (now with God) who, next to her
devotions, loved a good game at whist. She was none of your lukewarm
gamesters, your half-and-half players, who have no objection to take a
hand, if you want one to make up a rubber; who affirm that they have
no pleasure in winning; that they like to win one game and lose an-
other; that they can while away an hour very agreeably at a cardtable,
but are indifferent whether they play or no; and will desire an adversary,
who has slipped a wrong card, to take it up and play another. These
insufferable triflers are the curse of a table. One of these flies will spoil
a whole pot. Of such it may be said that they do not play at cards, but
only play at playing at them.
Sarah Battle was none of that breed. She detested them, as I do, from
her heart and soul; and would not, save upon a striking emergency,
willingly seat herself at the same table with them. She loved a thorough-
paced partner, a determined enemy. She took, and gave, no concessions.
She hated favours. She never made a revoke, nor ever passed it over in
412 SITUATION AND TONE
her adversary without exacting the utmost forfeiture. She fought a good
fight: cut and thrust. She held not her good sword (her cards) "like a
dancer." She sate bolt upright; and neither showed you her cards, nor
desired to see yours. All people have their blind side— their superstitions;
and I have heard her declare, under the rose, that Hearts was her
favourite suit.
What is Lamb's attitude toward his reader? Basically, the atti-
tude assumes that the reader is a companion who is accepted on
terms of friendly equality. The assumption, indeed, makes further
claims still: it assumes that the reader is one of the initiate. He can
be counted on to appreciate the writer's values, to respond to his
jests, to understand his allusions, to take, without any urging, the
writer's own attitude toward the materials with which he deals.
Because this attitude is basic, the familiar essay frequently makes
use of literary allusions, quotations and semi-quotations from the
classics, the more subtle forms of irony, and, in general, all the
devices of indirection. Such devices can be employed because it is
assumed that the reader is able to follow them, and moreover, that
he will relish them. But these devices do not in themselves give
us a familiar essay. Stevenson's "Pulvis et Umbra" ( p. 415 ) is hardly
an informal essay, though it contains many literary allusions; nor
is Johnson's letter to Macpherson, though its tone is ironical. The
informal essay requires a tone more special still.
The passage quoted from Lamb will illustrate. Lamb's implied
attitude toward his reader is very different from his attitude, say,
toward Mrs. Battle herself. Though Lamb obviously admires Mrs.
Battle, he is capable of smiling at her too; and we are expected to
join him in smiling. Mrs. Battle is presented, mock-heroically, as a
warrior. She is stern; she is even grim; she lives by a strict code,
insisting that her opponent live by the same, and valuing a foeman
worthy of her steel. (The whist-warfare analogy, by the way, runs
through the whole essay.)
In this passage she is said, in accordance with St. Paul's injunc-
tion, to have "fought a good fight"; she has the contempt of Shake-
speare's battle-scarred warrior Antony for one who held his sword
"like a dancer." The information that Hearts was her favorite suit
is given with the air of divulging an amiable foible in an otherwise
grim old warrior who might be thought to have had none.
But the irony generated in the cards-warfare contrast is directed
TONE: FAMILIAR AND FORMAL 413
at Sarah Battle with a difference. The speaker is careful to align
himself on Sarah Battle's side. Ostensibly he agrees with her— in the
zest which he takes in mimicking the excuses of her adversaries
("they can while away an hour very agreeably at a cardtable"), in
joining in her detestation of those who "only play at playing at"
cards ("She detested them, as I do"), in the mock-reverence with
which he speaks of her ("now with God"). If, however, someone
argues that the mock-reverence is not merely mock-reverence, but
has an aspect of sincerity and affection, that is perfectly true. Sarah
Battle is described in terms of an irony so gentle that it is finally
affectionate. But this is just the point: the writer of the informal
essay makes use of a complex tone: he can assume that his audience
will be alive to nuance and inflection.
Compare in this matter of tone a modern example of the familiar
essay—on quite another topic, and in quite another style.
I see by the new Sears Roebuck catalogue that it is still possible to
buy an axle for a 1909 Model T Ford, but I am not deceived. The great
days have faded, the end is in sight. Only one page in the current
catalogue is devoted to parts and accessories for the Model T; yet every-
one remembers springtimes when the Ford gadget section was larger
than men's clothing, almost as large as household furnishings. The last
Model T was built in 1927, and the car is fading from what scholars
call the American scene— which is an understatement, because to a few
million people who grew up with it, the old Ford practically was the
American scene.
It was the miracle God had wrought. And it was patently the sort of
thing that could only happen once. Mechanically uncanny, it was like
nothing that had ever come to the world before. Flourishing industries
rose and fell with it. As a vehicle, it was hard-working, commonplace,
heroic; and it often seemed to transmit those qualities to the persons who
rode in it. My own generation identifies it with Youth, with its gaudy,
irretrievable excitements; before it fades into the mist, I would like to
pay it the tribute of the sigh that is not a sob, and set down random
entries in a shape somewhat less cumbersome than a Sears Roebuck
catalogue.
The Model T was distinguished from all other makes of cars by the
fact that its transmission was of a type known as planetary— which was
half metaphysics, half sheer friction. Engineers accepted the word
"planetary" in its epicyclic sense, but I was always conscious that it also
means "wandering," "erratic." Because of the peculiar nature of this
414 SITUATION AND TONE
planetary element, there was always, in Model T, a certain dull rapport
between engine and wheels, and, even when the car was in a state
known as neutral, it trembled with a deep imperative and tended to
inch forward. There was never a moment when the bands were not
faintly egging the machine on. In this respect it was like a horse, rolling
the bit on its tongue, and country people brought to it the same tech-
nique they used with draft animals.— LEE STROUT WHITE: "Farewell, My
Lovely." fl
Here we feel that we are hardly asked to be on the alert for quo-
tations from the Bible and Shakespeare. Rather it is assumed that
we are familiar with the Sears, Roebuck catalogue. (Even so, the
number of literary quotations is more important than might be
thought: the clich£ "the American scene"; the first message sent
over the telegraph wires, "What hath God wrought!"; "the tribute
of a sigh" from Gray's "Elegy.") It is assumed then that the reader
will be familiar with the Sears, Roebuck catalogue and with the
Model T; but it is also assumed that, unlike the average Sears,
Roebuck reader, he will also be conversant with epicycles and
metaphysics. For unless he knows something of both, he will miss
a good deal of the humor, and he may fail to realize that the "sigh
that is not a sob" is a gentle noise, which for its full suspiration,
requires that the tongue be held in the cheek.
Certainly, to enjoy the essay the reader must be aware that the
authors lament the passing of the Model T with mock seriousness.
And, if the reader objects that, as with Lamb's essay, the serious-
ness of the lament has its element of sincerity, one must emphati-
cally agree. Of course it has; but to realize this is but to realize more
fully the extent to which the author of the familiar essay takes his
reader into his confidence. We can perhaps see the matter more
clearly by discriminating the kinds of statement: direct, simple
ironical, and complex ironical. In the first, the writer states his atti-
tude directly and straightforwardly. In the second, he states it ironi-
cally and indirectly: that is, he pretends to champion a position at
variance with his real position. In the third, the method is still more
indirect, for here his irony partially doubles back upon itself. His
attitude of affirmation and admiration is given in an indirect and
6 From "Farewell, My Lovely," by Lee Strout White. Copyright 1936 The
New Yorker Magazine, Inc. (Formerly The F-R Publishing Corporation.)
TONE: FAMILIAR AND FORMAL 415
ironic form, which, though the reader has learned to associate that
form with negation, here carries an element of positive compliment.
TONE IN THE FORMAL ESSAY
A relative complexity of tone may, however, characterize essays
which are not familiar at all. The familiar or informal essay always
has as one of the ingredients of its tone an element of casualness
and an acceptance of the reader on the same footing as the writer.
Stevenson's "Pulvis et Umbra," an excerpt of which follows, will
illustrate the point by contrast. For in this essay Stevenson's manner
suggests a kind of formality, a mounting of the rostrum, a speaking
of a set piece to an audience— all of which makes his essay a formal
declamation as Lamb's essay on Mrs. Battle, or the White essay on
the Model T, is not.
We look for some reward of our endeavours and are disappointed;
not success, not happiness, not even peace of conscience, crowns our
ineffectual efforts to do well. Our frailties are invincible, our virtues bar-
ren; the battle goes sore against us to the going down of the sun. The
canting moralist tells us of right and wrong; and we look abroad, even
on the face of our small earth, and find them change with every climate,
and no country where some action is not honoured for a virtue and
none where it is not branded for a vice; and we look in our experience,
and find no vital congruity in the wisest rules, but at the best a municipal
fitness. It is not strange if we are tempted to despair of good. We ask
too much. Our religions and moralities have been trimmed to flatter us,
till they are all emasculate and sentimentalized, and only please and
weaken. Truth is of a rougher strain. In the harsh face of life, faith can
be read a bracing gospel. The human race is a thing more ancient than
the ten commandments; and the bones and revolutions of the Kosmos,
in whose joints we are but moss and fungus, more ancient still.
There is one sense, of course, in which Stevenson takes his stand
on the same level as the reader. He writes "We look for," "Our
frailties are invincible," "The canting moralist tells us of right and
wrong." Stevenson thus properly includes himself in his commen-
tary on mankind. But his essay is a commentary on mankind—not
a casual chat with Tom, Dick, or Harry, the writer's good friend.
The tone of formal, meditated, "public" utterance reveals itself
in half-a-dozen ways. To consider only a few: (1) the vocabulary
is more "literary" than Stevenson would have used in an informal
416 SITUATION AND TONE
essay. Thus, he writes "the battle goes sore against us" rather than
"the battle goes against us" or, more colloquially still, "we begin
to lose out." (2) He gives us echoes of the King James Version of
the Bible. Thus, "to the going down of the sun." (cf. Joshua 10:27,
"And it came to pass at the time of the going down of the sun, that
Joshua commanded . . .") (3) Stevenson formalizes the rhythms to
give a sense of balanced antithesis, particularly in the closing sen-
tence of the paragraph: "The human race is a thing more ancient
than the ten commandments; and the bones and revolutions of the
Kosmos, in whose joints we are but moss and fungus, more ancient
still."
COMPLEXITY OF TONE: WHEN, AND WHY,
IT IS NECESSARY
Let us consider one more example of complexity of tone, taken
this time, not from an essay either formal or informal, but from an
autobiography. In the passage which follows, T. E. Lawrence de-
scribes an incident that occurred in Arabia during World War I
while he was serving with the Arabs in their revolt against Turkey.
The incident occurred while Lawrence was leading a raiding party
of Arab tribesmen.
My followers had been quarrelling all day, and while I was lying
near the rocks a shot was fired. I paid no attention; for there were hares
and birds in the valley; but a little later Suleiman roused me and made
me follow him across the valley to an opposite bay in the rocks, where
one of the Ageyl, a Boreida man, was lying stone dead with a bullet
through his temples. The shot must have been fired from close by; be-
cause the skin was burnt about the wound. The remaining Ageyl were
running frantically about; and when I asked what it was, Ali, their head
man, said that Hamed the Moor had done the murder. I suspected
Suleiman, because of the feud between the Atban and Ageyl . . . but
Ali assured me that Suleiman had been with him three hundred yards
further up the valley gathering sticks when the shot was fired. I sent all
out to search for Hamed, and crawled back to the baggage, feeling that
it need not have happened this day of all days when I was in pain.
As I lay there I heard a rustle, and opened my eyes slowly upon
Hamed's back as he stooped over his saddle-bags, which lay just be-
yond my rock. I covered him with a pistol and then spoke. He had put
down his rifle to lift the gear: and was at my mercy till the others came.
COMPLEXITY OF TONE: WHEN AND WHY IT IS NECESSARY 417
We held a court at once; and after a while Hamed confessed that, he and
Salem having had words, he had seen red and shot him suddenly. Our
inquiry ended. The Ageyl, as relatives of the dead man, demanded blood
for blood. The others supported them; and I tried vainly to talk the
gentle Ali round. My head was aching with fever and I could not think;
but hardly even in health, with all eloquence, could I have begged
Hamed off; for Salem had been a friendly fellow and his sudden murder
a wanton crime.
Then rose up the horror which would make civilized man shun justice
like a plague if he had not the needy to serve him as hangmen for wages.
There were other Moroccans in our army; [Hamed the Moor was a
Moroccan] and to let the Ageyl kill one in feud meant reprisals by which
our unity would have been endangered. It must be a formal execution,
and at last, desperately, I told Hamed that he must die for punishment,
and laid the burden of his killing on myself. Perhaps they would count
me not qualified for feud. At least no revenge could lie against my
followers; for I was a stranger and kinless.
I made him enter a narrow gully of the spur, a dank twilight place
overgrown with weeds. Its sandy bed had been pitted by trickles of
water down the cliffs in the late rain. At the end it shrank to a crack a
few inches wide. The walls were vertical. I stood in the entrance and
gave him a few moments' delay which he spent crying on the ground.
Then I made him rise and shot him through the chest. He fell down on
the weeds shrieking, with the blood coming out in spurts over his
clothes, and jerked about till he rolled nearly to where I was. I fired
again, but was shaking so that I only broke his wrist. He went on calling
out, less loudly, now lying on his back with his feet towards me, and I
leant forward and shot him for the last time in the thick of his neck
under the jaw. His body shivered a little, and I called the Ageyl; who
buried him in the gully where he was. Afterwards the wakeful night
dragged over me, till, hours before dawn, I had the men up and made
them load, in my longing to be free of Wadi Kitan. They had to lift me
into the saddle.— T. E. LAWRENCE: Seven Pillars of Wisdom, Chap. 31.r
What is Lawrence's attitude toward Hamed? Toward the Arabs
and their blood feuds? Most of all, toward himself? Is he ashamed
of himself? Proud of himself? Complacent and untroubled about
himself?
One's first impression is that the incident is told with detachment
and an almost studied dryness; and so, in a sense, it is. But it is
1 From: Seven Pillars of Wisdom by T. E. Lawrence. Copyright 1925, 1935
by Doubleday & Company, Inc.
418 SITUATION AND TONE
evident that Lawrence is not glossing over the incident casually
and briefly. He develops it, and he gives us even minute details:
e.g., "bullet through his temples," "as he stooped over his saddle-
bags," "shot him for the last time in the thick of his neck under the
jaw." Even the scene of the execution, the gully, is described care-
fully and precisely: "Its sandy bed had been pitted by trickles of
water down the cliffs in the late rain."
The narrator evidently remembers the whole incident vividly,
and knows how to make the incident vivid to his reader. Why, then,
is he not much more explicit about his own feelings and attitudes?
Would anything have been gained if Lawrence had added a long
paragraph describing the feelings that passed through his mind as
he decided that he must act as executioner? Would anything have
been lost? Notice that Lawrence is willing to use the word "horror,"
but he does not write, "As a civilized man I was overwhelmed with
horror," but rather, "Then rose up the horror which would make
civilized man shun justice like a plague if he had not the needy to
serve him as hangmen for wages." Why does Lawrence, in this
most explicit account of his own feelings, prefer the generalized
statement?
A little meditation on these questions is likely to result in some
such conclusion as this: that Lawrence, far from remaining cool
and detached, was indeed terribly shaken by the experience, but
that, nevertheless, he preferred to make his account of the experi-
ence as detached and objective as was possible. He chose to give
a rather restrained account of his actions, leaving his reader to
infer from the actions themselves what his feelings must have been.
True, Lawrence once uses the word "desperately" and he refers to
"the horror which would make civilized man shun justice," had
he to execute justice in his own person. But these are almost the
only explicit references to his feelings; and in the account of the
actual execution, there are none at all.
This restraint itself has an important effect on the tone: it implies
a certain modesty (his own mental anguish is not allowed to domi-
nate the story as if Lawrence thought his anguish the important
thing in the episode ) ; it implies a certain confidence in the reader's
maturity and sensitiveness— the reader need not be "told" what
Lawrence was feeling. But the restraint, here, is of still further
importance: the restraint manifested in Lawrence's account of his
COMPLEXITY OF TONE: WHEN AND WHY IT IS NECESSARY 419
action is a reflection of, and a type of, the disciplined control which
he imposed on his followers and on himself in the desert. The man
who relates the action is the man who acted, and his manner of
writing about the event suggests his attitude toward the event itself.
There is a more general conclusion about tone which may be
drawn from this example, and it is a conclusion which is well worth
pointing out to the reader. It is this: that subtlety of attitude and
complexity of attitude frequently (one is tempted to say usually)
can only be suggested, not stated directly. The writer has to trust
to the effect of the whole passage, or even the whole book— not to
explicit statements of his feeling. This means that he has to place
a good deal of reliance upon his audience. (A twelve-year-old reader
might well decide, on reading the passage, that Lawrence was a
callous man, or that he considered the Arabs to be bloodthirsty
savages and therefore without the feelings of real human beings,
or even that he got a positive satisfaction out of ridding the earth
of Hamed, the wanton killer.) Finally, if the writer must trust to
the maturity of his audience, he will do well to appeal to their
imaginations— to make every detail sharp and concrete, as Lawrence
does here—but he will wisely avoid writing down to them or at-
tempting to play upon their heartstrings.
The examples of tone that we have considered in this chapter
indicate how wide the range of tone is and how difficult it is to
speak of tone abstractly and in general. For the tone of a piece
of writing, as the various examples make plain, is intimately related
to the occasion which calls forth the writing, and is as intimately
related to the author's general purpose. In some instances the tone
may be as elusive as the expression of personality itself; but it can
be, as our examples have shown, of the utmost importance. It is
not to be thought of as decoration— as a mere grace of style; it is
an integral— sometimes the central— part of the meaning.
Our examples also indicate that the tone may be generated
through all sorts of subtle devices; that, indeed, there is no set and
specific way in which tone is indicated. Because of this fact it has
been difficult to do full justice to the subject in this chapter, for it
has been impossible to give examples of great length, and so, since
tone is the quality of the whole context, the most important mani-
festations of tone— the tone of a whole novel or essay or history-
could not be illustrated.
420 SITUATION AND TONE
THE SPECIAL AUDIENCE AND THE IDEAL AUDIENCE
Earlier in this chapter we spoke of tone as the reflection of the
author's attitude toward his audience or toward his material, with-
out making any elaborate distinction between the two levels of atti-
tude. But the reader may well ask: When should attitude toward
the audience dominate, and when attitude toward the material?
Writing which demands that the author take into account his
particular audience is, as we have seen, always "practical" writing
—writing designed to effect some definite thing. The advertiser is
trying to persuade the housewife to buy something. The politician
delivers a speech which he hopes will induce citizens to vote for
him. Or, to take a more exalted case (for there need be no self-
interest), a statesman urges a nation (through his writing and his
speeches) to adopt a certain course of action. But these cases all
have one thing in common: they are designed to secure a practical
end. An audience is to be won to agreement or urged to action.
If such writing is to be effective, the author must, of course, keep
his audience constantly in mind. An approach that is calculated to
win the suffrage of one audience may very well repel another. The
age, the intelligence, the amount of education, the interest, the
habits and prejudices— must all be taken into account. The skillful
management of such problems is an aspect of rhetoric, and for many
people rhetoric has come to mean largely the art of persuasion.
Rhetoric has therefore come to have something of a bad name, as if
it consisted in cold-bloodedly fitting the statement to the emotional
background and even to the prejudices of the audience. Certainly
rhetoric is an instrument which can be used for bad ends, and a
rhetorical appeal which, in its anxiety to produce an effect, ignores
truth and relevance is vicious. But the fact that it may be misused
does not render the instrument vicious. It may be properly used,
and it is the part of common sense for a writer to take his special
audience into account as he tries to gain their conviction. One may
illustrate from Churchill's speech (p. 408), but one may also cite
in this connection the passage from Huxley (p. 403). For Huxley,
as contrasted with the ordinary mathematician or geologist, has a
"practical" end in view; and by the same token, he has a special
audience. The scientist acting strictly as scientist does not argue
with his reader; he "just tells him." The facts speak for themselves,
COMPLEXITY OF TONE: WHEN AND WHY IT IS NECESSARY 421
and in purely technical writing they are allowed to speak for them-
selves. But they speak fully only to a specially trained audience.
In the work from which we have quoted, Huxley is writing for an
audience that is not so trained, and the tone which he adopts toward
his readers quite properly takes that fact into account.
The writer, however, when he finds that he must address him-
self to a general reader rather than to some specific and quite special
reader, may find that the problem of tone becomes difficult because
he lacks a definite target at which to aim. Yet all good writing is
addressed to a reader, even though that reader is an ideal reader,
not a limited and special reader. One could argue, in fact, that
because the ideal reader is ideal, his intelligence, his sensitivity,
his general discrimination are to be honored and respected all the
more. This is to say what has been said earlier, that we do not
evade the problem of tone by addressing ourselves to the reader-
in-general rather than to Tom, Dick, or Harry. In fact, the problem
of tone here becomes more important, not less important. The
writer, however, even though agreeing with what has just been
argued, may find that the ideal reader remains too shadowy to
furnish him something definite to shoot at. In that case it may be
of practical help, as he writes, to think of some particular person,
the most intelligent and discriminating person that he knows. If he
can please that person and be convincing to that person, the prob-
lem of tone will probably have been taken care of quite adequately.
There is another way of solving the problem practically: we say
that the author writes for a particular audience, but he also writes
for himself. There is his own sense of fitness that must be satisfied.
The writer himself becomes the audience at which he aims. The
question which he asks himself is not, "Have I made this convinc-
ing to Tom or to Dick or to Harry?" but rather, "Have I made this
convincing to myself?"; or, to put the matter more succinctly still,
"Have I made this convincing?"
In writing for this "ideal" reader, then, the author can transpose
all problems of tone into the problem of handling his material itself.
The problem of tone alters only when the writing is addressed
specifically to Tom or to Dick— not to just any reader— and in pro-
portion as Tom or Dick differs from the ideal reader.
Let us, however, give one further illustration of the relation
between these two aspects of tone, tone as modified by the special
422 SITUATION AND TONE
audience, and tone as modified only by the nature of the material.
Let us look back at the passage quoted from Seven Pillars of Wis-
dom (p. 416). The passage, as we saw, tells us a good deal about
Lawrence's character, and it makes a commentary on a number
of things: to mention only a few, on the Arabs, on justice, and on
capital punishment. But as we have already observed, such writing
makes its points by implication, and it requires a mature reader.
For the ideal reader, no alteration of tone is required, and Lawrence
has managed his problem of tone in probably the most satisfactory
way possible.
But let us suppose that Lawrence were relating the episode to
an audience which was complacent in its contempt for the "bar-
barian" Arabs. Unless his attitude toward the Arabs were to be
completely distorted, Lawrence would have to alter the tone to
take the prejudices of his audience into account. In particular, he
would have to make much more explicit the fact that the Arabs
honestly faced up to their imposition of the death penalty as the
more sentimental, but ultimately more callous, citizen of England
or America refuses to face it.
Or suppose that Lawrence were standing for a seat in Parliament,
and a garbled account of the incident were being used against him.
He might be content to rely upon the relation which he has given
in Seven Pillars. Properly read, it shows him to be anything but
calloused and insensitive. But the politician cannot afford to risk
what the artist can. The objectivity of his account might have to
be qualified. What his feelings and attitudes were could not safely
be left to inference. Lawrence would have to state them explicitly.
In general, the rewritten account would be focused not on the
drama of the scene itself, but on Lawrence's personal feelings and
his struggle with duty.
SUMMARY
Every piece of discourse implies a particular situation, a situation
which involves a certain kind of reader and an occasion that ac-
counts for that reader's being addressed. Even technical writing
assumes a special situation, one which involves a reader who need
not be coaxed and who has an interest that transcends any particu-
lar occasion.
SUMMARY 423
Just as every piece of discourse implies a particular situation,
it also implies a particular TONE. "Tone" may be defined as the
reflection in the writing itself of the author's ATTITUDE toward his
audience and toward his material. (The term is a metaphor derived
from the tone of the voice in which an utterance is made. The writer
cannot indicate his attitude, as the speaker can, by the tone of
voice; but by his choice and arrangement of words, the skillful
writer can convey that attitude very precisely.)
But tone is not to be conceived of as a kind of surface refinement,
a kind of external embellishment. On the contrary, it has to do with
the central problem of meaning itself. Tone involves a qualification
of the literal meaning, and in certain kinds of heavy irony it actually
effects a complete reversal of the literal meaning. The management
of tone, therefore, has everything to do with the meaning that the
writer wishes to convey. Even in expository writing and in "practi-
cal" writing of all kinds, the problem of tone is most important.
Since the tone of a piece of writing is the result of the interplay
of many elements— choice of words, sentence structure, sentence
rhythm, metaphors— and since tone is always intimately related to
a particular situation, it would be difficult to make a general classi-
fication of possible "tones." But it is easy to point out some general
faults in the management of tone:
1. Writing down to one's reader.
2. False enthusiasm and synthetic cheeriness.
3. SENTIMENTALITY— which may be defined as the attempt to evoke
an emotional response in excess of that warranted by the situation.
Moreover, though an elaborate classification of kinds of tone
would be of little use, it will be profitable to mention several gen-
eral methods of statement, important for their effect on tone.
1. OVERSTATEMENT (which may express proper emphasis, but
which may produce mere inflation; sentimentality, false enthusiasm,
and boring pomposity are kinds of overstatement).
2. UNDERSTATEMENT (in which less is said than might have been
expected to be said).
3. IRONY (to which understatement is closely related). The essence
of irony resides in the contrast between the surface meaning and
the actual full meaning. The gradations of irony are almost infinite,
ranging from a harsh SARCASM (in which the surface meaning is
completely reversed) to the various kinds of gentle irony (in which
424 SITUATION AND TONE
the literal meaning is only slightly qualified by the total context).
It is unfortunate that we lack terms by which to point to some of
the major gradations. As a result, the term "irony" is likely to be
overworked as one attempts to describe the manifold, and impor-
tant, ways in which the literal meaning of a statement is qualified
by the context which surrounds it. Perhaps our best practical ex-
pedient is to try to define as nearly as we can the kind of irony in
each particular case: playful irony, whimsical irony, sardonic irony,
quiet irony, and so on.
Thus far we have approached the general problem in terms of
overstatement or understatement, or in terms of literal meaning
and literal meaning qualified by context. But other approaches, of
course, are possible: for example, the degree of seriousness or play-
fulness with which the writer makes his presentation to the reader,
his gravity or his gaiety. Closely related to this distinction (though
by no means to be equated with it) is the distinction between his
formality or his informality.
1. Formality of tone. A formal tone implies a formal relation
between writer and reader and a certain regard for forms and
ceremonies.
2. Informality of tone. An informal tone implies a friendly and
familiar relation between writer and reader— no standing upon
forms and ceremonies. (But the informal or "familiar" essay may,
on occasion, embody a serious purpose; and informality of tone
is certainly not in itself to be identified with lack of seriousness.)
We have used the term "tone" rather loosely to indicate the reflec-
tion of the author's attitude toward his reader and also toward his
material. In the act of composition the two go together so closely
that it is impossible to separate them, but a practical distinction
is simple and obvious. In "practical writing"— writing designed to
persuade or convince a special audience— the writer will find his
attitude toward that special audience tends to come to the fore, and
certainly it should be allowed to modify and control his method
of presentation. But in imaginative writing the writer addresses
himself to an ideal reader— a universal reader— and, though the
general problem of tone becomes of even greater importance, the
problem of convincing his ideal reader becomes simply a part of
the problem of "convincing"— convincing all readers— convincing
himself.
CHAPTER
The Final
Integration
IN THE last three chapters we have tried to deal specifically with
some of the important elements of style: diction, metaphor, and
tone. In this chapter our concern is rather different. We shall be
primarily interested in the interplay of elements— in the total har-
mony which results from the blending of the various elements.
Even in the preceding chapters this interplay has come in for a
great deal of attention, particularly in the chapter on tone. But
before we launch into a discussion of this final integration, we must
take up one element of style which thus far has been merely men-
tioned. It is RHYTHM, the disposition of pauses and accents.
Now rhythm is a forbidding topic. A full discussion would be
highly complex and would call for a separate chapter, and a long
chapter at that. Our intention here, however, is much more modest.
We shall treat rhythm briefly, and as merely a part of this final
chapter on style. For this last procedure there is a good deal of
warrant. By its very nature, rhythm can scarcely be profitably dis-
cussed in isolation. Moreover, rhythm in itself involves a rather
intricate interplay of elements.
RHYTHM
In discussing tone we pointed out that in actual conversation
the tone of the voice, gesture, and facial expression supplement
the words and do much to set the particular tone which the speaker
intends—playfulness, seriousness, irritability, and so on. If we use
the written word, however, the "tone" has to be established by the
426 THE FINAL INTEGRATION
choice of words and the patterning of those words. But it will have
occurred to the reader that in moving from actual conversation
to the written word the speaker relinquishes still another very im-
portant element— the matter of emphasis. Consider the following
simple sentence: "Are you going to town?" If we stress the word
are, the sentence becomes an emphatic question; and if we stress
it heavily, it may even suggest surprise. But if we stress you, the
question becomes centered upon whether it is you who are going
rather than someone else. If we stress town, we get a third varia-
tion; the question then emphasizes the destination.
Thus the rhythmic inflection of a sentence, with its various
stresses on particular words, is a very important way in which we
express our meanings. When we put the sentence on paper, we
can, of course, indicate something of this stress by underlining the
words to be emphasized. But mere underlining is a relatively
crude substitute for the living voice, and it is the mark of a clumsy
writer to have to rely upon constant underlining. The skilled writer,
by his control of the rhythm of his sentences, suggests where the
proper emphases are to fall; for emphasis is an element of rhythm.
RHYTHM AND CLARITY OF MEANING
Mastery of rhythm, then, is important for clarity of meaning.
This is illustrated by the muddled and monotonous rhythms of tech-
nological jargon. Look back at Maury Maverick's example of gob-
bledygook (p. 353). Jargon of this sort is difficult to read for a
variety of reasons: it is fuzzy, abstract, and dull. It lacks flavor.
But it lacks clarity as well; for there are no natural emphases, no
obvious points of primary stress.
Compare with the passage quoted by Maverick, the following:
Nor had Dickens any lively sense for fine art, classical tradition, science,
or even the manners or feelings of the upper classes in his own time and
country: in his novels we may almost say there is no army, no navy, no
church, no sport, no distant travel, no daring adventure, no feeling for
the watery wastes and the motley nations of the planet, and luckily, with
his notion of them— no lords and ladies. —GEORGE SANTAYANA: Soliloquies
in England.1
1 From Soliloquies in England and Later Soliloquies by George Santayana
copyright, 1922, by Charles Scribner's Sons.
RHYTHM 427
Santayana's sentence is long and relatively complex, but it is
rhythmical. The heavy stresses come where they should, on words
like "Dickens," "lively," "fine," "classical," "even." Moreover, phrase
balances phrase: "no distant travel" balances "no daring adven-
ture"; "watery wastes" sets off "motley nations." Even the paren-
thetical phrase, "with his notion of them," is prepared for. (Notice
that the rhythm is destroyed if we alter the ending to read "and—
with his notion of them— luckily no lords and ladies.")
We have observed that lack of rhythm is frequently a symptom
of disordered discourse; an easily grasped rhythm, on the other
hand, is often the sign of good order and proper disposition of
words and phrases. But rhythmic quality is much more, of course,
than a mere index of clarity.
Emphatic rhythms tend to accompany emotional heightening.
It is no accident that eloquent prose, prose that makes a strong
appeal to the feelings, tends to use clearly patterned rhythms, or
that poetry is commonly written in the systematized rhythm which
we call "verse." The association of formal rhythm with emotional
power is based on a perfectly sound psychological fact. Fervent
expression of grief, rage, or joy tends to fall into rhythmic patterns—
whether it be the sobbings of a grief-stricken woman or the cursing
of an irate cab driver.
RHYTHMIC PATTERNS
In verse there is a formalizing of the rhythm to a system or pat-
tern, and we have various ways of indicating the verse pattern. A
common method is to indicate unaccented syllables by this mark
( ~ ); accented syllables, by this ( ' ). The stanza that follows may
be marked ("scanned") thus:
\^ f ^s ' <+S ' *~s f
To skies/ that knit/ their heart/strings right,
To fields/ that bred/ them brave,
Y f <*** f x*' I *~s I
The sav/iors come/ not home/ tonight:
>»/ i s./ t -^s " r
Themselves/ they could/ not save.
A pair of syllables, the first unaccented, the second accented, we
call an iambic foot (e.g., To skies); and we would describe the
verse pattern of this stanza as iambic tetrameter (that is, a line
428 THE FINAL INTEGRATION
consisting of four iambs) alternating with iambic trimeter (a line
consisting of three iambs).
Now prose could be marked off (scanned) in such a fashion-
even though prose is not, like verse, patterned to a certain kind
of foot and divided off into lines containing a certain number of
feet. For example, Mr. Gorham Munson scans a sentence of Emer-
w / y <*s ' ** ^ ' *-/ <*s I
son's as follows: "We know/ the authentic/ effects/ of the true
I ^ f \S *^ ? >_/ S_/ '«W \^ I ^
fire/ through every one/ of its million/ disguises." The sort of
metrical analysis Mr. Munson is making would involve our know-
ing, not only the simpler kind of metrical feet such as the iamb
("we know" is an iamb), but many very complex feet as well. "The
authentic," for example, is called a paeon. In order to scan prose
in this fashion, we should need many more technical terms than
we usually need to scan verse.
Such an analysis of prose rhythm may have considerable value.
But the rhythms of prose are infinite in their kinds, and some of
the rhythmic effects are so subtle that an exact description requires
a very complicated scheme of representation. Such a study, how-
ever, is completely beyond the range of this book; there is little
practical gain in learning the definitions of such feet as the "amphi-
brach" and the "cretic." The writer will probably feel that he has
his hands full in trying to control diction, metaphor, and tone with-
out adding another element, rhythm. Fortunately, there is a con-
siderable kernel of truth in the statement made by the Duchess in
Alice in Wonderland: "Take care of the sense and the sounds will
take care of themselves."
RHYTHM AS A DEVICE OF EXPRESSION
But "the sounds" can be used as a kind of test of the sense. As
we have seen, limp, weak, confused rhythms are frequently a
symptom of a more general confusion; and conversely, a well-
defined rhythm often points to the writer's mastery of his instru-
ment. This generalization is not to be interpreted to mean that all
unemphatic rhythms are "bad" or that all elaborate and intricate
rhythms are "good." The rhythm is only one of a number of devices
which the writer uses. Its goodness or badness will depend upon
RHYTHM AS A DEVICE OF EXPRESSION 429
a number of things: the writer's purpose and the adequacy of the
rhythm to that purpose.
Let us consider a passage which has been studied earlier for
its tone. The fact that this passage has been analyzed in earlier
pages may make clearer the specific contribution of the rhythm
to the total effect. At least it should serve to warn the student not
to attribute the final effect to the rhythmic pattern alone.
They were executing officers of the rank of major and above who were
separated from their troops. They were dealing summarily with German
agitators in Italian uniform. They wore steel helmets. Only two of us
had steel helmets. Some of the carabinieri had them, The other carabinieri
wore the wide hat. Airplanes we called them. We stood in the rain and
were taken out one at a time to be questioned and shot. So far they
had shot every one they had questioned.
In this passage the sentences are short and simple, and the rhythm
of the passage supports brilliantly the ironic tone of the description.
The lack of variety in the rhythmic pattern makes it seem flat,
almost "expressionless," and this flatness is part of the ironic under-
statement. Momentous and terrible things are being described, but
the description is kept studiedly dry. A more varied and complex
rhythm (such as usually goes with excitement) would weaken Hem-
ingway's effect. ( See p. 399 for fuller analysis of the passage. )
In contrast to this passage, compare a paragraph of description
from Thackeray's Vanity Fair. ( See also p. 406. )
The King? There he was. Beefeaters were before the august box; the
Marquis of Steyne (Lord of the Powder Closet) and other great officers
of state were behind the chair on which he sate, He sate— florid of face,
portly of person, covered with orders, and in a rich curling head of hair.
How we sang, God Save Him! How the house rocked and shouted with
that magnificent music. . . . Ladies wept; mothers clasped their children;
some fainted with emotion. . . . Yes, we saw him. Fate cannot deprive
us of that. Others have seen Napoleon. Some few still exist who have
beheld Frederick the Great, Doctor Johnson, Marie Antoinette, etc.: be
it our reasonable boast to our children that we saw George the Good, the
Magnificent, the Great.
Thackeray's mockery is reflected first in the balanced phrasings
as our eyes focus on the king: "He sate—florid of face, portly of
person, covered with orders, and in a curling head of hair." Then
430 THE FINAL INTEGRATION
the rhythms become staccato, expressing the sense of mock excite-
ment: "How we sang, God Save Him! How the house rocked and
shouted with that magnificent music. . . . Ladies wept; mothers
grasped their children; some fainted with emotion. . . . Yes, we
saw him/* The sarcasm comes to a climax in the highly formalized
rhythms of the concluding sentences of the paragraph: "Be it our
reasonable boast to our children that we saw George the Good, the
Magnificent, the Great."
One ought not claim that the rhythm alone creates the effect, or
that the rhythm is even the principal device used to achieve the
effect. But certainly rhythm, in conjunction with diction, metaphor,
and other devices, may become powerfully expressive. In this pas-
sage the very exaggeration of the rhythmic pattern makes its func-
tion easier to discern.
Rhythm is ordinarily used more subtly, though not for that rea-
son less effectively. Let us look at the Texan's auctioneering speech
from William Faulkner's The Hamlet. What part, if any, does the
rhythm play in producing the effect? Does it support the tone?
"Now, boys,*' the Texan said, "Who says that pony ain't worth fifteen
dollars? You couldn't buy that much dynamite for just fifteen dollars.
There ain't one of them can't do a mile in three minutes: turn them into
pasture and they will board themselves; work them like hell all day and
every time you think about it, lay them over the head with a single-tree
and after a couple of days every jack rabbit one of them will be so tame
you will have to put them out of the house at night like a cat."
Suppose that we rewrite the last few lines to read as follows:
"Work the hell out of them every day and ever so often bust a single-
tree over their heads. In a little while you'll have them all tame as tame
can be. You'll have to shove 'em out of the door at night just like they
was a bunch of cats/'
In this version the diction has not been altered from that which
the Texan might be expected to use, and the rewritten version
"says" just about what the original "says"; but the rhythm has been
destroyed and with it much of the flavor and nearly all of the force
of the Texan's auctioneering speech.
One further passage may be quoted to indicate what complex
effects can be wrought by the skillful handling of rhythm in con-
RHYTHM AS. A DEVICE OF EXPRESSION 431
junction with other devices. The passage forms the opening of
W. B. Yeats's Reveries over Childhood and Yowtfi.
My first memories are fragmentary and isolated and contemporaneous,
as though one remembered some first moments of the Seven Days. It
seems as if time had not yet been created, for all thoughts connected
with emotion and place are without sequence.
1 remember sitting upon somebody's knee, looking out of an Irish
window at a wall covered with cracked and falling plaster, but what
wall I do not remember, and being told that some relation once lived
there. I am looking out of a window in London. It is at Fitzroy Road.
Some boys are playing in the road and among them a boy in uniform, a
telegraph boy perhaps. When I ask who the boy is, the servant tells me
that he is going to blow the town up, and I go to sleep in terror.2
The author says that his memories of childhood are "fragmen-
tary," "isolated," "contemporaneous," and "without sequence." So
they appear in his account. There is a memory of looking out of an
Irish window. Then, without any transition, Yeats presents a mem-
ory of looking out a London window. Moreover, with this second
instance, he drops the statement "I remember" and reverts to the
present tense: "I am looking out of a window in London." The
author's purpose, obviously, is to give us the sense of contemporane-
ity. He tries to put himself into these memories as they rise up-
chaotic, disordered, fragmentary. True, he is forced to use a man's
words. "Isolated" and "contemporaneous" would not be used by a
child; nor would the allusion to the Biblical Seven Days of creation
occur to a child. But the author has tried to suggest the movement
of the child's mind in its simple, uncritical succession of events.
Most of all, he has depended upon the rhythmic pattern to suggest
the slow, almost tranced movement of reverie. The reader might
experiment with altering the rhythm of the passage. In an altered
rhythm, the sense of reverie is at once lost, and the sense of living
back into one's childhood memories collapses.
RHYTHM AS A PRACTICAL TEST OF SOUND SENTENCE
PATTERN
To sum up, control of rhythm is an important resource of the
skilled writer. It is a powerful means for shifting tone, for establish-
2 From W. B. Yeats: Reveries. Copyright, 1916 by The Macmillan Company
and used with their permission.
432 THE FINAL INTEGRATION
ing a mood, for pointing a contrast, or for heightening the appeal
to the emotions. The reader may feel, however, that rhythm is
much too intricate an instrument for him to try to use consciously.
It probably is. We are far from suggesting that the reader con-
sciously try for rhythmic effects. Even so, a very practical use of
rhythm can be made: the writer may learn to use rhythm in order
to test his composition. As he rereads it aloud he should learn to
listen for the break in the rhythm, the jangling discord, the lack
of smoothness that signals to him that something in the sentence
is awry. This comment applies particularly to the disposition of
modifiers, prepositional phrases, and the like. The writer may find
that reading his composition aloud and listening to its rhythms
proves to be one of the best practical means for spotting sentence
elements that are not in the best order.
Consider the following sentence:
Oriental luxury goods— jade, silk, gold, spices, vermillion, jewels— formerly
had come by way of the Caspian Sea overland; and a few daring Greek
sea captains, now that this route had been cut by the Huns, catching
the trade winds were sailing from Red Sea ports and loading up at Ceylon.
The sentence is passable, and is not perhaps noticeably unrhythmi-
cal. But if we read this sentence in the form in which Robert Graves
actually wrote it, we shall find that it is not only clearer; it is much
more rhythmical and much easier to read:
Oriental luxury goods— jade, silk, gold, spices, vermillion, jewels— had
formerly come overland by way of the Caspian Sea and now that this
route had been cut by the Huns, a few daring Greek sea captains were
sailing from Red Sea ports, catching the trade winds and loading up
at Ceylon.
STYLE AS HARMONIOUS INTEGRATION
To conclude this brief note on rhythm: "Good" rhythm is rhythm
which is appropriate to the passage as a whole— which contributes
to the desired effect. If it functions to support that effect, it is "good."
If it does not, it is "bad," no matter how soothing or lilting or beau-
tifully harmonized it may appear in itself. The principle involved
is the same principle which we have encountered earlier in dis-
cussing such topics as diction and metaphor. As we have seen, a
STYLE AS HARMONIOUS INTEGRATION 433
metaphor is not to be chosen because it is beautiful in itself or is
brilliant in itself. A good metaphor is rather one which "says" pre-
cisely what the composition as a whole requires at that particular
point. Good diction is diction which, for the case in hand, is neither
too colloquial nor too highfalutin, neither too vague nor too pe-
dantically exact. So with rhythm. Had Hemingway used more intri-
cate rhythms in the passage quoted on page 429, he would have
impaired the effectiveness of the passage as a whole. It is as part
of the whole that any element of style is to be judged. But what,
then, of the passage from Vanity Fair (p. 429)? Thackeray has there
used heavily formalized rhythms which are quite out of harmony
with the triviality of the matters celebrated. Does this violate the
principle of harmonious adaptation? Not at all, for the passage aims
at a heavily ironic effect, and the absurd contrast between the
exalted rhythm of the prose and the triviality of what it describes,
admirably supports the ironic effect.
What has been said with reference to rhythm obviously holds
for all the other elements that go to make up a style. The question
to be asked is always this: Does the element in question do its par-
ticular job in the expressive pattern of the whole? In the light of
this question examine the following passage, noting any disharmoni-
ous elements of whatever kind.
At latitude zero, however, the obvious is not the same as with us. Rivers
imply wading, swimming, alligators. Plains mean swamps, forest, fevers.
Mountains make you think of something dangerous or something just too
big to get over. If you've got to go somewhere, you have to hack your
way through a lot of plants and vines. "God made the country/* said
Cowper, in his rather too blank verse. In New Guinea he would have
had his doubts; he would have longed for the man-made town.
This passage (from Huxley's "Wordsworth in the Tropics") has
been garbled. The reader ought to have little difficulty in seeing
that the beginning and the end of this passage are similar in style,
but that the middle section is an anomalous lump. The style of the
first three sentences and of the last two is characterized by con-
densation and thoughtful arrangement. The condensed, carefully
•disposed style breaks down with the fourth sentence. The fourth
and fifth sentences are lumbering and clumsy, vaguely indefinite
in pointing toward objects, and awkwardly colloquial. Can you
434 THE FINAL INTEGRATION
rewrite the sentences so as to bring them into accord with the style
of the first three and the last two? Consider diction and tone par-
ticularly, and check your rewritten sentences with what Huxley
actually wrote:
At latitude zero, however, the obvious is not the same as with us. Rivers
imply wading, swimming, alligators. Plains mean swamps, forests, fevers.
Mountains are either dangerous or impassable. To travel is to hack one's
way laboriously through a tangled, prickly, and venomous darkness.
"God made the country," said Cowper, in his rather too blank verse. In
New Guinea he would have had his doubts; he would have longed for
the man-made town.
What anomalies of style occur in the following passage?
A large percentage of those who returned to their ordinary pursuits were
conditioned to violence, since war has to be regarded as a sort of condi-
tioning process. This large percentage of returning veterans were also
disposed to be in an angry mood because of their defeat. The farm to
which a majority of them had to return proved to be not so prosperous
or pleasant in reality as their memories of it under war conditions had
led them to believe. Men who had been bred to the law took to the
plow, and others in their several ways had to bury their ambitions and
go about earning a living, and by living they meant bread and meat.
The reader should compare the last sentence of this passage with
the preceding sentences. The last sentence is concrete where the
preceding are abstract and fuzzy. It even hints at a forceful meta-
phor: the soil, as it is turned over by the plow, is actually the earth
covering up the plowman's ambitions. This last sentence is con-
densed whereas the preceding sentences are filled with distracting
circumlocutions. For example, what is gained by writing "a large
percentage" rather than "many"? There are contexts, to be sure,
in which an exact percentage has relevance, but no figures are given
here. Which is the more forceful, the simple word "many" or the
phrase "a large percentage"? The student should try to rewrite the
passage with a view to making the rest of the passage as concrete
and specific as is the style of the last sentence. The original passage,
ungarbled, reads as follows:
There were many who came home inured to ordered violence, angry at
their destiny, only to find that the farm, which had remained green and
fruitful in their memory, gave them a strange welcome. Men who had
STYLE AS HARMONIOUS INTEGRATION 435
been bred to the law took to the plow, and others in their several ways
had to bury their ambitions and go about earning a living, and by living
they meant bread and meat. (JOHN A. RICE: I Came Out of the Eight-
eenth Century, Chap. 5.)
THE INSEPARABILITY OF FORM
AND CONTENT
Since a good style represents an adaptation of means to a particu-
lar purpose, all the various devices of style have to be viewed as
expressive devices. That is to say, even the minor ornaments of
style are, strictly speaking, not ornaments but conveyors of mean-
ing. The general point is so important that it can stand some elabo-
ration. Mr. W. K. Wimsatt 3 provides a neat illustration. He quotes
the sentence: "to read his tales is a baptism of optimism. . . ." and
goes on to comment on the nasty jingle of "-ptism" and "-ptimism."
The jingling effect is, as he says, nasty "just because the two com-
binations so nearly strive to make these words parallel, whereas
they are not; one qualifies the other." That is, the style is bad be-
cause the diction (baptism . . . optimism) suggests a parallelism
between terms that are not parallel, and the reader feels that what
pretended to be an expressive element— the -ism link between the
terms— has proved to be meaningless— even misleading. (The reader
will not necessarily make this analysis, of course; he will probably
merely feel it, hearing the -ism repetition as an irritating jingle.)
Mr. Wimsatt goes on to say: "The case is even plainer if we take
an example of the common '-ly' jingle, 'He lived practically exclu-
sively on milk/ and set beside it something like this: 'We are swal-
lowed up, irreparably, irrevocably, irrecoverably, irremediably.' In
the second we are not conscious of the repeated '-ly' as a jingle any
more than of the repeated 'irre-/ "
Why does the second sentence not register as even more "jingling"
than the first? It has not a double, but a quadruple repetition of
"-ly" plus a quadruple repetition of "irre-." But it does not jingle
because, to paraphrase Mr. Wimsatt, the repetitions here become
a part of the structure of meaning: the words linked together by
"irre-" and "-ly" belong together. The structure of sound effects
expresses perfectly the structure of sense, which it fits like a glove.
3 The Prose Style of Samuel Johnson, Yale University Press, 1941, p. 13.
436 THE FINAL INTEGRATION
Now the examples just given may be thought to be trivial, and
perhaps they are; but the principle to which they point is all-
important. One may state it in these terms: a good style is the per-
fect garment of its "content." It is perfectly adapted to its content,
which it bodies forth and from which it may not be divorced.
We said in Chapter 9 that style has to do with "how" a thing is
said rather than with "what" is said; and therefore this last remark,
that a good style is the perfect garment of its content and cannot
be separated from its content, may seem to offer a contradiction.
There is no real contradiction, of course; for if we cannot separate,
we can at least distinguish between the thought and the words,
the content and the form, the what and the how. Moreover, the
distinction between form and content is a useful one. But the dis-
tinction can be easily misused. It is proper, therefore, to see how
much weight the distinction between form and content can bear.
In the first place, content and form never exist in separation.
After all, we know what a writer says only through the way in
which he has said it. Moreover, if we alter the way in which a thing
is said, we have also altered, if only ever so slightly, what is said.
(The alteration in what is said may sometimes be so slight that we
feel justified in disregarding it; we may say that we have not
changed the content, only the form.) But at this point we are inter-
ested in theory—not in the practice, but in the principle; and it is
necessary to get the principle straight. Cardinal Newman has stated
the principle very emphatically:
Thought and speech are inseparable from each other. Matter and ex-
pression are parts of one: style is the thinking out into language. . . .
When we can separate light and illumination, life and motion, the
convex and the concave of a curve . . . then will it be conceivable that
the . . . intellect should renounce its own double.
In insisting on this inseparability of form and content, we may
seem to be riding pure theory very hard. But if we can grasp the
theory, several very important practical considerations follow from
it. First, style is seen to be not a mere outward coating, a kind of
veneer which overlies the content; for the style is the outward
manifestation of the content. Second, the theory illuminates the
difficulty of the writer as he gropes for proper expression. As
THE INSEPARABILITY OF FORM AND CONTENT 437
writers, we usually feel that we know exactly what we want to say;
we just can't quite find the precise words. But a little reflection will
reveal that we know exactly what we want to say only when we
have found the precise words. The truth of the matter is that we do
not really know what we want to say as we chew the pen and try
to get down on paper the next sentence. The process of writing is
frequently, and perhaps even usually, a process of exploration.
The principle of the inseparability of style and content may indicate
more clearly why this is true.
A third consideration of the greatest practical importance is this:
If a good style and its matter are really inseparable, it follows that
bad style always reveals itself in some sort of cleavage from its "con-
tent." Let us put the matter in this way. If a style is inseparable from
its content, if it is actually the bodying forth of its content, then in so
far as it does this adequately we can never call it "bad"— though of
course the piece of writing in question (of which style is an aspect)
may be relatively trivial. But in this last instance it will be the
whole piece of writing that is trivial, not the style as such that is
bad. The term "bad" can properly be applied to style, then, only
when the style does not adequately body forth what we guess must
have been the content that the writer had in mind.
To sum up: there are no devices of style that are "good," abso-
lutely and in themselves. They become good only in so far as they
are used to promote the fullest, best, most adequate expression of
what is to be said. One is tempted to say, conversely, that there are
no really "bad" devices— provided always that they are "English"—
that is, arrangements of words which the genius of the language
permits. But, and this is the point of crucial importance, any de-
vice, any patterning which violates the larger pattern, which works
at cross purposes to it, or which is irrelevant to it— any such pattern-
ing, by "sticking out," by calling attention to itself, warns the writer
to reconsider. It warns him to reconsider not only how he shall
"say it" but also what it is precisely that he has to say. For in a good
style the two are inseparable, and the very fact of their separation
signals that revision is in order. To use the example already given
above: the -ly parallel in "He lives practically exclusively on milk"
sticks out, whereas the much heavier reiteration of the -ly, and the
irre- in "We are swallowed up, irreparably, irrevocably, irrecover-
438 THE FINAL INTEGRATION
ably, irremediably" does not stick out: these latter repetitions be-
come part of the pattern of meaning and seem an inevitable part
of it.
STYLE AS AN EXPRESSION OF PERSONALITY
Thus far we have primarily considered style as related to the
writer's purpose, but there are other important relations to be con-
sidered, and one of them, the relation of style to the writer's per-
sonality, requires careful attention. The relation of style to person-
ality comes up appropriately at this point, for we have just said that
a good style does not call attention to itself: style and content are
inseparable, and the very cleavage between them is a symptom
of something's having gone wrong.
But this last point suggests further that a good style is not pre-
tentious or affected: that it is natural and sincere, that it is the
authentic expression of the writer's mind. This matter of unaffected
naturalness is so important that many writers on style have empha-
sized it. One celebrated essay on style gives the following advice:
"Be natural, be simple, be yourself: shun artifices, tricks, fashions.
Gain the tone of ease, plainness, self-respect. To thine own self be
true. Speak out frankly that which you have thought out in your
own brain and have felt within your soul" (Frederic Harrison, "On
English Prose").
This, it goes without saying, is good advice; but it does not take
us very far. In the first place, like so much advice which urges us
to "be ourselves," it assumes that we know what that self is. But
writing is precisely the field in which it is most difficult to know
oneself. One "finds himself" in a style only through exploration, and
perhaps painful experiment.
In the second place, there is danger that Harrison's comment
may confuse the real issue by seeming to associate "truth to self"
with simplicity, plainness, and ease. If we took his advice literally,
we might be tempted to throw out any style which was not thor-
oughly simple. Pomposity is always bad, of course; but some very
fine prose is rich and complex—which is quite another thing (see
"Complexity of Tone: When, and Why, It Is Necessary," p. 416),
Yet, having made these qualifications, it is proper to point out
that a "good style" always does express the personality of the writer.
STYLE AS AN EXPRESSION OF PERSONALITY 439
Such self-expression is usually unconscious, however; and the stu-
dent may well allow it to remain unconscious, not asking "Does
this express me?" but rather "Does this say what ought to be said?"
Indeed, the reader can be assured that the writer's personality
always does find expression in any good style. For the style of a
piece of writing is the shaping, directing, organizing force made
manifest in the writing itself. The way in which the topic is ap-
proached, the kind of analyses to which it is subjected, the em-
phases, heavy or light, that it receives, are revealed in the style,
and through the style. The style, so conceived, becomes an index
of the mind and personality of the writer. A metaphor may serve
to illustrate: The style of a work is not a sort of veneer glued
over the outside. On the contrary, it is like the pattern of the grain
in a piece of wood. It is a pattern that goes all the way through:
a manifestation of the growth and development of the structure
of the tree itself.
The writer does not need to strive for individuality as such, since
individuality must obtain in any genuine piece of work. (The grain
pattern of no two trees is just alike, and human personalities are at
least as various as trees.) Individuality in style is important, then,
not because it is valuable in itself, but as a symptom of the presence
of something else: genuineness.
The distinct impress which a personality gives to a style is easily
demonstrated. The very structure of sentences and the handling of
rhythms is tempered by the mind and personality of the writer.
A child, for example, obviously will tend to use short sentences
linked together by and's and but's and interspersed with very few
subordinate clauses. Such a style thus reflects the simple, relatively
uncritical response to the child's experience.
Let us go on to consider a more elaborate example, not a "natu-
ral" and naive simplicity, but the carefully fashioned simplicity of a
conscious artist. In the stories of Ernest Hemingway, the style is
simple, even to the point of monotony. Most of the sentences are
simple or compound. The paragraphs tend to be based upon simple
sequence. In part, of course, this simplicity of style derives from
the fact that Hemingway's typical characters are unsophisticated,
and that they are characteristically treated in simple, fundamental
situations. The uncomplicated style of the stories, therefore, is a
matter of dramatic propriety: that is, the author is merely having
440 THE FINAL INTEGRATION
his characters talk in the way in which they would talk.4 But this
is not the whole explanation. In part, the uncomplicated style is a
reflection of the sensibility of the author himself. The short, simple
rhythms, the succession of co-ordinate clauses, and the general lack
of subordination— all suggest a dislocated and ununified world.
Hemingway is apparently trying to suggest in his style the direct
experience— things as seen and felt, one after another, and not as the
mind arranges and analyzes them. Consider the following para-
graphs from his story, "In Another Country":
In the fall the war was always there, but we did not go to it any more.
It was cold in the fall in Milan and the dark came very early. Then the
electric lights came on, and it was pleasant along the streets looking in
the windows. There was much game hanging outside the shops, and the
snow powdered in the fur of the foxes and the wind blew their tails.
The deer hung stiff and heavy and empty, and small birds blew in the
wind and the wind turned their feathers. It was a cold fall and the
wind came down from the mountains.
We were all at the hospital every afternoon, and there were different
ways of walking across the town through the dusk to the hospital. Two
of the ways were alongside canals, but they were long. Always, though,
you crossed a bridge across a canal to enter the hospital. There was a
choice of three bridges. On one of them a woman sold roasted chest-
nuts. It was warm, standing in front of her charcoal fire, and the chest-
nuts were warm afterward in your pocket. The hospital was very old
and very beautiful, and you entered through a gate and walked across
a courtyard and out a gate on the other side. There were usually funerals
starting from the courtyard. Beyond the old hospital were the new brick
pavilions, and there we met every afternoon and were all very polite and
interested in what was the matter, and sat in the machines that were to
make so much difference.
The doctor came up to the machine where I was sitting and said:
"What did you like best to do before the war? Did you practise a sport?"
I said: "Yes, football."
"Good," he said. "You will be able to play football again better than
ever."
My knee did not bend and the leg dropped straight from the knee to
the ankle without a calf, and the machine was to bend the knee and
make it move as in riding a tricycle. But it did not bend yet, and in-
4 This is not to say, of course, that Hemingway is simply giving a kind of
transcript of actual conversation. See p. 276.
STYLE AS AN EXPRESSION OF PERSONALITY 441
stead the machine lurched when it came to the bending part. The doctor
said: "That will all pass. You are a fortunate young man. You will play
football again like a champion/'— ERNEST HEMINGWAY: "In Another
Country/' s
A style which involves subordination and complicated shadings
of emphasis— a style which tends toward complex sentences with
many qualifying clauses and phrases— implies an exercise of critical
discrimination. It implies the sifting of experience through the in-
tellect. But Hemingway, apparently, is primarily concerned with
giving the immediate impact of experience rather than with analyz-
ing and evaluating it in detail. His very style, then, seems to imply
that the use of the intellect, with its careful discriminations, may
blur the rendering of experience and may falsify it; and this style,
taken with his basic concern for simple, and frequently, "tough"
characters, seems to imply a distrust of the intellect in solving man's
basic problems.
Compare with Hemingway's style that of the following passage
from Henry James's The Turn of the Screw. An English governess is
telling the story, and in this passage she is reflecting upon the
housekeeper's (Mrs. Grose's) account of a former servant of the
house.
I forebore, for the moment, to analyze this description further than by
the reflection that a part of it applied to several members of the house-
hold, of the half-dozen maids and men who were still of our small colony.
But there was everything, for our apprehension, in the lucky fact that
no discomfortable legend, no perturbation of scullions, had ever, within
anyone's memory, attached to the kind old place. It had neither bad
name nor ill fame, and Mrs. Grose, most apparently, only desired to cling
to me and to quake in silence. I even put her, the very last thing of all,
to the test. It was when, at midnight, she had her hand on the school-
room door to take leave. "I have it from you then— for it's of great im-
portance—that he was definitely and admittedly bad."
The passage is, first of all, in character. The governess is a care-
fully educated woman. Her choice of words reflects her education;
but it reflects also a certain primness, a certain fastidiousness. For
example, she refines the phrase "no discomfortable legend," by add-
5 From Men Without Women by Ernest Hemingway, copyright, 1927, by
Charles Scribner's Sons.
442 THE FINAL INTEGRATION
ing an elaboration of it, "no perturbation of scullions/' The structure
of the sentences too reflects the governess's manner. In telling the
story, she is re-creating events which have already happened. As
she relates them, she tries to render them faithfully and exactly,
but she is not being carried along by the rush of events. She has
the advantage of looking back on them, and that reflection dis-
plays itself in the style. The sentences are "arranged," thought out
with some care: for example, she says, "But there was everything,
for our apprehension, in the lucky fact that. . . ." Or, she can
write "I even put her, the very last of all, to the test."
Perhaps we ought to leave our analysis of the style at this level,
and say merely that it reflects precisely the character and person-
ality of James's chosen narrator, the governess. Yet one is tempted
to try to penetrate a little deeper and find in the style something
of the sensibility of James himself: if so, we should find in James's
prose just the reverse of what we found in Hemingway's. We could
say of this passage (and of most of Henry James's work) that the
style does imply an exercise of critical discrimination, the sifting of
experience through the intellect. The sentence rhythms are com-
plex, there is a high degree of subordination, there are compli-
cated shadings of emphasis. It is the prose of a mind which is
arranging its world, by delicate adjustments and careful discrimina-
tions, into a perspectived pattern.
FURTHER EXAMPLES OF THE EXPRESSION OF THE WRITER'S
PERSONALITY
These generalizations on Hemingway and James are based, of
course, on each man's work as a whole, and the validity of the
generalizations would require for demonstration extended passages
rather than the short excerpts that we have quoted. Indeed, it is
always difficult to make a convincing case for the impress of a
writer's personality on his style if one has only a short excerpt to
exhibit. The short passages which follow, however, may serve fur-
ther to suggest some of the more obvious ways in which an author's
style may reflect his personality.
Here is Donald Culross Peattie's definition of a weed. The defi-
nition is a thoroughly accurate one. (Compare it with the diction-
ary definition: "a plant occurring obtrusively in cultivated ground
to the exclusion or injury of the desired crop.") But how lively
STYLE AS AN EXPRESSION OF PERSONALITY 443
an account it is; and how much it tells us about the personality of
Peattie!
What is a weed? I have heard it said that there are sixty definitions.
For me, a weed is a plant out of place. Or, less tolerantly, call it a foreign
aggressor, which is a thing not so mild as a mere escape from cultiva-
tion, a visitor that sows itself innocently in a garden bed where you
would not choose to plant it. Most weeds have natal countries, whence
they have sortied. So Japanese honeysuckle, English plantain, Russian
thistle came from lands we recognize, but others, like gypsies, have lost
all record of their geographic origin. Some of them turn up in all coun-
tries, and are listed in no flora as natives. Some knock about the sea-
ports of the world, springing up wherever ballast used to be dumped
from the old sailing ships. Others prefer cities; they have lost contact
with sweet soil, and lead a guttersnipe existence. A little group occurs
only where wool waste is dumped, others are dooryard and pavement
weeds, seeming to thrive the more as they are trod by the feet of man's
generations. Some prized in an age of simpler tastes have become garden
declasses and street urchins; thus it comes about that the pleasant but
plebeian scent of Bouncing Bet, that somewhat blowsy pink of old Eng-
lish gardens, is now one of the characteristic odors of American sidewalk
ends, where the pavement peters out and shacks and junked cars begin.
—DONALD CULROSS PEATTIE: Flowering Earth, Chap. 12. 6
The writer, as this passage indicates, evidently possesses a great
deal of botanical information. He is undoubtedly familiar with the
various "flora" and knows which plants are listed in them and which
are not. But this passage is not intended to be a technical descrip-
tion; rather it is a more desultory and amiable account of weeds.
Peattie is a man of perception, with senses that are keen ("the
pleasant but plebeian scent of Bouncing Bet," "the characteristic
odors of American sidewalk ends"). He evidently has a sense of hu-
mor. He is aware of current politics ("foreign aggressor"). He has
a sense of history.
In short, in this passage we get something of the play of an in-
formed and sensitive mind— a mind which special knowledge has
not made stuffy— and of a personality which savors, with evident
enjoyment, the varied and amusing world with which it is thor-
oughly familiar. In this connection notice how the general metaphor
which treats the weed as a human being who has broken bounds
6 From Flowering Earth, by Donald Culross Peattie. Copyright, 1939, by
Donald Culross Peattie. Courtesy of G. P. Putnam's Sons.
444 THE FINAL INTEGRATION
runs through the whole passage, and how this metaphor is varied
through the passage to express the varying aspects of weeds in gen-
eral and of certain weeds in particular. One weed may be like a
"foreign aggressor" to be resisted; another, like an immigrant or
colonist from another land; still another, like a gypsy whose original
homeland is lost in obscurity. Some weeds, like groups of immi-
grants, remain near the seaports where they made their first entry.
But the migration of other weeds has been from country to city.
They have moved in from the provinces and have become citified
and now lead a "guttersnipe" existence. Still other weeds are like
human beings who have come down in the world from a higher class
of society, and having lost pride of class and dignity, are now hap-
pily and frowsily plebeian. The general comparison of the weed to
the human migrant is flexible enough to provide quite specific
illustrations of the various kinds of weeds. The metaphor not only
renders the abstract definition concrete, but it suggests Peattie's
own attitude toward weeds— an attitude which is one of genial and
good-humored amusement.
Notice too how the diction unobtrusively but powerfully supports
the variations of the basic metaphor. "Foreign aggressor" is pointed
up by the use of the word "sortied." (A "sortie" suggests a military
raid.) "Guttersnipe existence" sharpens the hint given by "others
prefer cities." "Plebeian" and "somewhat blowsy" support and ex-
tend the suggestions made by "declasse."
The diction, of course, has been chosen to do something more.
Though Peattie is willing to use a technical term like flora, most
of his words are specific and concrete. Moreover, he does not hesi-
tate to use colloquial expressions like "knock about" and even the
slang expression "peters out." Peattie is not at all like the fabled
scholar who knew all the pedantic terms but could not address a
dog in his own dialect. His diction is accommodated to the whole-
some vulgarity of his subject. Weeds interest him, and to that inter-
est he brings not only a fund of knowledge but all the resources
of a rich personality.
The familiar essay, as we should expect, furnishes obvious ex-
amples of the reflection of personality in the style. (The familiar
essay is sometimes called the "personal essay.") Here is the first
paragraph of Charles Lamb's essay, "Mackery End, in Hertford-
shire":
STYLE AS AN EXPRESSION OF PERSONALITY 445
Bridget Elia has been my housekeeper for many a long year. I have
obligations to Bridget, extending beyond the period of memory. We
house together, old bachelor and maid, in a sort of double singleness;
with such tolerable comfort, upon the whole, that I, for one, find in
myself no sort of disposition to go out upon the mountains, with the
rash king's offspring, to bewail my celibacy. We agree pretty well in our
tastes and habits— yet so, as "with a difference.*' We are generally in
harmony, with occasional bickerings— as it should be among near rela-
tions. Our sympathies are rather understood, than expressed; and once,
upon my dissembling a tone in my voice more kind than ordinary, my
cousin burst into tears, and complained that I was altered. We are both
great readers in different directions. While I am hanging over (for the
thousandth time) some passage in old Burton, or one of his strange
contemporaries, she is abstracted in some modem tale, or adventure,
whereof our common reading-table is daily fed with assiduously fresh
supplies. Narrative teazes me. I have little concern in the progress of
events. She must have a story— well, ill, or indifferently told— so there
be life stirring in it, and plenty of good or evil accidents. The fluctua-
tions of fortune in fiction— and almost in real life— have ceased to interest,
or operate but dully upon me. Out-of-the-way humors and opinions-
heads with some diverting twist in them— the oddities of authorship please
me most. My cousin has a native disrelish of anything that sounds odd
or bizarre. Nothing goes down with her that is quaint, irregular, or out of
the road of common sympathy. She "holds Nature more clever. . . ."
Lamb begins his essay by pointing some contrasts between him-
self and his cousin, Bridget. They have corne to know intimately,
and to be reconciled to, and even to enjoy, their differences. Their
tastes in literature illustrate the basic difference very well. Bridget
demands in her reading a chain of narrative, a plot; but "Narrative
teazes" him. He is for out-of-the-way humors and opinions, foibles,
crotchets, and oddities. But notice that the prose that tells us this
provides in itself a nice instance of Elia's taste. For his first sen-
tence hints at a narrative, but the narrative does not develop.
Indeed, with the playful phrase, "double singleness," there comes
the "diverting twist" which Elia tells us he relishes. So also is the
humorous collocation of King Jephthah's daughter bewailing her
virginity, and the comfortable bachelor Elia, reading "for the thou-
sandth time" some passage from Burton's Anatomy of Melancholy.
The structure of the sentences, with their asides and their abrupt
and whimsical shifts, reflects the very traits of the personality which
446 THE FINAL INTEGRATION
these sentences undertake to describe: thus, "She must have a story
—well, ill, or indifferently told— so there be life stirring in it, and
plenty of good or evil accidents. The fluctuations of fortune in fic-
tion—and almost in real life— have ceased to interest, or operate but
dully upon me/' In short, the way in which Elia writes about his
traits of character is an exemplification of those very traits: the style
mirrors its content.
The reflection of personality in style comes out clearly if we
compare the varying accounts of two writers who have the same
topic. In the two passages that follow, James Boswell and Lord
Macaulay discuss the personal eccentricities of the eighteenth-
century critic and man of letters, Samuel Johnson. First, Boswell's
account:
He had another particularity, of which none of his friends ever ven-
tured to ask an explanation. It appeared to me as some superstitious
habit, which he had contracted early, and from which he had never
called upon his reason to disentangle him. This was his anxious care to
go out or in at a door or passage by a certain number of steps from a
certain point, or at least so that either his right or his left foot (I am not
certain which) should constantly make the first actual movement when
he came close to the door or passage. Thus I conjecture: for I have, upon
innumerable occasions, observed him suddenly stop, and then seem to
count his steps with a deep earnestness: and when he had neglected or
gone wrong in this sort of magical movement, I have seen him go back
again, put himself in a proper posture to begin the ceremony, and,
having gone through it, break from his abstraction, walk briskly on, and
join his companion. A strange instance of something of this nature, even
when on horseback, happened when he was in the isle of Sky. Sir Joshua
Reynolds has observed him to go a good way about, rather than cross
a particular alley in Leicester-fields; but this Sir Joshua imputed to his
having had some disagreeable recollection associated with it.
That the most minute singularities which belonged to him, and made
very observable parts of his appearance and manner, may not be omitted,
it is requisite to mention, that while talking or even musing, as he sat in
his chair, he commonly held his head to one side towards his right
shoulder, and shook it in a tremulous manner, moving his body back-
wards and forwards, and rubbing his left knee in the same direc-
tion, with the palm of his hand. In the intervals of articulating he
made various sounds with his mouth, sometimes as if ruminating, or
what is called chewing the cud, sometimes giving a half whistle, some-
STYLE AS AN EXPRESSION OF PERSONALITY 44?
times making his tongue play backwards from the roof of his mouth,
as if clucking like a hen, and sometimes protruding it against his upper
gums in front, as if pronouncing quickly under his breath, too, too, too:
all this accompanied sometimes with a thoughtful look, but more fre-
quently with a smile. Generally when he had concluded a period, in
the course of a dispute, by which time he was a good deal exhausted
by violence and vociferation, he used to blow out his breath like a
Whale. This I supposed was a relief to his lungs; and it seemed in him
to be a contemptuous mode of expression, as if he had made the argu-
ments of his opponent fly like chaff before the wind.
I am fully aware how very obvious an occasion I here give for the
sneering jocularity of such as have no relish of an exact likeness: which
to render complete, he who draws it must not disdain the slightest
strokes. But if witlings should be inclined to attack this account, let
them have the candour to quote what I have offered in my defense.—
JAMES BOSWELL: "1764: JEt-at 55," Life of Johnson.
His life during the thirty year^ which followed was one hard struggle
with poverty. The miseiy of that struggle needed no aggravation, but
was aggravated by the sufferings of an unsound body and an unsound
mind. Before the young man left the university, his hereditary malady
had broken forth in a singularly cruel form. He had become an incurable
hypochondriac. He said long after that he had been mad all his life,
or at least not perfectly sane; and, in truth, eccentricities less strange
than his have often been thought grounds sufficient for absolving felons
and for setting aside wills. His grimaces, his gestures, his mutterings,
sometimes diverted and sometimes terrified people who did not know him.
At a dinner table he would, in a fit of absence, stoop down and twitch off
a lady's shoe. He would amaze a drawing-room by suddenly ejaculating
a clause of the Lord's Prayer. He would conceive an unintelligible aver-
sion to a particular alley, and perform a great circuit rather than see the
hateful place. He would set his heart on touching every post in the
streets through which he walked. If by any chance he missed a post, he
would go back a hundred yards and repair the omission. Under the
influence of his disease, his senses became morbidly torpid, and his
imagination morbidly active. At one time he would stand poring on the
town clock without being able to tell the hour. At another he would
distinctly hear his mother, who was many miles off, calling him by name.
But this was not the worst. A deep melancholy took possession of him,
and gave a dark tinge to all his views of human nature and of human
destiny. Such wretchedness as he endured has driven many men to shoot
themselves or drown themselves. But he was under no temptation to
commit suicide. He was sick of life, but he was afraid of death; and he
448 THE FINAL INTEGRATION
shuddered at every sight or sound which reminded him of the inevitable
hour. In religion he found but little comfort during his long and frequent
fits of dejection; for his religion partook of his own character. The light
from heaven shone on him, indeed, but not in a direct line, or with its
own pure splendor. The rays had to struggle through a disturbing
medium; they reached him refracted, dulled and discolored by the
thick gloom which had settled on his soul; and, though they might
be sufficiently clear to guide him, were too dim to cheer him.— THOMAS
BABINGTON MACAULAY: "Samuel Johnson."
Lord Melbourne, a contemporary of Macaulay's, once said that
he wished that he could be as cocksure of anything as Macaulay
was of everything. If this is not the prose of a cocksure man, it is
at least the prose of a thoroughly assured man. Macaulay has a tidy
mind; he values clarity; he enjoys clean balances and antitheses.
One judges that he has small patience with mysteries and mystifi-
cations. Certainly, he sees Johnson's character as plain as a pike-
staff. Johnson suffered from an "unsound body and an unsound
mind." His struggle aggravated his misery. His eccentricities are the
product of his hereditary malady. Johnson was "sick of life." If he
did not rid himself of a life he was "sick of," it was because he was
"afraid" of death.
Now this is not the place in which to discuss whether or not
Macaulay has oversimplified Johnson's personality. The passage
has been quoted, not to throw light upon Johnson's personality,
but upon Macaulay's. But some comparison with Boswell's account
of Johnson's eccentricities may be of help here. Boswell agrees that
Johnson was sick, but he does not say patly that he was "sick of
life" (which, in Macaulay's sentence so neatly balances "afraid of
death"). Moreover, Boswell, in mentioning the alley which Johnson
avoided, takes pains to refer to Reynolds's conjecture that John-
son avoided it because it was for him associated with some painful
memory. Boswell does not say that he agrees with Reynolds, and he
frankly calls one of Johnson's eccentricities a "superstitious habit,"
and another a "magical movement." Still, Boswell is more tentative
than Macaulay in his explanations of Johnson's conduct, just as he
presents a richer and more detailed description of the eccentricities.
One must not, of course, build too much upon two rather brief
passages. Even these passages, however, do present some contrasts
between Boswell's personality and Macaulay's. Macaulay's is obvi-
STYLE AS AN EXPRESSION OF PERSONALITY 449
ously the more methodical mind, the more practical mind, the more
"brilliant" mind. Boswell, one would suppose, has more geniality,
more sympathy, more sense of the rich sensuous detail of life, more
humility before the mystery of human personality. This last com-
ment requires the admission, of course, that Boswell, in the passage
in question, is writing about his hero, Johnson. This is true enough.
But the passage does not breathe uncritical hero-worship. Boswell is
willing to characterize the odd action he describes as "a ceremony,"
and he is not unduly squeamish about his great friend's dignity
when he writes "sometimes giving a half whistle, sometimes making
his tongue play backwards from the roof of his mouth, as if cluck-
ing like a hen."
Boswell is neither the uncritical devotee nor the meticulous
cataloguer. We get a better characterization of his interests if we
read the last paragraph of his selection. Here the conscious artist
is speaking. Boswell is fascinated with Johnson; he means to make
us see him, even if the minuteness of the details may prompt some
readers to laugh. He is the sort of man who will not be satisfied
with a formula which will explain Johnson or satisfied with any
mere summary of Johnson's traits. Macaulay (in the best, as well as
in the worst sense) is the man who is fascinated by summaries, who
sees the value of summaries, and means to give us the neatest and
most pithy summary possible.
IMPROPER INTRUSION OF THE WRITER'S PERSONALITY
The writer's own personality, then, is reflected in his writing,
even though that reflection may well be unconscious. This fact
offers an opportunity to consider briefly a further point which is of
the utmost concern to the writer. If personality ultimately cannot
be kept out of one's writing, how is the expression of the writer's
personality to be controlled?
Consider the following passage from one of Dickens's novels.
She was dead. Dear, gentle, patient, noble Nell was dead. Her little
bird-a poor slight thing the pressure of a finger would have crushed—
was stirring nimbly in its cage; and the strong heart of its child mistress
was mute and motionless for ever.
Where were the traces of her early cares, her sufferings, and fatigues?
All gone. Sorrow was dead indeed in her, but peace and perfect hap-
piness were born; imaged in her tranquil beauty and profound repose.
450 THE FINAL INTEGRATION
And still her former self lay there, unaltered in this change. Yes. The
old fireside had smiled upon that same sweet face; it had passed, like
a dream, through haunts of misery and care; at the door of the poor
schoolmaster on the summer evening, before the furnace fire on the cold
wet night, at the still bedside of the dying boy, there had been the
same mild lovely look. So shall we know the angels in their majesty,
after death.
The old man held one languid arm in his, and had the small hand
tight folded to his breast, for warmth. It was the hand she had stretched
out to him with her last smile—the hand that had led him on, through
all their wanderings. Ever and anon he pressed it to his lips; then hugged
it to his breast again, murmuring that it was warmer now; and, as he
said it, he looked, in agony, to those who stood around, as if imploring
them to help her.— CHARLES DICKENS: The Old Curiosity Shop, Chap.
71.
Many things could be said about this passage: its obvious senti-
mentality ( cf . p. 398 ) , the strain evidenced by tbe writer as he tries
to squeeze the last drop of feeling from the scene, its shameless
parading of all the cliches of tenderness, its invitation to the reader
to abandon himself to the sweet sadness of little Nell's death. Yet
the passage does express Dickens's own feelings, and it would prob-
ably be idle to argue that it is not a "sincere" expression of values
that Dickens held very dearly. (That is, it is unlikely that Dickens
was cold-bloodedly attempting to stir the reader's feelings. Dickens,
too, probably felt the scene deeply, and far from cynically playing
upon our feelings, is himself being swept along by his own emo-
tions.) Even so, the passage reveals what may be called a disturb-
ing intrusion of the author's own personality into the scene. The
feeling of tenderness is not absorbed and objectified: it spills over
chaotically. Compare this death scene with the following:
Snag was a crippled Negro who had caddied for my uncle when he
won his first golf tournament. Cap'm John had been fond of Snag. He
was fond of all Negroes, and I remember how pleased both he and Snag
would be over any golf shot the two of them contrived to make. . . .
But Snag used to swim in the river. He believed it would help his
undeveloped leg. He had a mongrel dog, and the two of them would
swim on warm mornings up at a great sweeping bend of levee and
wilderness beyond the golf course. It was on an empty Sunday morning
that Snag was killed. He hadn't seen the oil tanker when she came
around the bend. They were out in the middle, then, just two black
STYLE AS AN EXPRESSION OF PERSONALITY 451
specks on the yellow vastness. Then the long blast came like a mighty
trumpet. They said that the nigger must have misjudged their swing.
They were already well on the turn when they saw him and they said
that they eased the wheel to straighten out and pass the nigger on
starboard. They said that he must have just put it to a guess and he
guessed wrong, because they said that he had two-thirds of the river to
swim in but that he had turned back and so they put the wheel hard
to starboard and then he turned back again— the two of them, the nigger
and the dog, swimming back and forth each time in a shorter arc until
they could see his face stretched like laughter in the sunshine with all
the white teeth, or like a grimace of joyous surprise, recognition, and
with men even running forward, waving from the swinging cliff (she
was high, empty) and the long trumpet blast right up to the moment
he was struck and they wasted the life preserver. He was struck by the
great bulging side, nearly amidship, as the wall of steel swung gatelike
and fast with the wheel hard over. They saw only the hand and the
vanishing gleam of teeth and then nothing.— s. s. FIELD: "Goodbye to
Cap'm John." 7
In its intention, this passage is not, to be sure, quite on the same
level with that of Dickens. It is more modest in its claim on our
emotions; it presumably aims at a less intense effect. Yet the man
who remembers the story from his boyhood, and narrates it here, is
obviously fond of Snag, and feels a sense of sorrow at his death.
Moreover, the student will probably find the passage quite moving.
How is the emotion which we feel kept from spilling over into senti-
mentality? Why does it not become excessive? In part, because the
scene has been realized for us vividly in its detail; because the
writer does not seem at our elbow nudging us to "emote," or sug-
gesting what we ought to feel; because he has left us free to draw
our own interpretations, confident that if the scene is fairly pre-
sented, the reader may be relied upon to respond fully and properly
to it. In short, Field does not intrude his own personality into the
scene: his relevant emotion is absorbed into the scene itself.
The sensitive artist's ability to express emotion without cramming
it down our throats— without intruding his own personality into the
work— may be further illustrated by excerpts from a story by
Katherine Anne Porter and a story by Ernest Hemingway. In
7 From "Goodbye to Cap'm John," by S. S. Field, published by The Southern
Review, Vol. I (1936). Courtesy of Louisiana State University Press.
452 THE FINAL INTEGRATION
Miss Porter's story two little girls have been watching a race which
their uncle's horse, Miss Lucy, has just won.
The little girls sat down, feeling quite dizzy, while their father tried to
pull their hats straight, and taking out his handkerchief held it to
Miranda's face, saying very gently, "Here, blow your nose/' and he
dried her eyes while he was about it, He stood up then and shook them
out of their daze. He was smiling with deep laughing wrinkles around
his eyes, and spoke to them as if they were grown young ladies he was
squiring around.
"Let's go out and pay our respects to Miss Lucy," he said. "She's the
star of the day."
The horses were coming in, looking as if their hides had been drenched
and rubbed with soap, their ribs heaving, their nostrils flaring and
closing. The jockeys sat bowed and relaxed, their faces calm, moving
a little at the waist with the movement of the horses. Miranda noted
this for future use; that was the way you came in from a race, easy and
quiet, whether you had won or lost. Miss Lucy came last, and a little
handful of winners applauded her and cheered the jockey. He smiled
and lifted his whip, his eyes and shriveled brown face perfectly serene.
Miss Lucy was bleeding at the nose, two thick red rivulets were stiffening
her tender mouth and chin, the round velvet chin that Miranda thought
the nicest kind of chin in the world. Her eyes were wild and her knees
were trembling, and she snored when she drew her breath.
Miranda stood staring. That was winning, too. Her heart clinched tight;
that was winning, for Miss Lucy. So instantly and completely did her
heart reject that victoiy, she did not know when it happened, but she
hated it, and was ashamed that she had screamed and shed tears of joy
when Miss Lucy, with her bloodied nose and bursting heart, had gone
past the judges' stand a neck ahead. She felt empty and sick and held
to her father's hand so hard that he shook her off a little impatiently
and said, "What is the matter with you? Don't be so fidgety/'— KATHERINE
ANNE PORTER: "Old Mortality." 8
In Hemingway's story, the boy is watching a race that has been
"fixed."
They weren't at the post hardly any time at all when the gong started
and you could see them way off across the infield all in a bunch starting
on the first swing like a lot of little toy horses. I was watching them
8 From Pale Horse, Pale Rider by Katherine Anne Porter, copyright, 1939,
by Katherine Anne Porter. Reprinted by permission of Harcourt, Brace and
Company, Inc.
STYLE AS AN EXPRESSION OF PERSONALITY 453
through the glasses and Kzar was running well back, with one of the
bays making the pace. They swept down and around and came pound-
ing past and Kzar was way back when they passed us and this Kircubbin
horse in front and going smooth. Gee it's awful when they go by you and
then you have to watch them go farther away and get smaller and smaller
and then all bunched up on the turns and then come around towards you
into the stretch and you feel like swearing and goddamming worse and
worse. Finally they made the last turn and came into the straightaway
with this Kircubbin horse way out in front. Everybody was looking funny
and saying "Kzar" in a sort of sick way and them pounding nearer down
the stretch, and then something came out of the pack right into my
glasses like a horse-headed yellow streak and everybody began to yell
"Kzar" as though they were crazy. Kzar came on faster than I'd ever
seen anything in my life and pulled up on Kircubbin that was going as
fast as any black horse could go with the jock flogging hell out of him
with the gad and they were right dead neck for neck for a second but
Kzar seemed going about twice as fast with those great jumps and that
head out— but it was while they were neck and neck that they passed
the winning post and when the numbers went up in the slots the first
one was 2 and that meant Kircubbin had won.
I felt all trembly and funny inside, and then we were all jammed in
with the people going down stairs to stand in front of the board where
they'd post what Kircubbin paid. Honest, watching the race I'd forgot
how much my old man had bet on Kircubbin. I'd wanted Kzar to win so
damned bad. But now it was all over it was swell to know we had a
winner.
"Wasn't it a swell race, Dad?" I said to him.
He looked at me sort of funny with his derby on the back of his
head. "George Gardner's a swell jockey, all right," he said. "It sure took
a great jock to keep that Kzar horse from winning."— ERNEST HEMING-
WAY: "My Old Man." 9
Both passages attempt to suggest, first the excitement of the ob-
server, and then the subsequent disappointment: in the case of the
little girl, at the realization that the horse has been pushed beyond
its strength and injured; in the case of the boy, at the realization
that the race has been "fixed"-that the horse that should have won
has been held back and cheated of its victory. Each passage reflects
the dramatic character (the "personality") of the observer. This fact
is, of course, primary. But it is possible to see that each passage
9 From Three Stories and Ten Poems by Ernest Hemingway, copyright, 1923,
by Charles Scribner's Sons.
454 THE FINAL INTEGRATION
also reflects the personality of the author. We have already com-
mented upon the way in which the style of a typical Hemingway
story is related to Hemingway's own personality (p. 440). This
excerpt from "My Old Man'* provides a good instance of our gen-
eralization. But what of Miss Porter's style? Can a comparable
generalization be made?
Probably so. Hers is the prose of a sensitive observer. It is femi-
nine prose (in the best sense of that term) as Hemingway's is mascu-
line prose. But the details, rich as they are, and "naturally" as they
are presented (through the eyes of the little girl), are not chaotic.
They are ordered to a pattern; they are meaningful in terms of a
generalization about life. This is not to say that the little girl is
made to appear too wise for her years. It is rather to say that the
scene is being described as remembered by a woman; that the
experience of the little girl receives the benefit of subsequent ma-
turity; that, though the scene is focused upon the child, the passage
describing it is not being written by a child.
Are we to conclude, then, that both passages are autobiographi-
cal: that Miranda is taken from Miss Porter's childhood and that
the boy observer in Hemingway's "My Old Man" is the boy Heming-
way, or at least derives from some comparable boyhood experience
of Hemingway's? Not necessarily. For the point to be made here
concerns how a writer uses his materials—not where they may have
come from.
PERSONALITY CONTROLLED AND OBJECTIFIED IN THE WORK
In both passages before us the intelligence and sensitivity of the
writer, his interests and values, are subordinated to the work in
question. It would be more accurate to say that they are here com-
pletely absorbed into the story of Miranda and into the story of the
boy at the race track. If there is a moral here for the writer, it is
one that applies not merely to the writer of fiction. Even the essay-
ist who writes in the first person may profit by using a comparable
means of objectification and control. He may actually find it help-
ful to objectify and dramatize the "I" who speaks, not at all to dis-
guise or suppress his personality, but rather to realize that per-
sonality most fully. Even Charles Lamb preferred to write as "Elia"
rather than as Charles Lamb, Esq.
STYLE CULTIVATED BY READING 455
STYLE CULTIVATED BY READING
Thus far in this chapter we have discussed style (1) as related to
the writer's immediate purpose and (2) as related to the writer's
personality. But there is a third aspect of style which ought to be
discussed at least briefly: (3) style as related to the writer's lin-
guistic environment. The first aspect of style is, of course, all-
important. It is the aspect of style which concerns the writer im-
mediately as he looks down upon the paper before him and grap-
ples with the problem of putting his meaning adequately into
words. The second aspect (style as the expression of the writer's
innermost self) involves a double problem: on the one hand, that
of the writer's personal integrity, and on the other, that of his
originality. The third aspect of style has to do with the writer's
inheritance, his relation to his linguistic tradition generally. Specifi-
cally and practically, it has a great deal to do with his reading.
One cannot learn how to write unless he learns how to read. In
stressing this we are not forgetting the importance of originality
or urging the writer's falling into slavish imitation. For it is only
through reading that we discover ourselves and find our own in-
dividual style.
A little reflection will show why reading is of paramount impor-
tance for writing. In the first place, we inherit language. We learn
words by imitating our parents. We imitate their words, and we
learn to associate meanings with these spoken sounds. As we grow,
the meanings of these words are enriched, and we acquire fresh
words. Moreover, we learn, again by imitation, how to arrange these
words in patterns so that more precise meanings can be conveyed.
A child who can merely babble a few isolated words may be able to
make its wants known. When it says "water," the mother under-
stands that it wants a drink of water. As it grows, it acquires gram-
matical patterns. But it learns further expressive patterns as well.
The devices of style are expressive patternings. Parallelism and
antithesis, for example, express relationships: they point (or should
point) to elements that line up together and to others that balance
each other in opposition. Stylistic arrangements of all sorts are thus
acquired by imitation: for the process of learning by imitation is
not interrupted as we learn to read.
456 THE FINAL INTEGRATION
A writer who has read nothing but the local newspaper will be-
gin by writing in the style of the local newspaper. How could he
do otherwise? Anyone who can read and write has been thoroughly
exposed to models of a sort. Strictly speaking, there is no such
thing as a "natural** style. The only question, then, is not whether
one shall or shall not be exposed to models of style. It is rather
whether his experience shall include a wide range of models or be
restricted to a narrow one. Ironically, it is the writer least acquainted
with a variety of styles who usually turns out to be least individual
in his own style. It is easy to see why this must be true. If our
acquaintance with style is limited to that of the newspapers, a few
popular magazines, and an occasional novel, our knowledge of the
expressive possibilities of the language is so restricted that we have
little range in which to make our own personalities felt.
Imitation, then, does not necessarily run counter to originality.
For we must remember the terms in which our problem is set for
us: we can always be as "original" as we please by using our own
peculiar grammar, by assigning our own meaning to words, or, for
that matter, by simply inventing a new language. The penalty for
such originality is that we should not be understood. The only orig-
inality that counts, therefore, is an originality that does not deny the
necessary conventional element in language. That element— though
we may want to argue about its ultimate limits— is always very
great. Therefore, since we can win only a cheap and worthless
originality by violating the permissible modes of expression, the
way to a truly individual style is through acquaintance with the
whole realm of possibilities. For we do not invent words and
expression: the only area in which we may display originality is in
the way in which we may dispose and reorder them.
In the next chapter the importance of reading will be discussed
more generally. Suffice it to say here that learning how to write
goes hand in hand with learning how to read, and that a rich back-
ground in reading, far from fettering the writer to worn and dull
conventionality, is his richest resource for discovering his own
characteristic style.
How far back should the reading go? Can the (to our ears)
quaint and obsolete style of Sir Thomas Malory aid us who are
committed to the idiom of the twentieth century? Can the eight-
STYLE CULTIVATED BY READING 457
eenth-century prose of Joseph Addison be of any real utility to us
in forming a style? Has not prose changed so much since the nine-
teenth century that a nineteenth-century style, even that of Charles
Lamb, for example,* seems quaint and out of place today? These
are some of the questions that the student may be tempted to ask
at this point.
A proper answer to these questions might take some such form
as this. It is perfectly true that language changes and that writers
of an earlier century can rather easily be identified through the
period style which they write. It is also perfectly true that it would
be absurd for a twentieth-century writer to affect the prose style,
say, of a seventeenth-century writer. Naturally he will derive most
direct help from writers who are attempting to solve the typical
problems of style that face a writer of our time. But even the
writers of the remote past may prove to be of more direct value
than a superficial opinion would indicate. For we must remember
that reading is not undertaken for the sake of carbon-copy imita-
tion. Not even the twentieth-century writer is to be read as a
model to be followed slavishly. We read in order to enlarge our
resources, in order to strengthen our hold on the language and its
range of expressive devices; we read other writers in order to pro-
vide ourselves with the equipment which will give us the means
to be more truly ourselves. Seen in these terms, imitation and orig-
inality do not war against each other; a writer may possibly find
that he can learn from the prose of two centuries ago as well as
from that which was written last year.
SUMMARY
A very important element in style is RHYTHM. Rhythm depends
upon the relationship of stressed and unstressed syllables. Poetry
tends to employ a formalized rhythm which we call verse. Prose
rhythms are much less formalized, and for that reason somewhat
more difficult to describe accurately. But rhythm is frequently one
of the most important expressive devices which the writer pos-
sesses. The writer is not advised to try consciously for special
ihythmic effects. He ought, however, to learn to recognize rhythmic
defects in his own prose as symptoms of poor or defective arrange-
ment of sentences and sentence elements.
458 THE FINAL INTEGRATION
Style involves an over-all harmony among the various expressive
elements: sentence structure, diction, metaphor, rhythm, and all
the rest. There are, therefore, no devices that are good in them-
selves, absolutely and intrinsically. Moreover? if we are to speak
strictly, we shall have to regard as a bad style only that style which
is at odds with itself, a style which lacks harmony among its various
expressive factors. By the same token, we have to say that style
and matter, form and content, are inseparable. We know what is
said only through the way in which it is said; and to alter the
way in which a thing is said is always to alter, if only ever so
slightly, what is said. Three practical considerations follow from
our realization of this inseparability of style and matter. (1) Style
is not a mere veneer, a decorated surface laid over the content.
(2) The writer's real difficulty in composition is finally to know what
he wants to say— not, as we are tempted to think, merely how to
say it. (3) Bad style always shows itself in some disharmony or
cleavage between what is said and what we guess the author actu-
ally meant to say. The elements at fault call attention to themselves
—"stick out."
These last considerations bear upon another aspect of style: the
sincerity of the writer. We properly take originality to be a symptom
of a good style. If we see that the style is not a veneer, but rather
the informing principle of content, we can understand why good
style is always indelibly impressed with the personality of the
writer. But the reader needs to be warned against any excessive
striving for originality as such. It is not enough to urge him to be
his unique self, for frequently he finds that true self only through
a process of exploration. Originality, the impress of personality, like
good rhythm, fortunately can be left to take care of itself if the
writer manages to take care of what he can consciously control in
his composition.
Thus far we have considered the relation of style to the writer's
purpose and to the writer's own inner self. A third matter has to
be considered: the relation of a writer to his linguistic environment.
This amounts, in practice, to what the writer can learn from his read-
ing, since language itself is inherited along with all of its expressive
devices. The writer who strives to avoid all imitation locks himself
into a narrow prison. His way to freedom and to true originality
SUMMARY 459
consists rather in extending his knowledge of the language and of
various styles. Intelligent reading goes hand in hand with the disci-
pline of writing.
A MORE CONCRETE SUMMARY
If some of the matters discussed in this chapter seem rather ab-
stract, perhaps it may be helpful to discuss them under the following
metaphor. We are familiar with "styles" of dress, and Lord Chester-
field, in a well-known pronouncement on style, defined style as "the
dress of thoughts." It probably seems natural to most of us to think
of style as a garb in which our thoughts are clothed.
Buffon, however, made a comment on style quite as famous as
that of Chesterfield. He said that "the style is the man himself."
His statement and Chesterfield's, then, seem to stand in flat contra-
diction. Is there a way out of the apparent contradiction? There
is, for both Chesterfield and Buffon are making use of the same
metaphor, though they use different aspects of it. Chesterfield is
presumably thinking of the writer's power to choose a proper style
and of his need to choose wisely. A man does not choose to wear
a dinner jacket for work in the garden, nor does he choose a suit
of overalls to wear to a formal dinner. There must be an accommo-
dation of style to the occasion, and Chesterfield's statement insists
upon the necessity for careful choice. Buffon, on the other hand,
is stressing the fact that in a proper style the words do not cover
up and disguise the man; instead the style becomes an expression
of the man. The two pronouncements thus can be reconciled; for
if words may be thought of as a kind of dress, still a proper kind
of dress ought to reflect the personality of the wearer. In other
words, Buffon is not recommending that the writer walk about
naked, for, since, in terms of our clothes analogy, the words are the
clothing, that would be to have the writer give up words altogether.
Nor is Chesterfield, one may assume, recommending that the writer
shrivel away into a kind of tailor's dummy— that is, become merely
an animated suit of clothes.
Our clothes metaphor, then, properly understood, will carry us
a step further. It will even account for the fact that we do not
know what we want to say until, through exploration, we have
found how we are to say it. We may fit the problem to the metaphor
460 THE FINAL INTEGRATION
in this fashion. It is true that a man's "word-clothing" is not like
his naked skin, something that he is born with and cannot and
need not change. He acquires language: language is not natural
but always in some sense artificial. Nevertheless, this also needs to
be remembered: the "man" who is to be measured and clothed,
in this case, cannot turn over his measurements to a journeyman
clerk who selects from the shelves the ready-made articles, guaran-
teed to fit. On the contrary, an intricate and careful tailoring is
required; for we must remember that the "man" to be fitted (the
"thing" to be said) is only a vague and nebulous ectoplasm until he
assumes the garments which define him and realize him. For the
thoughts, of which the words are the dress, are not defined with
any precision until they have assumed their dress— until they are
expressed in words.
Lastly, even the problem of reading can be fitted to the clothes
metaphor. In suggesting that the writer may, by intelligent read-
ing, learn how to write, one is not suggesting that he go into a
museum and choose a sixteenth-century doublet, an eighteenth-
century peruke, and Dickens's nineteenth-century greatcoat. To ac-
quire past styles in this sense would be merely to outfit oneself for
a fancy-dress party. But the person who is acquainted with no
styles except those of the newspaper and an occasional magazine
is like a man who goes shopping in a shop so meagerly furnished
that it can offer him only one shoddy suit, size 28, and one overcoat,
size 42. He cannot clothe himself properly unless he has a variety
of items from which to choose, a variety large enough to allow him
to display real discrimination and thus dress himself not only com-
fortably, but also in a fashion which will express his own individual
personality.
CHAPTER
14
Reading: What
Does It Mean to
a Writer?
A LARGE part of the material we write about is drawn from our
personal experience and observation. Reporters, feature writers,
essayists, and fiction writers draw heavily on actual life, as do, at
times, even more technical writers, philosophers, for instance. The
most important or vivid events, experienced or witnessed, are not
worth much to us, however, unless we think about them. We have
to see their significance before they are worth recording. And in
one sense, it can even be said that they cannot be recorded at all
unless we think about them, for the only thing that we can record
is what we think of something, how it strikes us, how we inter-
pret it. We cannot record the thing in its absolute purity without
reference to our own response to it.
So our experience and observation are extremely important to us.
But what of experience and observation that come to us second-
hand, through reading? What can reading do for us? It can do
many things for us, but for immediate purposes, we may list three.
It can help us think. It can give us things to think about. And it
can help us to express our thoughts.
Reading can help us think by giving us examples of thinking,
good or bad. Obviously, the example of good thinking helps us.
It gives us a model. It shows the principles of thinking in operation.
But the example of bad thinking is useful, too. At least, it is useful
if we read critically enough to spot it as bad. The bad thinking
gives us the challenge to define the real issue, assess the evidence
offered, correct the bad logic. And it may even awaken us to our
462 READING FOR THE WRITER
own failures in thinking by showing us how some method we have
employed leads to confusion. In reading, the student must try to
break down what he reads into its logical divisions and state for
himself the relation among these divisions. In other words, he must
try to define the structure of the whole discourse.
Reading may be about anything. Every subject that conceivably
interests man has been written about somewhere. So reading is
the great mine of material for our thinking. It extends our limited
individual experience in time and space, back into the past and
outward into other places than our own. We can find out what
Athens was like at the time of Plato or what London was like at
the time of George III. Reading tells us what our own time and
place are like. And it can put us inside the being of other people.
The poem, the novel, the play, the memoir, the autobiography or
biography, the philosophical treatise, the essay— almost any form of
writing—can do this. Characteristically, it is the job of poetry, fiction,
and drama— imaginative literature— to draw us fully into the flow
of the experience of others. But in so far as our imagination, or the
imagination of the writer, works on the material, any form of writ-
ing can do this. We feel that we know Macbeth or Becky Sharp
better than we know our next-door neighbor, and Socrates or George
Washington better than we know Calvin Coolidge. Writers have
made this possible for us, Shakespeare, Thackeray, Plato, and the
historians of the American Revolution.
Reading gets us out of our own time and place, out of ourselves,
but it can in the end return us to ourselves and help us to define
ourselves. It places us in relation to human history and human
effort. It locates us on a map, as it were, of human experience, and
sets up points of reference by which we can inspect ourselves.
Reading ends by giving us ourselves as material for thinking.
It also gives us our own immediate world. We thought that we
had that already, the home and family, the daily occupations, the
familiar street, but when we come back to that world from our
reading we find that it has a new look, a deeper interest, and a
brighter gloss. After Sinclair Lewis's Main Street, Edgar Lee Mas-
ters' Spoon River Anthology, Thomas Wolfe's Look Homeward,
Angel, or Sherwood Anderson's Winesburg, Ohio, the American
small town never looks the same. After Thoreau's Walden, the back
READING FOR THE WRITER 463
pasture or the creek never looks the same. Or after Charles A.
Beard's The Making of the American Constitution, the report in the
morning paper about the latest action of Congress does not look
the same. Reading gives us our immediate world, because it gives
us a new way of looking at that world. We can see new material
in it.
Reading can help us to express our thoughts. Every selection or
example in this book shows us, by its success or failure, something
about the process of getting our meaning into words. With this
topic, however, we return to our first topic— and also to a topic
discussed on page 435, the inseparability of "form" and "content."
For the way of thinking and the way of saying meet at one level and
become the same thing. Can we say that we have thought some-
thing through until we have the words for it? In a kind of rough-
and-ready way, we do distinguish between our idea and the words
we put it into, and the distinction is useful, just as, in reading, the
attempt to put the writer's idea into our own words is a useful
check on our understanding. But words are the instrument of
thought and there are no two ways of saying exactly the same
thing. The difference may be slight in a given case, so slight that
it doesn't matter, but the principle does matter. When we read
we are constantly being affected by the slight qualifications of
meaning and these slight qualifications are in the end of enormous
importance.
When we write, if we are writing conscientiously, we keep trying
to locate the right word or phrase. The thing doesn't "feel" right
to us as it stands. We don't know exactly how we want to put it
(in other words, we don't quite have our idea), but we are dissatis-
fied and keep fumbling for the right expression. We may even try
to phrase to ourselves the grounds of our dissatisfaction— using
words to diagnose our bad use of words— and this may help us. But
we do not have the right expression until we have it, and we may
have to get it by a process of trial and error, checking each try
by our "feel," our hunch, continually asking ourselves the question:
"Is this really what I want to say?" Sometimes we have to arrive
at the right expression by some such process of elimination. For
instance, when asked how he managed to get the right word, the
poet A. E. Housman replied that he didn't bother so much about
464 READING FOR THE WRITER
getting the right word; he bothered about getting rid of the wrong
one.
Is there some sort of a system for reading which will help the
writer? There is no foolproof system. For one thing, different kinds
of writing may call for different systems of reading. What may work
for fiction may not, and probably will not, work for writing that
is primarily expository. Moreover, a system which works for one
person may not work for another. In the end the student may have
to develop his own system. But any system must take into account
such questions as these:
1. What is the material?
2. What understanding do I already have of such material? That
is, do I have any basis for comparison and criticism?
3. What is the author's motivation? Is he trying to inform me,
convince me, persuade me, or make me participate in a total, imag-
inative experience— the experience of a novel, say, or of a poem or
play?
4. What is the author's basic idea or theme?
5. How is this idea developed in the structure of the work? In
other words, what is the author's method of thinking?
6. What are the tone and style of the work? Do I understand the
intention and the effect of the language as used in his work?
7. What enlightenment does the work give me? New facts? New
ideas? New methods of thought? New sense of character? Deeper
awareness of human experience?
Number 1 is the easiest question. The book, or whatever it is, is
about something. The material (as opposed to the author's inter-
pretation of that material— the idea or theme) may be tribal life in
Polynesia, co-operative marketing, the theory of relativity, the pro-
gram of the Republican Party, socialism, the nature of the good.
It is fairly easy to identify the material— the "raw material"— the
author worked with. Number 2 also seems easy, but it is sometimes
harder than it looks. To answer these questions, the reader must
look honestly into his own knowledge. It is easy to delude oneself.
A person hears about something and in the end assumes that he
knows something about it. But he merely has the words, and per-
haps has one accidental or arbitrary interpretation. He must ask:
What do I know about Polynesia? What do I know about the ways
READING FOR THE WRITER 465
in which the good has been conceived? What are some of the prob-
lems involved in defining it? Certainly, we want to read about sub-
jects we do not know about, and for any subject there must always
be the first acquaintance. We have to start somewhere. The point is
simply this: the reader must try to know where he stands, what is
his own background and equipment for dealing with a subject.
Number 3 seems relatively easy, and usually is. Often an author
will state quite flatly what he intends to do— to inform the reader
about tribal life in Polynesia, to persuade the reader to vote the
Republican ticket. But all cases are not so simple. Sometimes there
are concealed motives. For instance, what seems to be a piece of
history may actually be written from a point of view that would
imply your adopting some attitude or line of action, here and now.
The life of Abraham Lincoln might work as an appeal to support
the Republican Party in the next election, or the life of George
Washington might work as an argument against political co-opera-
tion with Great Britain. In both of these examples, the apparent
motive would be to inform but the real motive would be to con-
vince or persuade. Try to see whether the author has something
up his sleeve.
When we deal with fiction, poetry, or drama— the kinds of writ-
ing which are art forms— the question of the author's motivation
becomes even more complicated. In one sense such kinds of writing
are primarily for our enjoyment. That is their distinguishing char-
acteristic. But a great deal hinges on the word enjoyment here. We
recognize immediately some difference between the kind of enjoy-
ment found in a who-dun-it and that found in Shakespeare's Romeo
and Juliet. The who-dun-it gives us the pleasure of the puzzle, the
excitement of action. That is all the author commits himself to
provide. Romeo and Juliet gives us the pleasure of a fuller acquaint-
ance with life, a sense that experience can be rich and meaningful,
a deeper understanding of human motives and problems (including
our own). This does not mean that the thrill of suspense and the
excitement of action are lacking, for those qualities may be present
in serious literature, but it does mean that those qualities are not
present for their own sakes but are part of a larger intention. The
who-dun-it gives us mere entertainment. When we finish reading
it we are through with it. Romeo and Juliet gives us artistic enjoy-
ment, and we are never through with it. We can come back to it
466 READING FOR THE WRITER
over and over again and find fuller significance in it and renewed
enjoyment.
This is not the occasion to try to analyze the elements involved
in the enjoyment of literature. But we can say here that it is a
mistake to think of such enjoyment as something cut off from our
other interests in the world. It involves those other interests, makes
use of them, and returns us to them with more insight. On the
practical side, a novel, for instance, may give us certain facts about
the life and background presented, certain information about social
conditions and psychology, ideas on a number of subjects. Such
things have their own interest without relation to the novel in which
they appear. Such things, nevertheless, are the material of fiction,
and, as material, can be judged on their own merits. The picture
of a social situation may be false or the ideas involved may be
trivial. Or a novel which is sound in such matters may still be
a very poor novel. It may not capture the sense of life in motion,
the pattern of human beings acting and reacting on each other. It
might not appeal to the imagination. But sound facts, true informa-
tion, just and adequate pictures of the social situation are important
in a work of art, even if their presence does not insure the goodness
of the work as art. For our experience of a work of art is not cut
off from our other and more general interests: The experience of a
work of art stems from these interests.
In regard to question 4, sometimes an author will state very
explicitly his main idea, or theme. This idea is to be distinguished
sharply from the mere material. It is what the author thinks about
the material, his interpretation of it, the line of action that he pro-
poses be taken in regard to it. But sometimes he is not explicit. The
reader must arrive at it by the course of the discussion. Further-
more, even if an author does state the idea, it is sometimes a good
thing for the reader to put it into his own words, to state it as it
would appear to him, and to try to see how it might apply to other
instances and situations than those used by the author. The whole
point here is for the reader to be sure that he really has the idea
in its fundamental significance and in its implications.
The business of stating the theme of one of the literary art forms
ordinarily is much more difficult than that of stating the theme of
a piece of exposition or argument. To do this well requires a good
deal of experience in reading poetry, drama, or fiction, and this is
READING FOR THE WRITER 467
no place for such a special study. But when we read such works
we can ask ourselves questions such as these: What does the author
think is bad or good in human conduct? What does he think con-
stitutes success or failure? What does he think about the relation
between the individual and the group he lives with? Do his char-
acters seem to be responsible for their own lives or do they seem
to be the victims of outside forces? Is the general effect of his work
brisk, humorous, satirical, serious, sad, tragic? An attempt to answer
such questions may provide us with the material from which we
can phrase the statement of the theme of a novel. We want, in the
end, to get a statement which will indicate the author's basic view
of the world, his set of values, and how they work out in human
experience. In other words, we must ask: What is the essential
meaning, the significance, of the novel?
Once we get such a statement framed, we shall probably consider
it very poor and bare compared to, for instance, the novel itself.
Arid the better the novel, the poorer and barer the statement of
theme will appear. The theme is not the novel, the poem, or the
play. The novel, poem, or play is the vital working out of the
theme in its complexities of experience. If the work of art is good,
it will give us the feeling of meaning in experience, and will return
us, filled with that sense, to our own living.
When we think we have some grasp of the theme of the work
in hand, we should try to answer question 5, to see in some detail
how the theme is developed in the structure of that work. How
does one idea lead to another, what is the handling of explanation
or argument? Why are things put in this particular order? Do illus-
trations really illustrate the point intended by the author? Is the
work consistent, or does it contain self-contradictions? Are the
author's conclusions the only conclusions which could be derived
from the evidence he presents? Questions such as these— and the
writer can frame others of the same sort— will give some notion
of the structure of the whole.
By a parallel process we can investigate the structure of the play,
poem, or piece of fiction. Poetry raises many special considerations;
fiction is a little easier to handle. We can ask, for example, about
the logic of the plot. Does one situation or event really lead to the
next? Do the motives of the characters adequately account for the
behavior of the characters? What idea does a character or event
468 READING FOR THE WRITER
seem to embody? How do the different ideas relate to each other?
How do they lead us to the theme?
As for question 6, we seem to come to this late in the day. How
do we get anything from a piece of writing if we do not really
understand the language? But there are degrees of understanding.
After we think we have understood well enough to get the main
drift— to state, for instance, the theme and to work out something
of the structure of the whole composition—we can return to a closer
inspection of the language itself. Upon this inspection we may find
that we had not really understood many things. We may have
even missed the basic notion of the whole work. So we may have
to revise our answers to earlier questions.
When we read we are constantly being affected, whether we
know it or not, by the slight qualifications of meaning in the lan-
guage, and these slight shadings are in the end of enormous impor-
tance. Attention to such matters in our reading leads us to a skill in
our own use of language. What questions can we ask ourselves to
sharpen our own sensitivity to language?
For one thing, we can ask as a general question of any phrase
or passage that seems interesting or important: Why is it this way
and no other? Any writer can try to state to himself the exact
significance of a word or phrase as it appears in the particular
context. He can ask himself how this may differ from other uses
which he has encountered. He might try to imagine what other
words the writer may have originally used and discarded. Why
would he have discarded them? Was the original version inaccu-
rate, that is, was its dictionary content wrong in some degree for
the purpose in hand? Was it vague, so that the reader couldn't be
sure of any particular meaning? Was it ambiguous, so that the
reader had a choice of different meanings and could not decide
between them? Was the tone inappropriate to the occasion, or
inconsistent with the rest of the composition? The writer ought
to try to define the tone of the whole composition and see how
individual items, words, phrases, or images, contribute to this tone.
But we should never forget that we cannot deal with any part
of a piece of writing in isolation. Words modify sentences, para-
graphs modify other paragraphs. As readers, we are dealing with an
elaborate tissue of interrelations, and the whole point of our effort
i$ to understand this fact in a practical way. And a practical way,
READING FOR THE WRITER 469
as opposed to a theoretical way, is the way of recognition and use.
To gain this practical understanding the student will find theorizing
helpful. We theorize when we try to state why a thing works the
way it does, and why it succeeds or fails. But the end of your effort
is not to say why. It is to appreciate and do.
The answer to the last question, number 7, really summarizes
all the other answers. But it does more. It puts what the writer
has gained from the present work into the context of what he has
gained from all his past reading and experience. It may be that
he has gained nothing— for several possible reasons. The work may
be bad or trivial in itself. Or the work may be good in itself, but
be a thing which is too elementary for the writer's present stage
of maturity. Or the writer may simply not be prepared to profit
from the work; his background may not qualify him to grasp it.
Or it may be that the writer simply hasn't given enough time and
effort to it. But if you discover that you have failed to gain any-
thing from something you have read, try honestly to understand
why.
The questions have been numbered, one to seven, but this does
not mean that there is any order of importance here. All are impor-
tant, and if you as reader cannot answer one, you probably cannot
answer others. They are all interrelated, and in the end have to do
with the unit which is the work. As there is no order of importance
here, so there is no necessary order in which the questions should
be considered. With one reservation: perhaps numbers 1 and 2
should always be first and second, and number 7 last. But the others
may have to be considered in different orders at different times.
Occasionally, for instance, the reader might have to work hard at
the language before he could get at the theme and organization.
Or he might find the reverse true. Fumble with the thing until you
find a key. If one approach fails, try another. The random touch
may spring the secret latch. Or long after, when you have decided
that you cannot come to grips with the thing, its significance will
suddenly dawn upon you.
There is one more general remark of great importance. This has
to do with the speed and amount of reading. The superstition is
current, particularly in schools and colleges, that speed and amount
of reading are valuable in themselves. But do not believe a word
of it
470 READING FOR THE WRITER
It is true that there is some correlation between speed and expert-
ness in reading. And there is some correlation between a person's
intellectual resources and the amount of reading he has done. But
more important than speed or amount is the quality of the reading
itself. If one does not read thoughtfully, he might as well not read
at all. Even if the reader amasses information from his reading,
this is still true, because information without thought is dead lum-
ber. Only thought can erect that lumber into a useful structure.
Different kinds of reading demand different speeds, and the right
speed for you is the speed that allows you to get the most out of
your reading. Familiar material presented in familiar patterns per-
mits a relatively high degree of speed. A certain amount of familiar
materials presented in familiar patterns comes to anyone in the
course of his work. In dealing with it use what speed you can. But
this kind of reading does not do the reader as much good as read-
ing which involves unfamiliar materials presented in unfamiliar
patterns. Then we have to put our minds to it and stretch our
capacities. It is the hard reading— and since hard, therefore slow-
that develops our own possibilities. And as a corollary to this, the
amount of reading is not in itself important. A thing worth reading
at all, except for mere entertainment, is probably worth reading
more than once, and it is certainly worth thinking about. And it is
better to read one good thing well than a dozen things in a routine,
mechanical way.
If this is true for reading in general, it is especially true for the
reading of poetry, fiction, and drama. There are two reasons for
this. The first has to do with the handling of the material, and the
second with the handling of the language. By and large, the writer
of exposition or argument uses a direct method. He tries to say quite
explicitly and directly what he means, to present his facts or ideas
straight. This is not usually true of poetry, fiction, or drama. Or
rather, what the author "means" here is different from what he
means in the other type of writing. Here he is trying to capture the
quality of experience, the flow of event, the colors, forms, and
smells of the physical world, states of being, modes of character
and motivation, as well as to give facts or ideas. Facts and ideas,
as we have said, are involved here; but we do not read poetry,
fiction, or drama for the facts and ideas as such. We read them to
experience imaginatively how the facts and ideas relate to the other
READING FOR THE WRITER 471
elements—how, for instance, ideas grow out of other elements of
experience and are embodied in them. This means that the lan-
guage of the art forms is of primary importance, because here the
language is not about something but is something. There is a kind
of parallel with painting. What is the picture without line and
color— the medium in which it appears? Or what is music without
the organization of sound— its medium?
Appendixes
APPENDIX
Causal Analysis
THERE are four methods which are helpful in investigating a situa-
tion to determine a cause. They are called the methods of AGREE-
MENT, of DIFFERENCE, of AGREEMENT AND DIFFERENCE, and of VARIA-
TION. After examining them the student may feel that he has always
been acquainted with them, for they merely describe how his mind
does work when it is working straight on problems of this kind. But
studying the methods may sharpen his awareness of the processes of
his own reasoning.
1. AGREEMENT. If we have two or more situations from which
we get the effect X, and find that these situations have only one
constant factor, E, then that constant factor may be taken as the
cause of X. Let us set this up as a chart:
Situations.
Effect*
Here E is the cause of X.
The method here stated is sound in theory but in some cases is
difficult to apply. Even in the laboratory, where the experimenter
can create his situation with a degree of control, it is hard to be
sure that only one factor E is constant. But it is especially difficult
to apply this method to a complicated event outside of the labora-
tory. The investigator rarely finds a set of situations in which only
476 APPENDIXES
one factor is constant. Ordinarily he will encounter a set of situations
such as may be indicated by the following chart:
Situations:
We can notice two things about this set of situations.
First, several factors occur in more than one situation. For in-
stance, factor F occurs in situations 2 and 3; factor H occurs in
situations 3 and 4.
Second, three factors (A, B, and E) occur in all situations.
When the investigator sees that certain factors are repeated, as
is true of F and H, he must inquire whether they are repeated in
all situations. If they are not repeated in all situations he can
discard them. So F and H can be discarded. When the investigator
sees that two or more factors, as is true of A, B, and E, are repeated
in all situations, there are two lines of thought open to him.
First, he may explore the possibility that A, B, and E are to be
taken as components of the cause— that no one by itself would be
sufficient to bring about the effect.
Second, he may explore the possibility that one or two of the
factors which are present in all of his available instances might not
occur in other instances when the effect does not occur and there-
fore are not relevant to the effect.
At this point the investigator has to make a judgment as to which
of the two lines of thought he will follow. He must judge whether
or not all of the constant factors (A, B, and E) are relevant to the
effect. He can do this only in terms of his knowledge of the field
which he is investigating.
Let us take an example. Suppose we wish to learn why a certain
school lost most of its football games over a period of years. We
find certain things true every year. Most of the players every year
are Catholic, for it is a Catholic school. Let us call this constant
factor A. The same coach had been employed for a number of years
(factor B). The school has very high academic standards and no
CAUSAL ANALYSIS 477
one is permitted to participate in any athletic event who does not
have an average grade of "fair" (factor E). The question is: Do we
have a complex of factors here (A, B, and E) which are all neces-
sary components of the cause?
Common sense and our experience with athletics at once make
us rule out factor A— for we know that Catholicism bears no
relation to the matter of football losses, But we cannot so read-
ily rule out factors B and E, the matter of the coach and the
matter of the high academic average required. At this point we
have to make further investigation. We have to look into the
coach's previous record, we have to pass a judgment on the type
of instruction he gives now, and so forth. Or we must try to learn
how many good players have been disqualified by the rule requir-
ing a certain scholastic average, and so forth. We may satisfy our-
selves that both of these factors (B and E) contribute to the defeats.
Or we may decide that only one is the cause.
In any event, this is not a foolproof formula. Knowledge and
experience are required to apply it. Even when it is applied we
cannot be absolutely sure that we have determined the cause of
X. We have merely indicated a certain degree of probability.
2. DIFFERENCE. If we have two situations, identical save that one
involves the factor E and the effect X, and the other does not
involve the factor E and the effect X, then E may be taken as the
cause of X or an indispensable factor in the cause. Let us put it as a
chart:
Sftucrf/onst
Effects*
If we can be quite sure that the first situation resembles the
second in all significant factors except E and X, then we may take
E as the cause of X or an indispensable factor in the cause. But it is
often difficult to find such clear-cut instances, and we have to draw
on our judgment and experience to decide what factors are relevant.
For instance, we might get the following case:
478
APPENDIXES
Situations-.
Effecfj: x
Here D as well as E is missing from the second situation. The fol-
lowing possibilities suggest themselves. First, D may be irrelevant,
and E is the cause. Second, D may be relevant and in conjunction
with E constitutes the cause. If we can control the situation, we
may test the second possibility by setting up the factors ABCE. If
we still get X, then we know that D is irrelevant. But if we cannot
control the situation, we must consult our judgment and experience
in deciding about the relevance of D.
3. AGREEMENT AND DIFFERENCE. This is, of course, a combination
of the two previous methods. Therefore the method involves both
positive and negative instances, In the positive instances we apply
the method of agreement, and then check the negative instances
against the positive instances by the method of difference.
/-ACC \J
Negative
Situations:
Effects:
In situations 1 and 2 we have the ordinary method of agreement.
But when we come to the negative situations, we notice that there
is none which fulfills the requirement of the strict method of dif-
ference; i.e., the negative situation differing from the positive situa-
tion only in that it does not have the factor which appears to be the
cause. But here, though situation 3 has all the factors of situation 1
except E, the factor of cause, it does have a new factor, M. And so
on with the other cases: they would always involve, in differing
combinations and sometimes with new factors, the various factors,
except E, which were present when X took place.
We can set up a simple example of the method. Let us assume
CAUSAL ANALYSIS 479
that in a family of five people three suffer from an attack of food
poisoning. The problem is to determine what item of the restaurant
meal was the cause. John, Mary, and Sue are ill.
John ate beans, potatoes, beef, and ice cream.
Mary ate a salad, a soup, and ice cream.
Sue ate sweet potatoes, broccoli, ham, and ice cream.
So much for the positive cases. Since ice cream is the only item
common to the meals eaten by the victims there is a strong proba-
bility that it is the cause. But we can check this against the negative
cases, i.e., cases of persons who were not ill.
Mildred ate beans, potatoes, beef, and lemon pie.
Thomas ate a salad, sweet potatoes, and ham, with no dessert.
These negative cases include most of the dishes eaten by the
victims— with the exception of ice cream. So the argument for ice
cream becomes even stronger. Few situations, however, are as sim-
ple as the one given above, and in making our analysis we are often
called upon to rule out many common factors which we judge to be
unrelated to the effect (for instance, we might rule out the color
of the plates used in all the above meals).
4. VARIATION. If one factor in a situation varies whenever a certain
other factor varies, there is a causal connection between the factors.
Situations:
Effects, x X,
For instance, as the temperature rises mercury expands, as the
supply of a commodity increases, its price goes down, or as the
amount of advertising of a product increases, its sale increases.
These are illustrations of the principle, but in them are great dif-
ferences in the degree of complication. In the first instance, the rela-
tion between the variation of temperature and the variation in the
mercury is regular and constant. We depend on the fact, and our
thermometers operate on that principle. But an economist cannot
depend on the relation between supply and price with the same
certainty, nor can a sales manager be sure that an increase in his
APPENDIXES
advertising appropriation will pay off in the market. Here too many
unpredictable factors may be involved in the situation.
In applying the method of variation, we must remember that it
does not matter whether the variation is direct or inverse. For in-
stance, we have direct variation with temperatures and mercury:
as the temperature increases the mercury increases in volume. And
we have inverse variation with supply and price: as the supply
increases the price decreases.
APPENDIX
The Syllogism:
Distribution of Terms
IN STUDYING the syllogism we are led to what is called the
DISTRIBUTION OF TERMS. A term is said to be distributed when it
refers to every member of the class which it names. Let us return
to our first syllogism (p. 159) :
All men are mortal, (major premise)
Socrates was a man. (minor premise)
.'. Socrates was mortal, (conclusion)
The premise, "All men are mortal," contains two terms. The first,
men, is obviously distributed, as the word all indicates, but the
second term, mortal, is not distributed; that is, it is not used, in that
premise, to refer to every member of the class which it names, only
to those (mortals) who are also men. It does not exhaust the class
mortal creatures. The premise really says: "All men are some of the
class of mortal creatures," or, "The class men is included in, but
does not exhaust, the class mortal creatures."
We may ask about the term Socrates. Is it distributed or undis-
tributed? It is distributed, for there is only one member, Socrates
himself, of the class Socrates. This comes clear if we substitute some
such term as "Frenchmen" in a similar statement: "Frenchmen are
men." We would mean, of course, "All Frenchmen are men."
To determine whether a term is distributed we must look at the
meaning of the proposition in which it appears. If we take the
proposition, "Graduates of Hawkins School are honest," we see that
the real meaning is, "All graduates of Hawkins School are some of
the class of honest people."
4 J APPENDIXES
There are four basic types of propositions in which we must
inspect the question of distribution of terms. Here the underscoring
of a letter in a proposition indicates distribution, and the shading
of an area in the accompanying chart indicates distribution.
1. All x is y
2. No x is y
3. Some x is y
4. Some x is not y
All x is referred to here but
only some of y, the part over-
lapped by xj i-e., all_x is (some) y.
All x. is referred to here, and
all y, for there is no overlap; i.e.,
no (part of all) x. is any part of
(all)y.
Here some of x overlaps some
of y; i.e., some x is (some) y.
All y lies outside some of x:
i.e., some x is not (any part of
all) y.
To distinguish distributed from undistributed terms is very im-
portant, for the distribution of terms may affect the validity of a
syllogism. But before discussing that topic we must glance at what
is meant by validity in this connection. It does not mean the same
thing as the truth of the conclusion. We may have a valid conclu-
sion which is not true. For instance:
All legless creatures that crawl are snakes.
Worms are legless creatures that crawl.
.*. Worms are snakes.
This syllogism is valid. That is, given the premises we must grant
the conclusion. But the validity of the conclusion does not mean
that it is true. In fact, we know it to be untrue. But it is untrue,
not because the reasoning is wrong (the syllogism is valid), but
because one of the premises is not true. So when we use the word
valid we are referring to the correctness of the reasoning from the
given set of premises, whatever they are, true or untrue.
THE SYLLOGISM 483
As we have said, the distribution of terms may affect the validity
of a syllogism. We can set up two rules for distribution which must
be observed if a syllogism is to be valid:
I. The middle term must be distributed at least once.
II. No term can be distributed in the conclusion if it is undis-
tributed in its premise.
Let us examine some cases which violate the first rule.
CASE I
All sergeants are soldiers.
Some soldiers are corporals.
.'. All sergeants are corporals.
This is obviously untrue in fact, as we know from our information
about military organization. But, above and beyond that, the syl-
logism is not valid, as we can see if we set it up. (The middle term
is represented by M, the major term by A, and the minor term by
B. Numbers in parentheses indicate the type of proposition.)
All B is M. (1)
Some M is A. (3)
.*. All B is A.
Here the middle term is not distributed as we can readily tell by
looking at our table of the types of propositions. This means that
the major term (A) and the minor term (B) do not, for certain, have
any members in common. All we can be certain of is that both
A and B fall within M.
The following syllogism with a changed content still illustrates
the same formal defect:
CASE II
All Marines are soldiers. All E is M. (1)
Some soldiers are corporals. Some M is A. (3)
.'. All Marines are corporals. .". All B is A.
The fact that some Marines are corporals, that a partial truth may
be involved in the conclusion, does not alter the case, for the
proposition to be proved concerns all Marines.
If we shift the positions of the terms in the major premise of
Case I, the syllogism remains invalid.
484 APPENDIXES
CASE III
All corporals are soldiers. All A^ is M. (1)
All sergeants are soldiers. All B is M. (1)
.'. All sergeants are corporals. .*. All B is A.
Again the middle term is undistributed, as we can see from consult-
ing the table of types of propositions. If we drew a chart of this
we would have a figure identical to that of Case I.
There are other possible combinations which violate the first
rule about the distribution of terms, but the cases given are the
most common. In all cases, it is only necessary to inspect the
premises carefully to determine the situation.
The second rule about the distribution of terms declares that no
term can be distributed in the conclusion if it is not distributed in
its premise. That is, you cannot argue necessarily from a "some"
to an "all." Since there are two terms in a conclusion, the major
and the minor, two possibilities of error are open here. We may
have ILLICIT distribution in the major term or in the minor term.
The following syllogism illustrates illicit distribution in the major:
All banks are financial institutions. All M is A. (1)
Some building and loan organiza- Some B is not M. (4)
tions are not banks.
.'. Some building and loan organ- .'. Some B is not A^ (4)
izations are not financial insti-
tutions.
Here the major term ("financial institutions"— A) is not distributed
in the premise, but it is distributed in the conclusion. The error
results from assuming that the major term is distributed in the major
premise— that is, from assuming that it says, "All banks are all finan-
cial institutions/* and therefore that whatever is true of banks will
be true of all financial institutions. Actually, the major premise says,
"All banks are some financial institutions," and therefore what may
be true of those financial institutions which are banks may not be
true of those which are not banks.
The same principle applies in the case of the illicit minor:
No member of the Jones family is a No A is XL (2)
drunkard.
All drunkards are irresponsible people. All M_ is B. (1)
THE SYLLOGISM 485
.'. No irresponsible person is a member .". No 13 is A^ (2)
of the Jones family.
Here the minor term ("irresponsible people"— B) is not distributed
in the premise, but is distributed in the conclusion. Therefore the
conclusion is not valid.
To the two rules concerning distribution of terms we may add
two rules concerning negative premises or conclusion.
III. From two negative premises nothing can be inferred.
IV. If one premise is negative the conclusion must be negative.
Here is a syllogism with both premises negative:
No royalist is a democrat. No M is A. (2)
No true American is a royalist. No B is TvL (2)
. * . No true American is a democrat. . " . No B is A^ (2)
The trouble here is that no necessary common ground is established
for the major and the minor premise.
Here is a violation of rule IV:
No true American is a royalist. No M is A^ (2)
Our children are true Americans. All 13 is M. (1)
.*. Our children are royalists. .*. All B is A. (1)
When we pause to think that the major premise says that all
members of class M lie outside of class A, and that the minor
premise says that all members of class B lie within class M, we
see immediately the absurdity of affirming that members of class
B lie necessarily within class M. But occasionally such an argument
can be so buried that the absurdity does not appear without some
analysis.
APPENDIX
The Outline, Sum-
mary, and Precis;
Notes; Research Paper;
and Book Report
THE OUTLINE
THE OUTLINE has two uses. It can help the writer to organize
his own thoughts and lay a plan for his work before he begins the
actual composition. It can help the reader define the basic meaning
and structure of what he reads. The two uses have much in com-
mon, for both mean that the maker of the outline is dealing with
the structure of a discourse. In fact, once an outline is completed,
an observer might not be able to tell whether it was designed by
a writer or a reader.
There are several common types of outlines: (1) the suggestive
outline, (2) the topic outline, (3) the sentence outline, and (4) the
paragraph outline. Variations may be worked out for special pur-
poses.
1. THE SCRATCH OUTLINE
The scratch outline is a set of notes and jottings which may
come in handy either for writing or for understanding and re-
membering what one has read. It is probably not highly organ-
ized. For instance, the writer, in making a preliminary survey
of his subject, may simply put down the various topics and ideas
that come to him in the order in which they come. As some
line of thought begins to emerge he may indicate this, too. But
1 The form of outline called the brief is discussed in the chapter on argument
(p. 172).
THE OUTLINE, SUMMARY, AND PRECIS 487
his primary purpose is not to define the form and order from
the beginning. It is to assemble suggestive material. Some of it he
may not use because, in the end, it may seem superfluous or irrele-
vant. The scratch outline embodies the early exploration of a
subject, and may be meaningless to everybody except the maker
of the outline. When such an outline is made by a reader, there is
naturally some indication of the order of topics in the thing read;
but even here the outline does not undertake to record the details
of relations among the parts. It is merely a jog to the reader's mind,
a record of the first acquaintance- with the thing read.
2. THE TOPIC OUTLINE
The topic outline does indicate the order of treatment of indi-
vidual topics and docs indicate in a systematic fashion, by heads
and subheads, the relation among the parts in degree of importance.
But as the name indicates, it proceeds, not by sentences, but by
listing topics. There is, however, one exception: the outline is to be
introduced by a statement of the theme of the composition in the
form of a fully rounded sentence. Let us set up a topic outline of
the first section of "The Threat of Science," by Christian Gauss,
which follows:
THE THREAT OF SCIENCE
CHRISTIAN GAUSS 2
There is a wide-spread belief fostered occasionally by scientists them-
selves that if we will but allow science fullest ireedom it will eventually
make us all healthy and wealthy and wise. There is little doubt that up
to a certain point it can make us healthy and wealthy. If we pass over,
for the moment, the question whether the health which science can give
us is only physical (and not moral) health, we will all readily admit that
a clearer understanding of the processes of nature and the sources of
physical power can certainly save us from many ills. Science can and has
eliminated many diseases and much useless motion. No one under a
scientific dispensation will waste his time and effort in praying for rain
or in attempting, as they did in Homer, to stop the flow of blood by
2 "The Threat of Science:" Originally printed in Scribner's Magazine and
later incorporated in A Primer for Tomorrow, copyright, 1935, by Charles
Scribner's Sons. Reprinted here by permission of the author and Scribners
Magazine.
488 APPENDIXES
incantation. It can increase and has increased immeasurably our mastery
of nature. It makes us far more efficient. Whether it can really increase
our mastery of human nature and thus make us wise and good is a dif-
ferent question. Scientists sometimes tell us that it can. In any attempt to
predict our future under science this is really a much more important
question than the first, for if without changing your man you place at his
disposal a ton of TNT or only a sawed-off shotgun and an armored car,
you may make life far more dangerous than if you had left your un-
tutored savage with only his primitive battering-ram and his relatively
harmless bow and arrow.
The academic mind is inclined to call a man wise if he understands
things like the Bohr atom and the Einstein theory. That, too, is a mistake.
He is not really wise; he is only intelligent. The normal, ordinary human
being must express himself by his acts. Even a recluse is involved in
countless enterprises and relationships with others. If we say a man is
wise we mean that whatever his theoretical beliefs, in the conduct of his
life he chooses sane courses of action. If the scientist cannot help him
to do this it is as much a superstition to expect unaided science to give
us a safe and happy future as it was for our ancestors to believe in witch-
doctors or to pray for rain.
There are times when the discouraged student of religion, of history,
and of letters is tempted to rise up and call his brother who works in
the laboratory blessed. Among scholars the experimental scientist is a
privileged character. He is allowed to live and work in a world that
knows not sin nor evil. Like Adam and Eve he lives in a Garden of Eden.
Trinitrotoluol is not evil because it explodes. Hydrogen sulphide is not
unclean because it smells badly. The lion is not wicked because he kills
the antelope. He is only leonine. That is what lions do for a living. To
the biologist the lion who kills many antelopes has "survival value." He
is, this scientist will even tell us, a good lion.
When the scientist uses this word good we must be upon our guard.
He does not mean what the theologian, the moralist, the artist, or even
the ordinary man means by that word. His lion, for instance, is frankly
predatory. To Dante he was the personification of pride, the most deadly
of all the sins, and quite evidently he fiercely seeks his own. If the
biologist should invent a science for lions, a leonine science (and knowing
his ingenuity I do not put it beyond him), it would make life easier for
lions. It would increase their number, eliminate waste motion in their
technic of pouncing upon antelopes. In the biologist's way of looking at
things, it would make them better lions but from any outside non-scien-
tific point of view, that of antelopes, for instance, it would not make lions
better. It would change only their outward habits, not their inner natures,
THE OUTLINE, SUMMARY, AND PRECIS 489
So it is perhaps with our science in general, and if it is to be the only
force operative upon humanity then to the end of time we shall have to
carry with us into no matter how roseate a future only the same old Adam.
If to avoid confusion we must be on our guard when he uses the word
goody much the same is true when he uses certain other words like pure,
even when he uses them in his really fine phrase, pure science.
In the first instance pure science, of course, means disinterested, not
applied, science. The more competent scientists when on their guard
never pretend that it means anything more. It is a really noble concep-
tion, science divorced from any consideration of its useful or profitable
applications. The ordinary man must be cautious, however, and not
conclude that science because "pure" somehow gives us a higher kind
of truth than that revealed by just plain ordinary religion or art or phi-
losophy. The devotees of these latter studies are assumed, sometimes
even by scientists, to have been laggard and never to have pushed their
subjects to this twenty-four carat stage of ultimate purity. There may
be an error in all this, for it must be remembered and emphasized that
science becomes pure only when it has been divorced also from any
consideration of social and moral welfare. The pure scientist might con-
ceivably in his laboratory seek to discover that least stable combination
of chemical elements which under given conditions would constitute the
world's most powerful explosive. This deadly formula would then be
available for those who apply to more practical uses the findings of pure
science. Its truths are not really truths of a higher sort; they are not
above ordinary truths, as the angels (if there still are angels) are over
the earth; they are only the truths of science in what might be called
their state of innocence.
For this reason experimental science should not be regarded as wicked;
it is only unmoral. No harm will come so long as we all remember
that it has little relation to what the ordinary man regards as beautiful,
or holy, or good. Such extraneous considerations of beauty and holi-
ness and goodness are really impurities in science at its highest stage.
They are, however, probably still aspects of truth and it might in one
sense almost be said that pure science gives us impure truth, or perhaps
rather, truth mutilated; truth from which certain elements that under
ideal conditions enter into its fulness have of necessity been cut off.
Statement: This essay is a discussion of the pretensions and limitations
of science as a means to social, moral, esthetic, or religious
truth.
I. Question whether science can make men healthy, wealthy, and wise
A. Increase of health and wealth by science.
490 APPENDIXES
B. Wisdom not a matter of mastery over nature but over human
nature.
II. Nature of wisdom.
A. Academic notion of wisdom.
1. Understanding of Bohr atom or Einstein theory.
2. Intelligence, not wisdom.
B. True wisdom a sane course of action in life.
III. Science not concerned with general values.
A. Scientific goodness in a thing the fulfillment of its nature.
1. TNT good when it explodes.
2. Lion good when it kills antelope.
B. Science pure as divorced from any consideration of useful or
profitable applications.
1. Example explosive discovered by pure science but used later
for destructive purposes.
2. Beauty, holiness, goodness impurities in science as such.
C. Truth of pure science a mutilated truth.
When you check this outline by the essay, you will see that head-
ings I and II correspond to single paragraphs in the text, but that
III corresponds to four paragraphs. That is, the outline is not an
outline of paragraphs but by topics. The last four paragraphs of
the section are really concerned with one topic, the limitations of
science in regard to certain human values— beauty, holiness, good-
ness. This notion is developed, (A) by reference to what science
means by goodness, (B) by what it means by purity, and (C) by a
statement of the kind of truth which science can give— a mutilated
truth, incomplete in regard to social, moral, and esthetic values.
Here even the subheads, A, B, and C, do not correspond to para-
graphs in the text. Topic III, A really involves two paragraphs,
and topic III, B involves the better part of one paragraph, the last.
Topic III, C involves only the last part of the last paragraph. Not
infrequently we find that a topic which looms very important in
the outline will correspond to only part of a paragraph in the text.
The outline indicates the relative importance of a topic and not
the amount of space devoted to it. Sometimes, however, after we
have finished an outline we may feel that the author has failed to
use proper proportion or emphasis. And in this instance we may
feel that the author would have been well advised to develop
such an important point as III, G in a separate paragraph. But that
THE OUTLINE, SUMMARY, AND PRECIS 491
is his problem, not ours. We have to face such a problem only when
we are writing from our own preliminary outline.
3. THE SENTENCE OUTLINE
The sentence outline is the most complete and formal type. Here
every entry is in the form of a complete sentence. As with the topic
outline, the entries in the sentence outline should correspond to
the content and the order of arrangement in the text. The sentence
outline differs from the topic outline in indicating more fully the
content of each item and the relation among the items. To fulfill
these requirements, the sentences should be very precise and to
the point. Vague statements defeat the very purpose of the sentence
outline and make such an outline look like merely an inflated topic
outline. For the sentence outline should really take us deeper into
the subject, defining the items more closely and indicating the struc-
ture more fully. By and large, the topic outline will serve for fairly
simple material, the sentence outline for more complicated material.
Here is an example of the sentence outline as applied to the
following first two paragraphs of Mill's essay, "On Liberty."
ON LIBERTY
JOHN STUART MILL 3
The subject of this Essay is riot the so-called Liberty of the Will, so
unfortunately opposed to the misnamed doctrine of Philosphical Neces-
sity; but Civil, or Social Liberty: the nature and limits of the power
which can be legitimately exercised by society over the individual. A
question seldom stated, and hardly ever discussed, in general terms, but
which profoundly influences the practical controversies of the age by its
latent presence, and is likely soon to make itself recognized as the vital
question of the future. It is so far from being new, that, in a certain
sense, it has divided mankind, almost from the remotest ages; but in the
stage of progress into which the more civilized portions of the species
have now entered, it presents itself under new conditions, and requires a
different and more fundamental treatment.
The struggle between Liberty and Authority is the most conspicuous
feature in the portions of history with which we are earliest familiar,
particularly in that of Greece, Rome, and England. But in the old times
3 From Chapter 1 of On Liberty, by John Stuart Mill.
492 APPENDIXES
this contest was between subjects, or some classes of subjects, and the
government. By liberty was meant protection against the tyranny of the
political rulers. The rulers were conceived (except in some of the popular
governments of Greece) as in a necessarily antagonistic position to the
people whom they ruled. They consisted of a governing One, or a gov-
erning tribe or caste, who derived their authority from inheritance or
conquest; who, at all events, did not hold it at the pleasure of the
governed, and whose supremacy men did not venture, perhaps did not
desire, to contest, whatever precautions might be taken against its
oppressive exercise. Their power was regarded as necessary, but also as
highly dangerous; as a weapon which they would attempt to use against
their subjects, no less than against external enemies. To prevent the
weaker members of the community from being preyed upon by innum-
erable vultures, it was needful that there should be an animal of prey
stronger than the rest, commissioned to keep them down. But as the king
of the vultures would be no less bent upon preying on the flock than any
of the minor harpies, it was indispensable to be in a perpetual attitude
of defence against his beak and claws. The aim, therefore, of patriots,
was to set limits to the power which the ruler should be suffered to
exercise over the community; and this limitation was what they meant
by liberty. It was attempted in two ways. First, by obtaining a recogni-
tion of certain immunities, called political liberties or rights, which it
was to be regarded as a breach of duty in the ruler to infringe, and
which, if he did infringe, specific resistance, or general rebellion, was
held to be justifiable. A second, and generally a later expedient, was the
establishment of constitutional checks; by which the consent of the com-
munity, or of a body of some sort supposed to represent its interests, was
made a necessary condition to some of the more important acts of the
governing power. To the first of these modes of limitations, the ruling
power, in most European countries, was compelled, more or less, to
submit. It was not so with the second; and, to attain this, or when already
in some degree possessed, to attain it more completely, became every-
where the principal object of the lovers of liberty. And so long as man-
kind were content to combat one enemy by another, and to be ruled by
a master, on condition of being guaranteed more or less efficaciously
against his tyranny, they did not carry their aspirations beyond this point.
Statement: This essay is a discussion of the nature of civil liberty, and
of the development of effective checks upon the power which
the state may exercise over the individual.
I. The nature of the power exerted by society over the individual is
and has been a very important question.
THE OUTLINE, SUMMARY, AND PRECIS 493
A. This question influences the present age by its latent presence.
1. The question is seldom stated.
2. It is rarely discussed in general terms.
B. This question, however, is likely to be regarded as the vital
question of the future.
C. It has in the past divided mankind.
1. The struggle between liberty and authority is the salient
feature in the history of Greece.
2. The struggle between liberty and authority is the salient
feature in the history of Rome.
3. The struggle between liberty and authority is the salient
feature in the history of England.
II. In the past the contest between liberty and authority was a contest
between subjects and their rulers.
A. Rulers were regarded as necessarily antagonistic to the governed.
1. The rulers did not hold their power at the pleasure of the
governed.
2. Subjects did not venture to contest their supremacy.
B. The rulers' power was regarded as necessary but also as
dangerous.
1. Their power might be used against externa^ enemies.
2. Their power, however, might be used against their subjects.
III. It was highly important, therefore, to set limits to the power which
the ruler might exercise over the subject.
A. This limitation of the ruler's power took two forms.
1. The subjects tried to obtain a recognition of certain immuni-
ties, infringement of which justified
a. specific resistance, or
b. general rebellion.
2. The subjects attempted to set up constitutional checks.
B. The first mode of limitation was successfully secured in most
European countries.
C. The second mode of limitation has proved much more difficult
to secure.
4. THE PARAGRAPH OUTLINE
In the paragraph outline each sentence corresponds to a para-
graph in the text. In dealing with a very obviously organized piece
of writing, the paragraph outline may be practically composed of
the topic sentences, or adaptations of the topic sentences, of the
paragraphs. (It is possible, of course, to make a paragraph outline
494 APPENDIXES
of entries which are not complete sentences, but such a paragraph
outline would have little utility. It would consist of little more than
suggestive notes for paragraphs.) In dealing with other kinds of
writing, however, it is necessary to summarize for each paragraph
the content and intention. The paragraph outline has a very limited
utility. On the one hand, in dealing with work composed by some-
one else, the paragraph outline often misses the real logical organ-
ization; for, as we have seen, paragraphs do not necessarily repre-
sent logical stages. On the other hand, in dealing in a preliminary
way with material which one himself intends to write about, not
only may the outline fail to indicate the logical organization desired,
but it may be arbitrary and misleading. It is very hard to predict
the paragraph-by-paragraph development of any relatively exten-
sive or complicated piece of work. To try to do so sometimes cramps
and confuses the writer in the actual process of composition. The
paragraph outline is chiefly valuable as a check on your own writ-
ing. Before you attempt to make a paragraph outline of one of your
own compositions, you must first decide whether each of your para-
graphs has a real center and function.
Here is a sample of a paragraph outline designed to schematize the
first three paragraphs of "Should the Scientists Strike?" (p. 179 if. ).
I. Though the scientists have done much to bring plenty to our mod-
ern world, some of the scientists themselves must be aghast to
realize the tremendous destructive power of the atomic bomb
which they have created.
II. Certainly the scientists themselves, as well as laymen, have testified
to the destructive power of the atomic bomb.
III. Efforts are being made to curb the use of atomic energy for war.
Each of these three sentences sketches out the matter to be
developed in the corresponding paragraph of the essay. These
headings might be developed somewhat more elaborately; but for
the purpose of laying out the order of the paragraphs and suggest-
ing what is to be covered in each paragraph, they probably are
developed as far as is useful.
The writer ought to compare this fragment of a paragraph out-
line with the corresponding part of the brief on page 179 ff. He
will notice that the paragraph outline does not correspond with the
brief at all points. II, A becomes paragraph one. All the material
THE OUTLINE, SUMMARY, AND PRECIS 495
under subheadings 1 and 2 become the second paragraph; and
II, B, with its subheadings 1 and 2, becomes the third paragraph.
The paragraph outline, in short, is a way of outlining what sections
of the sentence outline (in this case a sentence outline which is
also a brief) are to be grouped together in particular paragraphs.
SUMMARY AND PRECIS
A SUMMARY summarizes. It gives in compact form the main points
of a longer discourse. If it misses any fundamental points or intro-
duces material not found in the text summarized (no matter how
relevant or interesting) or gives a false notion of how the points
are related to each other, it fails as a summary.
A summary is a digest or reduction of a longer discourse, but it
is a discourse itself. It is composed of complete sentences, and ob-
serves the principles of unity, coherence, emphasis, and proportion.
This means that the connection among sentences must be obvious
in itself or indicated by suitable transitions. If the summary is
composed of more than one paragraph the connection between
paragraphs must be clear.
Any such reduced and complete statement is a summary. The
general organization of a summary is a matter to be decided by
reference to the purpose for which it is intended. For instance, a
summary may follow the order of the original text and thereby
give some notion of the approach used by its author. Or a summary
may, on the other hand, be organized by a new method. Suppose,
for example, an article agitating for the reform of the public school
system in a certain city begins with an illustrative anecdote, then
moves forward by analyzing certain particular situations, and ends
by an appeal for reorganization. The summary might change this
method. It might very well begin with a statement of the appeal
for reform, and then proceed to give the analysis of particular situ-
ations as reasons for reform. The summary might read as follows:
Summary of "DO WE GIVE OUR CHILDREN A BREAK?"
by William Becker
The conditions in our public schools are deplorable on several accounts.
It is well known that the record in college of graduates of our high schools
falls below the average for graduates of schools in cities of comparable
496 APPENDIXES
size. Local businessmen, industrialists, and editors are not satisfied with
the general or vocational training of job-holders from our schools. And
the schools are not doing their part in maintaining the moral health of
the young, as is witnessed by the alarming and disproportionate increase
in juvenile delinquency. It is time to have a general overhauling of our
system.
Before we can remedy the situation, however, we must diagnose the
causes. First, the school system has become a political football: members
of the school board are chiefly concerned with building their political
fences, and many appointments to supervisory and teaching positions
are not made on merit. Second, parents have been uninterested in the
schools, and many with influence have been more concerned to get
special favors for their children than to raise the educational level. Third,
local salaries are deplorably low, below the national average, and far
below those paid in neighboring cities. No one of these causes can be
taken in isolation, and any serious attempt to improve our schools must
attempt to deal with all of them.
The organization of the original article might have provided more
interesting reading and have been better adapted to catch the
attention of a general audience, but the method used here is more
systematic and states the logic of the case in a clearer form. Organ-
ize a summary in the way that will serve your own purpose best.
At times you will wish to follow the author's organization; at
other times the author's organization will be irrelevant to your pur-
poses and your own organization will be more appropriate.
The question of the scale of a summary, like the question of
organization, is to be determined by the purpose the summary is
intended to serve. What do you need to have at your disposal in
this capsule form? Occasionally a summary of one brief paragraph
would give an adequate digest of a whole book. Or, the summary
of an essay might require a number of paragraphs. In general, the
important thing to remember is that a summary means a very drastic
reduction.
The form of summary known as the PRECIS (pronounced pray-see)
is more standardized than the general kind of summary we have
been discussing. It undertakes to retain the basic order of the orig-
inal text, the same proportions of part to part, and the same tone.
Like any summary, however, it is committed to presenting the
fundamental points of the original and indicating the relation
among them. This closer relation to the original text does not mean
THE OUTLINE, SUMMARY, AND PRECIS 497
a dependence on quotation and paraphrase. Material should be
restated for economy and emphasis. The scale of the precis, like
that of any outline, may vary according to the purpose it is to serve,
but since it is committed to maintain the relative proportions of
an original, it can never be as drastic in its reduction as a general
summary may be.
Here is a precis of the first section of "The Threat of Science,"
by Christian Gauss, of which we have already given a topic outline.
There is a widespread belief that science may make us healthy,
wealthy, and wise. It may make us healthy and wealthy by increasing
our mastery over nature, but the question is whether it can make us
wise by increasing our mastery over human nature. The academic notion
of wisdom is that of understanding things like the Bohr atom, but such
an understanding means intelligence, not wisdom, for wisdom implies a
sane course of action in life. The scientist's use of words like good and
pure should not trick us into believing that he is dealing with the values
we ordinarily indicate by such words. For him the good thing is simply
the thing that fulfills its essential nature, as TNT does when it explodes
or the lion does when it kills an antelope. And by pure science he means
science divorced from any useful or profitable application. The pure
scientist may, for instance, discover an explosive later used for the most
immoral purposes. Therefore, the truths of science are not necessarily
of a higher sort than those arrived at by other means. Considerations of
the beautiful, the holy, or the good are impurities for science, that is, are
irrelevant to its special business. But they remain considerations for man
in his total living, and the truth or science is really truth mutilated.
Here the original passage runs about 1,200 words, and the precis
a little over 200. The precis itself might be reduced a little more
if that seemed desirable.
NOTES
Notes may be taken on any subject, from any source, for any
purpose, and by many methods.
Some people take casual notes on all sorts of things, experiences
and observations, conversations and thoughts, as well as books they
have read. The casual note-taker records anything that strikes him
as interesting. He is merely providing a jog to his memory and a
sort of record for himself. But notes on a wide range of subjects
498 APPENDIXES
and from a wide range of sources may be drawn by a person who
has a special interest. The novelist may keep notes on little turns
of phrase he hears, gestures or facial expressions he observes, little
episodes he witnesses, his own experiences, or ideas he has. At
the moment he takes the note he may see no specific use for it,
but he knows that in the future it may, in some form, be usable.
The anthropologist living with an Indian tribe will probably keep
very careful notes on customs, rituals, language, games, and so
forth. At the time he takes the note he may not see the importance
of the particular item, but he knows that this is the sort of material
which he must analyze and try to fit into a comprehensible pattern.
Either casual note-taking or note-taking in terms of some gen-
eral interest, like the novelist's or anthropologist's, is a good habit.
It sharpens the powers of observation and reflection, and can some-
times give a keener pleasure to experience.
We have said that there are many methods of note-taking, but
fundamentally the method is dictated by the purpose for which
the notes are taken. The main thing is to have some method, to be
systematic, and to keep in mind your purpose. Good lecture notes
are difficult to take. For one thing, many lectures are not carefully
organized and may be conversational and informal in tone. But as
you become acquainted with the general subject of a course you
will see the relevance of information or ideas and will have some
notion of what is important. A good lecturer will, of course, help
you to establish this relevance, but no lecturer will do all of your
thinking for you.
' When you are listening to a lecture, you should try to under-
stand the basic line of the lecturer's thought rather than try to put
down everything he says. Good notes may be very brief. Sometimes
it may be a good procedure to jot down during the lecture only the
main topics or ideas, and afterwards, while the lecturer's develop-
ment of them is still fresh, to go back and fill in from memory.
Experiment to find out what will work best for you with a par-
ticular lecturer.
Here is a sample of notes that might be taken on a lecture on
"The Differences between British and American Pronunciation."
Many American pronunciations represent earlier forms of British pro-
nunciation.
THE OUTLINE, SUMMARY, AND PRECIS 499
So-called broad a became standard in late 18th cent, in England.
Gives other examples. See G. P. Krapp's English Lang, m America.
Some American pronunciations represent local dialects of Great Britain.
Standard in England not rigidly fixed at time of settlement of America.
(Sir Walter Raleigh spoke "broad Devon" to his dying day— Aubrey.)
Southern half of Great Britain prominent in early colonization.
Eastern New England and east Anglican counties.
South Atlantic states and counties of southwestern England— Devon,
Dorset, etc.
Examples: from early New England town records "evidence of spell-
ing."
This fragment would represent "fresh notes"— not yet carefully
organized. But, even so, the student has been able to suggest an
organization by means of underscoring, parentheses, the notation
"Examples," and so on.
When you are dealing with textbooks or collateral reading vari-
ous methods may be useful, the sentence outline, the general sum-
mary, or the precis. The whole point is to get the main ideas or
pieces of information on record and to establish the relation among
them. There are three basic questions to ask:
1. What important information does your author give?
2. What use or interpretation does he make?
3. How does he justify his interpretation?
The outline, summary, or precis will help you to answer these ques-
tions. But there are other questions which you must ask yourself:
4. How does this author's information relate to other information on
the subject which I already have from other sources?
5. How do his uses or interpretations compare with uses or inter-
pretations of such material by other writers?
6. How do I assess his work? Is he logical? Does he present ade-
quate evidence? Is his organization clear? And so on?
And so with these questions you depart from the outline or sum-
mary. You may do so by following the presentation of your author's
material by answers to these questions or by marginal or paren-
500 APPENDIXES
thetic commentary, putting in your own queries, comparisons, and
judgments at the appropriate points.
When you take notes for a book report or a research or critical
paper, you are working for a special purpose, and the nature of the
purpose determines the kind of notes you will take. So we shall
discuss note-taking for these in the course of discussing their pur-
poses and forms.
THE RESEARCH PAPER
The research paper draws its material from many sources. Its aim
is to assemble facts and ideas and by studying them to draw new
conclusions as to fact or interpretation, or to present the material
in the light of a new interest. For instance, a military historian
who wanted to understand why General Lee lost the Battle of
Gettysburg would study the written records of orders and events,
the correspondence and memoirs of witnesses, the actual terrain,
and the interpretations of other historians. In the light of that evi-
dence, he would try to frame an explanation. Or a literary critic
who wanted to understand why a certain novelist often used cer-
tain themes would study the facts of the novelist's life as found in
whatever sources (letters, memoirs, public records, biographies),
the kind of education he received, the kind of ideas current in his
particular place and time, and so forth. Such material would be his
evidence. The researcher might discover new facts, and new facts
can easily upset old theories. But he might have to depend on facts
which were already available but available in scattered sources.
Then his task would be to collect those facts into a new pattern
of interpretation.
The difference between the book written by the professional
historian or literary critic and the term paper written by a student
may appear so great that they seem to have no relation. But the
basic method should be the same: to collect the facts and interpret
them. The term paper can be intelligent, well informed, interesting,
and original in its conclusions, and the student should try to make
it so. But first of all he should try to make his work systematic.
If it is not systematic it will probably not have the other qualities.
The first step toward making his paper systematic is to learn how
THE OUTLINE, SUMMARY, AND PRECIS 501
to investigate his subject. The historian going to the order book
of a general, the documents of a politician, the terrain of a battle-
field; the anthropologist observing the Indian tribe; or the literary
scholar studying the manuscripts or letters of an author is using
what are called primary sources. He goes to original source of in-
formation for his facts. But the college student must usually use
secondary sources. He reads the report of the anthropologist or he
studies an edition of a poet prepared by a scholar. But even here
there are degrees. He should try to use material which is as close
as possible to the original source of information. He should not
depend on digests or commentaries of the anthropologist's report,
but should go to the report itself. He should not merely read what
has been said about a novelist, but should read the novelist's actual
work. He should not rely on interpretations of the Declaration of
Independence, but should study the actual text. Get as close to the
facts as possible. No matter how good your reasoning is, it is use-
less if the facts on which it works are not dependable.
The research paper, we have said, draws its material from many
sources. It is not a digest of one book or article. But how do you
get at the useful sources?
Special reference books give a good starting point, standard
encyclopedias and dictionaries, and such compilations as the Ameri-
can Yearbook, the Statesman's Yearbook, and the World Almanac.
In addition to such general reference works, there are those devoted
to special fields, for example, the Dictionary of National Biography
(limited to the British), the Dictionary of American Biography, Liv-
ing Authors, Who's Who (British), Who's Who in America, the
Encyclopedia of the Social Sciences, the Catholic Encyclopedia, the
Cambridge History of English Literature, the Cambridge History
of American Literature, the Oxford Companion to English Litera-
ture, the Oxford Companion to American Literature, Bartlett's
Familiar Quotations, and the Reader's Guide to Periodical Litera-
ture. Reference books are so numerous and sometimes so special-
ized that it is often helpful to consult the Guide to Reference
Books, by I. G. Mudge, to know where to go in the first place.
The reference book will give an introduction to a subject and
certain basic facts. Best of all for the student, it will usually offer a
list of other works, books or articles less limited in scope than the
502 APPENDIXES
treatment in the reference book itself. With this as a starting point
the student can make up his own working bibliography for his sub-
ject. As he reads into his subject he will encounter references to
other works, and can gradually extend the range of his working
bibliography. The subject catalogue of the library will also provide
new items.
Strachey, lytton, Elisabeth and Essex. London,
Chatto and tflndus, 1928.
Entry for a book
Harrington, Margaret, "The Censorship in Eire,"
Commonweal. XLVI, August 15, 1947, 429-432,
Entry (or an article
The working bibliography should be kept on convenient cards of
uniform size, with only one entry to a card. This allows the student
to arrange them in alphabetical, or other order (by topics, for
example), according to his need. The entry on the card should con-
tain all the basic information about a book or article; the author's
name with the last name first, the title of the work, the volume
number if any, the place of publication, the publisher, the date of
publication. If the work appears in a periodical or collection, that
fact should be indicated with volume number, the date, and the
pages occupied by the work.
This form is to be retained in making up the final bibliography to
be attached to your finished paper. There the order will be alpha-
betical by authors. Your final bibliography may be shorter than
THE OUTLINE, SUMMARY, AND PRECIS 503
your working bibliography, for^jhe final bibliography should con-
tain no entry from which you have not taken material for fee actual
^ more valuable items cnm.fi to J
The professional scholar may want to work through all the ma-
terial on his subject, but the student preparing a term paper scarcely
has the time for such a program. And many items in the bibliog-
raphies he encounters are antiquated or trivial. So to save his time
and energy, he should try to select the items which will best repay
his attention. There is no rule for this. Selected bibliographies some-
times appear in textbooks and other works. Sometimes an author
will refer with special respect to another work on his subject. But
the student can always take his working bibliography to an in-
structor and ask for comment.
Unless you take notes on your reading you will probably not be
able to remember much of the relevant material and will certainly
not be able to organize it well when you come to write your paper.
If you have taken your notes carefully, you will be able to lay out
before you the whole subject and put it in order. The paper will
almost write itself. But if the notes are to give you the most help,
they must have a convenient mechanical form.
Notes can be put on note cards (usually 3" by 5"), on small or
half sheets, or on full sheets. What you use does not much matter,
so long as the size is manageable and uniform. As already men-
tioned, not more than one note, however brief, should be on a
single card or sheet. This rule should be strictly adhered to, even
when the notes are on the same topic; for when you take the notes,
you cannot be sure in what order you will eventually use them.
Only if each note is independent can you arrange them in the
order desired when you come to write your paper. Each note should
carry at the top, at left or toward the center, some indication of
the precise content, not the general subject of your investigation,
but some subtopic. And at the top right, or at the bottom, the note
should carry an adequate reference to the source from which it is
drawn. Presumably the full bibliographical information about that
source is already in your working bibliography, and so some skele-
ton notation will be adequate here. (When you are taking notes not
related to a working bibliography, say when you are doing general
504 APPENDIXES
reading, you should record full bibliographical information with the
note.) Below is a specimen card or sheet:
American success worship Chesterton, What 1 S-w
in America, pp. 107-10.
American worship of success not materialistic. Fact
of .vorship means a mystic ratner tnan a materialist.
Frenchman who saves money to retire and enjoy his
omelet more of a materialist. American does not work
for tn<5 enjoyment of tilings, but for some ideal vision
of success. He does not *ant tne dollar for what it
will buy but as a symbol. Phrase "making good" il-
lustrates the fact > carries a Moral connotation by
a "sort of ethical echo in tne word" %ood (p. 108).
Not necessarily an admirable morality, but a morality
implied, and idealism of a kind.
When we look at the actual note on the card we see that several
other phrases might have been used to indicate the topic discussed.
For instance, "American business mysticism," or "American ma-
terialism." All that is needed is a word or phrase which will remind
the note-taker of the content. We notice, too, that after the direct
quotation there is a parenthesis with the page number. The note-
taker apparently feels that this is a telling phrase worth remem-
bering and perhaps using. If he quotes it, he will want the exact
page reference.
As for the bibliographical indication at the upper right, he might
have reduced it simply to "Chesterton" if there was no Chesterton
other than G, K. Chesterton on his bibliography and no other book
by that author. This, like the topic indication, is for his own con-
venience and need tell no more than he himself has to know to
identify the source.
So much for the mechanics of note-taking. As for the process,
you should make your notes relevant, accurate, and clear. To make
them relevant you must keep constantly in mind the main purpose
of your investigation. You are studying a particular subject with
particular limits. You are not concerned with anything only casu-
ally associated with the subject. If, for instance, when your sub-
ject is the economic backgrounds of the American Revolution, you
are reading a general history of the period, you should not be dis-
tracted by military strategy of the French and Indian Wars or an
analysis of Puritan theology. Your job is to follow your main pur-
THE OUTLINE, SUMMARY, AND PRECIS 505
pose through a body of various materials, and often what is major
for you will be minor in the work you are investigating.
It is possible to take notes prematurely. Therefore, it is always
best to become acquainted with a work before you take notes from
it. In your first reading you may indicate material for possible
notes, and pass on. When you have finished the work, or those
parts relevant to your interest, you can then better assess the mate-
rial for possible notes. In this way you will get from any particular
work only the most pertinent notes, and you will avoid duplication.
The note itself may be direct quotation or summary. If direct
quotation is used, it is sometimes valuable to record the context
of the quotation. What leads the author to make his statement?
What point does he try to establish by it? You do not want to mis-
interpret your author by implication. For instance, suppose a critic
should write:
Although Herman Melville has created in Captain Ahab of Moby Dick
a character of intense interest and monumental propoitions, he has in
general little sense of the shadings of personality and motive. Most of his
creations are schematic, mere outlines without flesh. He lacks that basic
gift of the novelist, a sense of character.
If you, assembling material for a paper on Melville as a novelist,
should merely quote, "Herman Melville has created in Captain
Ahab of Moby Dick a character of intense interest and monumental
proportions," you would have a misleading note. An accurate note
would run something like this:
Even though William believes that Melville in general lacks a
sense of character, he admits that Captain Ahab is a "character of in-
tense interest and monumental proportions."
But this principle of context holds good for the note by summary
as well as the note by quotation.
When you are taking notes by summary, the kind of summary to
be used depends on the special case. In one case, the author's
method of reasoning may be very important, and then the sum-
mary should be of a form to indicate the logical structure of the
original text. In another case, where mere facts or scattered opin-
ions are involved, the summary need record merely these facts and
opinions. As for the scale of the summary, there is no guiding
506 APPENDIXES
principle except the note-taker's need. Try to forecast what you
will need when you actually come to write your paper, not merely
what you will want to incorporate in the paper but what you will
need to understand your subject fully.
Once your notes are taken, how do you use them? This again
depends on the kind of subject you are dealing with. Some subjects
suggest a chronological order, others a logical order. For instance,
if you are doing a paper on Keats's development as a poet you
might first arrange your notes chronologically— notes on early poems,
n6tes on middle poems, notes on late poems. But if your subject is
an analysis of the themes of Keats's poems, you might try to ar-
range your notes by themes, running various classifications until
you had one that seemed to make sense. Or you might find, some-
times, that two levels of organization were necessary. For instance,
pertain themes of Keats's poems might be characteristic of certain
periods. Then having established one type of classification (by
theme) you might run another type (by chronology). Notes are
flexible. You can use them as a device to help your thinking, or to
help you organize your material.
Notes record questions and issues. The different authors you
have consulted have had individual approaches to the general sub-
ject, different interests, different conclusions. As you work over
your cards you can locate these differences and try to see what they
mean to you in your special project. Ask yourself if there is any
pattern of disagreement among the authors you have consulted.
List the disagreements. Are they disagreements of fact or of inter-
pretation? Compare the evidence and reasoning offered by the
authors who are in disagreement. Can you think of any new evi-
dence or new line of reasoning on disputed points? Can you think
of any significant points not discussed by your authors? What
bearing would $uch points have on their conclusions? Again, use
your notes as a device to help your thinking.
By working over your notes and thinking about ideas suggested
in them you will probably strike on some vague general plan for
your paper. But do not commit yourself to the first plan that comes
into your head. Consider various possibilities. Then when you have
struck on the most promising, try to work up an outline on that
basis. You will undoubtedly start with a sort of rough suggestive
THE OUTLINE, SUMMARY, AND PRECIS 507
outline, the barest shadow of the paper you want to write. By
checking back on your material you can begin to fill in the outline
and determine the relation among the facts and ideas you wish to
present. So you will arrive at a more fully organized outline. Per-
haps a topic outline will serve your purpose, but at some stage a
sentence outline will probably be helpful, for to make it you will
have to state clearly exactly what you mean.
Once you have an outline prepared you can begin the actual
composition. Use your outline as a guide, but do not consider your-
self bound by it. As you write, new ideas will probably come to
you, and if they are good ideas you should revise your outline to
accommodate them. The outline is not sacred. Like your notes, it is
simply a device to help you think. And remember that your paper
should be a fully rounded composition, unified and coherent, em-
phasizing matters according to the scale of their importance. The
outline is only a start toward creating a balanced, fluent, well-
proportioned discussion.
Your paper should be more than a tissue of facts and quotations
from your notes. It should represent your handling of a subject and
not a mere report on what other writers have said. Naturally, a
large part of your material will be derived from other writers, but
you should always ask yourself just what a fact or idea means in
terms of your own purpose. It should find a place in your pattern,
and if there is no proper place for it, it should be excluded. In
the end, you will always find that some of your notes are not usable.
A writer who has studied his subject always has more material
than he can well use.
Full credit should be given for the source of every fact or idea
derived from another writer. In your own text you will want to
acknowledge any important item as a matter of help to your reader.
It is easy to introduce a statement or a quotation by a clear explana-
tory phrase or sentence. We are all accustomed to such introductory
remarks as these:
Charles A. Beard has proved that . . .
James Truslow Adams maintains that . . .
An excellent statement of this view is given by James Truslow Adams
in his Epic of America: . . .
508 APPENDIXES
As Sinclair Lewis shows in Main Street, the culture of the American
town is ...
On the other hand, such a liberal as Henry A. Wallace holds that . . .
As Thomas Wolfe observed . . .
Some facts or ideas can simply be stated in your text if the fact or
idea is not specially to be associated with the particular writer
from whom you derived it. But in all cases, authority should be
given in a footnote.
Exactly what demands a footnote? First, every direct quotation
is identified in a footnote. Second, every statement of fact is re-
ferred to its source in a footnote. Third, every opinion or interpre-
tation drawn from another writer should be referred to its source in
a footnote, even if the opinion or interpretation is one which you
have independently come upon in your own thinking. In cases
where a group of facts or opinions treated together in one paragraph
are drawn from the same source, one note at the end of the para-
graph will serve for all the material. In cases where more than one
source is involved for a single item in the text, one note will serve
to acknowledge the several sources.
Variation in certain details is permissible in the form of foot-
notes— but not in the same paper. Learn one of the standard forms
and use it consistently in all your work. Here are a few general
principles:
1. The author's name appears in direct form, not with the last
name first, as in the bibliography.
2. The title of a book or periodical is underlined in typescript or
writing. This corresponds to italics in print. Even a relatively short
piece of writing which has independent publication is considered a
book. Sometimes a piece of writing, a poem for instance, first ap-
pears independently as a little book and is later included in a col-
lection of the author's work. Practice varies in treating such items,
but it is permissible to treat it as a book. Thus, we would under-
score the title of T. S. Eliot's Four Quartets, but we might quote
"Burnt Norton" (which is one of the four poems included) or we
might underscore it, thus: Burnt Norton.
3. The title of an item in a periodical appears in quotation
marks.
THE OUTLINE, SUMMARY, AND PRECIS 509
4. When an item is first mentioned in a footnote full bibliographi-
cal information is given. Later references use a brief identifying
form, to be described later.
Here are examples of various types of footnotes. Observe care-
fully the form of punctuation, the nature of the material included,
and the order of the items presented.
FOOTNOTES FOR BOOKS:
One author:
1 I ) ! Gerald G. Walsh, Dante Alighieri; Citizen of Christendom, Milwaukee,
Bruce Publishing Company, 1946, p. 17.
[But the punctuation might be handled in this fashion: Gerald G.
Walsh, Dante Alighieri: Citizen of Christendom (Milwaukee: Bruce
Publishing Company, 1946), p. 17.]
More than one author:
(2) * William Buell Meldrum and Frank Thomson Gucker, Jr., Introduction
to Theoretical Chemistry, New York, American Book Company, 1936,
p. 133.
Translation:
( 3 ) ! Anton Chekhov, The Party and Other Stories, tr. Constance Garnett,
London, Chalto and Windus, 1919.
FOOTNOTES FOR ITEMS FROM COLLECTIONS:
( 4 ) ! Wendell L. Willkie, "Freedom and the Liberal Arts," in The Humanities
after the War, Norman Foerster, ed., Princeton, Princeton University
Press, 1944, p. 5.
[Here the abbreviation ed. is for editor: Norman Foerster is the editor
of the collection.]
FOOTNOTES FOR ITEMS FROM PERIODICALS:
(5) ! Henry Albert Phillips, "The Pith of Pem," "National Geographic,
LXXXII, August 1942,4 169.
[Here the Roman numerals give the volume number of the periodical.
The last number, 169, is the page reference. Notice that the abbrevia-
tion p. is omitted for periodicals after the volume number.]
( 6 ) * Arthur Mizener, "The Desires of the Mind," Sewanee Review, LX,
Summer 1947, 462.
[For a quarterly magazine, as in this case, the season instead of the
month is given, if that is the practice of the magazine itself.]
4 Although some authorities still prefer a comma between month and year,
the trend in current usage is toward omission of the comma.
510 APPENDIXES
(7) * Peter F. Drucker, "The Industrial Revolution Hits the Farmer,"
Harpers, No. 1074, November 1939, 593.
[When, as here, the magazine carries an issue number and not a
volume number, the issue number appears: "No. 1074."]
FOOTNOTES FOR ITEMS FROM THE BIBLE:
(8) i Psalms 23:6-8.
[Here the first number is for chapter, the others for verses, inclusive.]
(9) ill Cor. 6:9.
[Here the abbreviation Cor. is for Corinthians. Certain books of the
Bible have such standard abbreviations. The Roman numeral indicates
Second Corinthians.]
All the forms given above indicate the first reference to a work.
For subsequent references, three forms may be used. When the
source in a footnote is the same as that indicated in the footnote
immediately preceding, the abbreviation ibid, (for ibidem: in the
same place) is used, with a new page reference, if that is needed.
For example:
(10) i Arthur Mizener, "The Desires of the Mind," Sewanee Review, LX,
Summer 1947, 462.
*lbid. 464.
When the reference repeated does not immediately precede,
either of two basic forms may be used. If the author has only one
work referred to in the footnotes, his last name may be used, fol-
lowed by the page reference, or his last name with the abbreviation
op. cit. (for opere citato: in the work cited), with the page refer-
ence. The first practice is simpler, and is becoming more common
than the other. For example:
(11) 1 Arthur Mizener, "The Desires of the Mind," Sewanee Review, LX,
Summer 1947, 462.
2 Wendell L. Willkie, "Freedom and the Liberal Arts," in The Humanities
after the War, Norman Foerster, ed., Princeton, Princeton University
Press, 1944, p. 5.
8 Mizener, 464.
If the author has more than one work referred to in the foot-
notes, then his last name will not be enough, and an abbreviated
title will be necessary.
(12) i Mizener, "Desires," 464. Or: 1 Walsh, Dante, p. 19.
[Notice that the abbreviation p. is omitted in the Mizener reference,
for the reference is to a periodical, while it is used in the Walsh reference,
THE OUTLINE, SUMMARY, AND PRECIS 511
which is to a book. In other words, the short form follows the practice
of the long form in this respect.]
When material is not drawn directly from its original source but
from some intermediary source, acknowledgment should be made
to both sources. For instance, the following note indicates that the
writer has used a quotation from Stephen Spender which appeared
in a book by Moody E. Prior:
(13) i Stephen Spender, The Destructive Element, Boston, Houghton Mifflin
Company, p. 11, quoted Moody E. Prior, The Language of Tragedy,
New York, Columbia University Press, 1947, p. 343.
We have already referred to the abbreviations ibid, and op. cit.
But there are a number of other abbreviations found in notes and
bibliographical forms. You will not find a use for all of them in
your own writing, but you will sooner or later encounter them in
works which you read. Some of the Latin abbreviations are now
commonly replaced by English forms or may be omitted altogether
(as with op. cit.). In using such abbreviations, the main thing is to
be consistent. For instance, do not use vide (for see) in one place
and ff. (for seq.) in another.
c. (circa) About a certain date (to be used to indicate an approximate
date, when the real date cannot be determined).
cf. (confer) Compare (English form: see),
ch. or chaps. Chapter(s).
col. or cols. Column(s).
ed. Edited by, or edition.
et al. (et alii) And others (when a book has several authors, the first,
with et al., may replace the full list),
f. or ff . One or more pages following the page indicated.
ibid, (ibidem) In the same work (referring to a work cited in a note
immediately preceding).
infra Below (indicating a later discussion).
1. or 11. Line(s).
loc. cit. (loco citato) In the place cited (when there is an earlier reference
to the source).
MS. Manuscript.
n.d. No date (when publication date cannot be determined),
no. Number (as when listing the number of the issue of a periodical or
series),
n.p. No place (when place of publication cannot be determined).
512 APPENDIXES
op. cit. (opere citato) In the work cited (used with author's name to
indicate source already referred to).
p. or pp. Page(s).
passim In various places (when the topic referred to appears at more
than one place in a work cited).
q.v. (quod vide) Which see (English form: see).
see Used to suggest that the reader consult a certain work referred to.
seq. (sequentes) Following (English form: F. or ff.).
supra Above (when the topic referred to has already been discussed),
tr. Translated by.
vide See (English form: see).
vol. or vols. Volume(s) (but vol. and p. are not used if figures for both
are given, as in listing a periodical reference; in such cases, use Roman
numerals for volume and Arabic for page: II, 391).
After you have prepared a draft of your paper and established all
your footnotes, you are ready to set up your final bibliography.
This may differ from your working bibliography, in that it con-
tains only items which are actually referred to in your paper, not
items "Wriicli have been consulted but not used.
The form for such a bibliography permits certain minor varia-
tions. For instance, the place without the publisher is sometimes
given; and there may be differences in punctuation. For example,
the following entry can be punctuated in two ways:
Barnes, Harry Elmer, The Genesis of the World War, New York,
Alfred A. Knopf, 1926.
Or:
Barnes, Harry Elmer. The Genesis of the World War. New York:
Alfred A. Knopf, 1926.
But in all forms the author's name comes first, with the last name
first, followed by the full title of the work, the periodical or series
if any, the place of publication, the publisher (if this form is used),
and the date of publication. The items may be arranged in either
of two ways. First, in a straight alphabetical order, according to the
last name of the author or, if there is no author, by the main word
of the title. Second, alphabetically within certain groups deter-
mined by the material dealt with: "Books/* "Periodicals," "Docu-
ments," and so forth. Here are some examples of entries as they
might appear in the bibliography of a paper on Woodrow Wilson:
THE OUTLINE, SUMMARY, AND PRECIS 513
(Periodical) Baker, Ray Stannard, "Our Next President and Some
Others," American Magazine, LXXIV, June 1912, 131-
143.
(Book) Barnes, Harry Elmer, The Genesis of the World War,
New York, Alfred A. Knopf, 1926.
(Document) Congressional Record, XLIX-LI, Washington, 1913-1914.
(Document) Legislative Manual, State of New Jcrsetj, 1912, Trenton,
1912.
(Book) McAdoo, Eleanor R. W., The Woodrow Wilsons, New
York, Macmillan Company, 1937.
(Book) Wilson, Woodrow, The Public Papers of Woodrow Wilson,
Baker, Ray Stannard, and Dodd, William Edward, eels.,
New York, Harper and Bros., 1925-1927.
(Periodical) Wilson, Woodrow, "Democracy and Efficiency," Atlantic
Monthly, LXXXVII, March 1901, 289-299.
(Collection) Wilson, Woodrow, "Leaderless Government," in Report
of the Ninth Annual Meeting of the Virginia State Bar
Association, Richmond, 1897.
Notice that an over-all alphabetical order is given, by author
when an author is specified, and by leading word when there is
no author ("Congressional" and "Legislative"). In this short bibli-
ography all types of sources are grouped together— books, collec-
tions, periodicals, and documents. In a long bibliography such
types might be set up as separate, each group in alphabetical order.
At this stage you should have an outline and a draft of your
paper, with all quotations properly inserted, all acknowledgments
for facts and opinions (either quoted or summarized) indicated in
footnotes, and a final bibliography attached for all works actually
referred to in your footnotes. Now is the time to check carefully
to see if there is any need for revision. Try to answer the following
questions to see if all is in order.
1. Does my paper have a guiding purpose? That is, is there a
subject properly fixed and limited? Have I stated it clearly?
2. Is my paper really a discussion of the subject and not a mere
tissue of quotations and summaries? Does it really go somewhere?
What is my own contribution to the discussion of the subject? Have
I offered evidence and arguments for my point of view? Have I
indicated how my point of view differs from the points of view
held by other writers? If my paper is primarily exposition and not
514 APPENDIXES
argument, have I added new facts to the discussion, or have I made
the pattern of facts clearer than before?
3. Is my paper well organized and proportioned? Is there a clear
introduction? Does the discussion really constitute the main body
of the paper? Is my conclusion an accurate statement of what I have
accomplished? Is it brief and pointed? Are my transitions clear?
Have I introduced irrelevant material?
4. Is my style clear and grammatical? Are my paragraphs well
organized? Is my punctuation correct?
5. Is my outline a satisfactory one for my paper as it now stands?
6. Am I sure that all my quotations and summaries are accurate?
7. Am I sure that my footnote references are accurate?
8. Is my final bibliography accurate?
9. Are my footnotes and bibliography in the proper form? Is the
form I have used consistent?
If your paper is deficient on any of these counts, revise it. In
checking on the paper or in making revisions, it is wise not to try
to do everything at once. Take one question and follow it through
the whole paper, say the matter of organization, or the matter of
punctuation. You cannot do everything at once, and you will get
your best results by concentrating on one consideration at a time.
THE BOOK REPORT
The book report is to be sharply distinguished on one hand from
the research paper and on the other hand from the book review
or the critical essay. It is to be distinguished from the research
paper primarily because it deals with one book in its entirety, and
from the review or critical essay because it merely reports on a
book, presents that book, and does not compare it with other books
or attempt to make judgments as to its value. But the book report
may include a certain amount of background material about the
author himself, his other work and his reputation, or the circum-
stances of the composition of the book being reported on. Such
material is to be used as a means of presenting the book in question.
It is not to become an end in itself, and in proportion it should be
subordinated to the actual presentation of the book. Some book
reports do not require this background material at all. The nature
of the assignment determines its inclusion.
THE OUTLINE, SUMMARY, AND PRECIS 515
To write a good book report you need to answer the following
questions:
1. Who is the author? (What is his nationality and origins? What
is his period?)
2. What other work has he done?
3. What is his reputation?
4. Are there any important or enlightening circumstances con-
nected with the composition of this book?
5. What kind of book is this? (Is it fiction, history, literary criti-
cism, biography, poetry, drama, or what?)
6. What is the subject of this book?
7. What material does it treat?
8. What is the theme of the book— the author's basic interpretation
of the material?
9. What method of organization does he employ?
10. What is the tone and style of the book?
You will notice that the first four questions involve background
information. If your report is to present such information, you do
not need to make a full-dress research paper on that part of the
assignment. You can merely consult a few standard reference works
to get the basic facts, or look into one or two good biographies or
historical or critical works. In doing this, however, it is wise to take
your notes as if for a research paper so that your material will be
conveniently available and can be put into order.
The kind of book you are dealing with determines to a consider-
able extent the kind of treatment you can appropriately give it. For
instance, if you are dealing with a biography, you should identify
the character who is the subject of the work, summarize his career
as given by the author (including the basic pieces of evidence which
he employs to support his interpretation of the character), give
some idea of his method of organization, and comment on his tone
and style. This last consideration may involve such questions as
these: Is he writing a scholarly treatise or a popular biography?
Is his work adapted to the audience he has in mind? Does he give
interesting anecdotes and colorful personal touches, or does he de-
vote himself to facts and historical or psychological analysis? If you
are dealing with a book on public policy— say on the reconstruction
of Germany or international relations— the important considerations
516 APPENDIXES
would be somewhat different. You would primarily be concerned
to present the author's picture of the situation provoking the discus-
sion, state the policy which he recommends, and offer the argu-
ments for that policy. You might even be led to present the philo-
sophical or political assumptions on which he bases his policy. The
kind of audience he has in mind would still be important, and you
should define it; but in general in this type of book, questions of
tone and style, except in so far as mere clarity is concerned, would
not be important. Or if you are dealing with a novel, the emphasis
in your report would again be different. It would now be important
to define the kind of world your author is interested in. Does he
write of drawing rooms or village parlors, or farms or battlefields?
What kind of characters and issues interest him? What is the out-
line of his plot? How do the motivations of his characters fit the
plot? What is the theme of his book? And here questions of tone
and style might become very important. But in all cases, remember
that the book report presents a book, primarily in its own terms.
It does not compare, criticize, or evaluate.
Index
Abstract words: see Diction
Adjectives: position of, in sentence,
311-18; "projectile," 351, 391; use
and misuse of, 226-7
Adverbs: conjunctive, 19; position of,
in sentence, 311-18; to establish
continuity, 19; use and misuse of,
227-8
Advertising, appeal of, 393-4
Analogy: as type of induction, 158-9;
word meanings extended by, 342-4
Analysis: 98-119; and expository
(technical) description, 101-19;
and structure, 99-100; causal, 111-
19, App. l; chronological, 110; con-
ceptual, 99; functional, 105-10;
physical, 99; relation among parts,
100; see also Exposition
Argument: 30, 35, 38, 125-94, 196;
as appeal to emotions, 125; as ap-
peal to the understanding, 125,
127-8; based on conflict, 125; ex-
tended, and the brief, 172-83; sub-
ject matter of, 128-31; see also
Proposition, Reasoning
Attitude, of the writer toward the
reader: 5, 183-9, 390-1; see also
Tone
Attribute and subject, 155
Audience: influenced by authority,
154; influenced by tone, 393-4;
special and ideal, 420-2; see also
Reader
Authority: and the audience, 154;
tests of, 151-4
Axioms, 159
Begging the question, 134, 168
Bibliography, preparation of, App. 3
Body of a discourse, 23-4
Book report, App. 3
Brief, 172-83
Capital letters, misuse of, 22
Catch words, misuse of, 22
Cause: see Analysis, causal
Central idea, 11
Characterization, 281-5
Classification and division, 67-83
Clauses, relative, 313
Cliches, 353-60
Climax, 253
Coherence: within the sentence, 305;
within the theme, 15-19
Communication, as motivation of the
writer, 3-4, 29
Comparison: as basis of metaphor,
378-89; as method of exposition,
61-2; function of, in description,
223-6
Complication, of a narrative, 254
Concrete words: see Diction
Conclusion from evidence, 155
Conclusion: of a brief, 173; of a dis-
course, 23, 25
Condition: distinguished from cause,
114 note; of an event, 113-14; suf-
ficient and necessary, 115 '
520
INDEX
Conflict, as basis of argument, 125
Conjunctions, 19, 300
Connotation, 335-42, 345 note, 349-
53, 372
Content and form, inseparability of,
435-8
Continuity: and transition, 19; in-
trinsic, 18
Contrast: as basis of metaphor, 381-9;
as method of exposition, 61-7
Co-ordination, 320-2
Cross division, 71
Cutback, 238, 250, 264
Deduction, 159-67
Definition: 83-98; and the common
ground, 87-9; extended, 91-98; of
terms, 97, 133-4, parts of, 84; prin-
ciples of, 89-91; process of, 85-7
Denotation, 335-42, 345 note
Denouement, 254
Derivation of words, 97-8, 344
Description: 30, 35, 38, 195-236; ab-
sorbed, 207-9; generalized, 48; ob-
jective, 50-3; of feelings and states
of mind, 220-6; subjective, 50-3;
see alw Expository (technical) de-
scription, Pattern, Suggestive de-
scription
Dialogue, 275-81, 302
Diction: 2, 335-60; abstract-general,
338-42; colloquial, 348-9; concrete-
specific, 338-42; formal, 348-9; in
description, 197-200, 226-9; in-
formal, 348-9
Dictionary: a record of meanings,
344-8; sample entries from, 345,
346
Differentia, 85
Discourse: divisions of a, 23-5; kinds
of, 29-37; objective and subjective,
31-7; outlining, 26-8
Discussion (argument) of a brief, 173
Division and classification, 67-83
Divisions of a discourse, 23-5
Emotions, appeal to, 125, 127-8,
183-4
Emphasis: general problem of, 19-23;
in the paragraph, 291; within the
sentence, 305-7; see also Variation,
emphatic
Enthusiasm, false, 402
Enthymeme, 171, 296
Equivocation, 167
Essay: familiar, 411-15; formal, 415
Euphemisms, 351
Evidence, kinds of, 148-54
Exaggeration, as a fault of style, 22
Exclamation points, misuse of, 22
Explanation: see Exposition
Exposition: 30, 35, 38-124, 126, 195;
and narration, 242-50; methods of,
41-120; see also Analysis, Exposi-
tory Description, Expository Nar-
ration
Exposition (beginning) of a narrative,
251-3
Expository description (technical de-
scription): and analysis, 101-20;
and generalized description, 48; as
method of exposition, 42; distin-
guished from suggestive descrip-
tion, 42-50; in relation to the ob-
jective-subjective distinction, 53-5;
uses of, 55-6
Expository narration: 57, 250; and
analysis, 105, 111
Expression, as motivation of the
writer, 3-4
Fact, as evidence, 148-51
Fallacies, 167-70
Figurative language: in description
of feelings and states of mind,
223-6, 362-3, 374-6; see also Dic-
tion, Metaphor
Figures of speech: see Metaphor
First person: see Point of view
Fixed word order: of basic sentence
elements, 307-8; of the modifiers,
311-18
Focus, 270-2
Form and content, inseparability of,
435-8
Footnotes, in research paper, App. 3
Frame image, 203-4
Generalization : see Induction
Genus (genera), 70-1, 86-7
Gobbledygook, 355-6, 426
Grammar, in relation to rhetoric,
304-7
Ground, common, 87-9
INDEX
521
Harmony: see Style
History of the question, 134-5
Identification, as method of exposi-
tion, 41
Ignoring the question, 168-9
Illustration: as method of exposition,
57-61; metaphor employed as,
373-4
Imagination, creative, and metaphor,
386-7
Impression, dominant, 200
Impressionism: see Pattern
Individuality, in style, 438-57
Induction (generalization), 155-9
Intention: 29-37; and the kinds of
discourse, 30; artistic, 33-7; scien-
tific, 32-3
Interest: and descriptive pattern,
205-7; in exposition, 38-40; special,
in determining cause, 113
Introduction: of a brief, 173; of a
discourse, 23-24
Irony, 397, 406-7
Irrelevancy, 15
Issues, of a proposition, 135-46
Italics, misuse of, 22
Jargon: 354-9, 366-7, 426; see also
Cliche, Slang
Language: growth of, by extension
of meaning, 342-8; habits, diagram
of, 349; see also Diction, Words
Logic: see Reasoning
Meaning, 239-40
Medium, as aspect of writing, 2
Metaphor, 344, 361-89; and the crea-
tive imagination, 386-7; and sym-
bol, 385-6; as essential statement,
374-8; as illustration, 373-4; con-
fused and half -dead, 367-70; con-
sistency in, 382-5; defined, 361;
function of, 371-4; "good," 378-
85; in description of feelings and
states of mind, 223-6; in everyday
language, 362-71
Modifiers: 311-18; fixed, 312-14;
movable, 314-18
Mood, to create pattern, 204-5
Motivation: in narration, 240; of the
writer, 2, 3
Movement, 237-8
Narration: 30, 35, 38, 237-89; and
narrative, 240-1; and other kinds
of discourse, 242-50; see also Ex-
pository narration, Meaning, Move-
ment, Pattern, Time
Non sequitur, 169-70
Notes, and note-taking, App. 3
Nouns: 227; see also Subject
Object, of a verb, 307-8, 310
Objectivity: 31-2; and the four kinds
of discourse, 35; and scientific in-
tention, 32-3, 36-7; in expository
description, 50-5
Occasion: as aspect of writing, 3; as
factor in effective persuasion, 185-7
Opinion, as evidence, 148, 151
Order, principles of: see Coherence,
Emphasis, Unity
Organization of material: 16, 63-7,
App. 3; emphasis in, 19; problems
of, 11
Outline: as aid to reasoning, 296-7;
of a discourse, 26-8, App. 3
Overstatement, 398-401
Paragraph: 290-303; as convenience
to the reader, 290-1; as device of
emphasis, 22; as unit of thought,
291-2; dialogue in, 302; linking,
299-302; structure of, 292-9
Parallelism, 318-20
Participles, dangling, 318
Passive voice, use and misuse of, 310
Pattern: and interest, 205-7; and
mood, 204-5; from fixed point of
view, 201-2; from moving point of
view, 202-3; impressionistic, 207;
in description, 200-11; in narration,
250-62; rhythmic, 427-8
Personality: controlled and objecti-
fied, 454; expressed in style, 438-
54; intrusion of, 449-54
Persuasion, 125, 183-9, 403-6
Point of view: 267-73; and pattern,
201-3; of first person, 268-9; of
sharp focus, 270-2; of third per-
son, 201, 268, 269; panoramic,
269-73
522
INDEX
Position, as device as emphasis, 20
Precis, App. 3
Predication, 305-7
Premise, minor and major, 160,
App. 2
Proportion: as device of emphasis,
20; in divisions of a discourse,
25-6; in narration, 262-4
Proposition: 131-48; clear, 133-4; of
fact, 131, 146-8; of policy, 131;
single, 132-3; statement of, 131-4;
unprejudiced, 134; see also Argu-
ment
Question: begging the, 134, 168; his-
tory of the, 134-5; ignoring the,
168-9; stock, 142; see also Propo-
sition
Reader: appeal to, 4; nature of, 5;
relationship to writer, 5; see also
Audience
Reading: as aspect of style, 455-7;
importance of, 461 ff.
Research paper: App. 3
Reasoning: 7-8, 127-8, 154-72; about
cause and effect, 117-19; by either-
or, 165-6; by if-then, 166-7; see
also Argument
Refutation, 170
Relevancy, 15
Repetition: as device of emphasis,
22; as linking device, 18
Resolution, as formal statement of a
proposition, 131-2
Rhythm: 2, 307, 425-32
Sarcasm, 397
Scale, in narrative, 273-5
Scanning, 427
Scientific intention (scientific state-
ment), 32-7, 341-2, 372-3, 387
Selection: in description, 42-53, 200,
211-19; in narration, 264-7
Senses, and suggestive description,
197-200
Sentence: 304-28; length and varia-
tion, 323-7; loose and periodic,
322-3; parts of, 306; position of
modifiers in, 311-18; structure,
principles of, 318-23; topic, 292-3;
word order in, 307-11, 358
Sentimentality, 399, 402, 450
Significance, in selection of descrip-
tive details, 215
Similarity, in metaphor, 379-81
Simile, 385
Situation and tone, 390-424
Slang: 354-5, 365-6; see also Meta-
phor, Tone
Species, 70-1, 86-7, 90
"Specific-general" distinction, 338-9
Stereotypes: 354; see also Jargon,
Slang
Structure, and analysis, 99-100
Style: 329-34; as device of emphasis,
20-2; as expression of personality,
438-54; as harmonious integration,
432-5; as interplay of elements,
331-2; Buffon on, 459; Chesterfield
on, 459; cultivation of, by reading,
455-7; definition of, 329; see also
Diction, Metaphor, Rhythm, Tone
Subject: as aspect of writing, 2; lo-
cating, 11-12, 39-40
Subject, of a sentence: 306, 308; em-
phasis on, 309-10
Subjectivity: 31-2; and the four kinds
of discourse, 35; and artistic inten-
tion, 33-7; in expository descrip-
tion, 50-5
Suggestive description: and the
senses, 197-200; distinguished
from expository (technical) de-
scription, 42-50; in relation to the
other kinds of discourse, 195-7;
in relation to the objective-sub-
jective distinction, 53-5; uses of,
55-6
Summary, App. 3
Syllogism: 159-67, App. 2; implied,
170-2
Symbol, and metaphor, 385-6
Technical description: see Exposi-
tory description
Term: changed use of, 97; in defini-
tion, 84; see also Words
Testimony, 150-1
Texture: in description, 211-19; in
narration, 264-7
Thinking: see Reasoning
Third person: see Point of view
Time, in narration, 238
INDEX
523
Tone: 5, 6, 390-424; and audience,
393-4; and material, 396-7; as ex-
pression of attitude, 390; as quali-
fication of meaning, 397-401; com-
plex, 416-19, 438; familiar and
formal, 411-16; importance of, 391;
in persuasion, 403-6; in private
and public utterance, 407-11; see
also Connotation
Topic : see Subject
Topic sentence, 292-3
Transference, authority by, 152
Transitional words and phrases, 18-
19, 299-300
Understanding: appeal to, 127-8; see
also Reasoning
Understatement, 398-401
Uniformity, principle of, 115
Unity: in the sentence, 305; in the
theme, 13-15
Variation: elegant, 357; emphatic,
308-11, 313, 317
Verbs: 227-8; finite, 306 note, 307,
358; infinite, 306 note, 307
Verification of facts, 149-50
Vividness, 33-5, 50-6, 212-15, 338-42,
362-5
Words: derivation, 97-8, 344; worn-
out, 353-9; see also Diction, Lan-
guage, Term
Writer: motivation of, 3; relationship
with reader, 5
Writing, background for, 7-8
"Writing down," 402
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