I Agree with Orwell

I find Orwell to be entirely persuasive, and part of that has to due with his self-conscious avoidance of the sort of pretentious language he dislikes so much.

His essay has a political message of its own, slamming the state of the English language as it was used in politics at the time. It's interesting when I look back on the inaugural addresses we discussed earlier, all of which were fully loaded with useless cliches and figurative language that may or may not mean anything to people. Better yet, because the language is so recognizable, the use of ready-made phrases aids in bringing about a certain kind of mindless approval, or a lazier approach at understanding political messages.

Orwell's language is mostly straightforward. He occasionally feeds into the sort of language he's opposing, especially when he uses metaphors like tea leaves clogging up a sink or sending worn-out, useless phrases (verbal refuse) "into the dustbin where it belongs." However, when he lists his pretty simple provisions for avoiding pretentious writing, it would seem that using similes, metaphors, and figurative language where it is effective and useful is different from using it when it's expected or when it's covering up for a lack of information or understanding of a topic. He's arguing for a resurgence of purity of the English language, or a fresher approach. For the most part, he's dodged a lot of the techniques that he criticizes in his essay, and that alone is an incredible feat (a lot of this tactics are so common in persuasive writing/speechmaking). I feel like it's easier to trust him, or that he has a stronger case, since he has done the work that he suggests his readers to do.

I'd read this essay a couple of years ago and thought of it more in terms of what happens in journalism today as opposed to political writing (or at least that is how the professor who assigned it wanted us to think about it). Looking at it that way, I began to notice meaningless fluff appearing left and right in all sorts publications. The writing that Orwell targets as political seems to have manifested other forms of writing, perhaps because ready-made phrases, though not encouraged, are not exactly rejected either. They're the perfect vice for busy writers with deadlines and pressing assignments. I find it extremely difficult to dodge cliches and figurative language in general, but considering Orwell's guidelines is helpful in trying to reform.

James Joyce

Stylistically, Joyce's Grace appears to be governed by dialog more so than in what we've looked at so far in class. The story has three episodes: the first in the bar, the second (and lengthiest) at home, and the third at church. This alone holds some thematic depth, considering how Joyce seems to be commenting on the working-man's religion, how inaccurate and farfetched it has become, and how christianity has a way of dumbing itself down. With that, we see a transition from near-suicidal incident at a bar to the men "washing the pot" at church. The thick of the story occurs in dialog among the men, during which they exchange an assortment of misconceptions about catholicism and general religion, with hopes of restoring Mr. Kernan's faith.

Honing in on the prose, his style is most prominent in passages that profile individual men entering the scene:

"Mr McCoy had been at one time a tenor of some reputation. His wife, who had been a soprano, still taught young children to play piano at low terms. His line of life had not been the shortest distance between two points and for short periods he had been driven to live by his wits. He had been a clerk in the Midland Railway, a canvasser for advertisements in The Irish Times and The Freeman's Journal, and a town traveller for a coal firm on commission, and he had recently become secretary to the City Coroner. His new office made him professionally interested in Mr. Kernan's case."

This passage is marked by shorter opening and closing sentences with lengthy ones sandwiched between them. The first sentence is simple, straightforward, and concise. The second, taking the time to sort out that his wife is also a singer of sorts, isolates the soprano between commas, making it an internal series of modifiers (or in this case, just one modifier). The third sentence, as the crux of the paragraph, starts to exude a more particular style characterized by a negative qualifier, and a sort of chiasmus in "shortest distance between two points and for short periods..." offering logical balance to the sentence. The following sentences are typically conventional and balanced with neatly placed conjunctions.

Joyce has a very pragmatic way of narrating, in that paragraphs start plainly, then progress towards an arousing sentence or two, and eventually close with another plain sentence. When it comes to profiling characters, he lists (with conjunctions) each man's duties and qualifications, attempting to render him useful in enlightening Mr. Kernan.

Lolita, 9/16

“All at once we were madly, clumsily, shamelessly, agonizingly in love with each other; hopelessly, I should add, because that frenzy of mutual possession might have been assuaged only by our actually imbibing and assimilating every particle of each other's soul and flesh; but there we were, unable even to mate as slum children would have so easily found an opportunity to do. After one wild attempt we made to meet at night in her garden (of which more later), the only privacy we were allowed was to be out of earshot but not out of sight on the populous part of the plage. There, on the soft sand, a few feet away from our elders, we would sprawl all morning, in a petrified paroxysm of desire, and take advantage of every blessed quirk in space and time to touch each other: her hand, half-hidden in the sand, would creep toward me, its slender brown fingers sleepwalking nearer and nearer; then, her opalescent knee would start on a long cautious journey; sometimes a chance rampart built by younger children granted us sufficient concealment to graze each other's salty lips; these incomplete contacts drove our healthy and inexperienced young bodies to such a state of exasperation that not even the cold blue water, under which we still clawed at each other, could bring relief.”(12)

In this scorching three sentence passage, Nabokov kicks things off with the use of sentence type #14, the prepositional phrase before the subject and verb, and follows it up with sentence type #4, a series without a conjunction, which lets him exercise his frequent desire to list the many odd ways in which he and Annabel were in love with each other. What follows the semicolon, “hopelessly,” though not technically a new sentence, seems to fall within the interrupting modifier between subject and verb sentence style, or at least that’s how it looks to me. Almost every time he isolates a part of a sentence by using parentheses, the sentence switches to interrupting modifier mode. For example, “After one wild attempt we made to meet at night in her garden (of which more later)…” displays how his parentheses, though seemingly supplemental, contain important contents from the future. It’s as if to say, quite conversationally, “Don’t you worry, you’ll hear all about it in time.”

The second half of his paragraph again features the prepositional phrase before the subject and verb, later combined with what I think looks like sentence type # 7 or 7a, the internal series of appositives or modifiers, or a single appositive or pair. He uses prepositional phrases to qualify much of the actual action that occurs in this passage, and all through a long winded sentences, carefully punctuated with semicolons to the point when it becomes too easy to forget that the whole thing was ever just one big fat sentence to begin with. His sentence styles vary for the remainder of the passage, but together offer an extended, twisted, meandering effect.

This particular passage doesn’t offer the relief of an occasional, ironically placed short sentence (unlike other moments in the first few pages), but it’s interesting to consider that, in describing the height of his passion with Annabel, he chooses to draw out his description and pile on as much detail, physical and emotional, as he could comfortably compress into three sentences. His consistent use of alliteration throughout, while always lovely to the eyes and ears, has even greater rhythmic qualities in this passage. I especially like his use of “p” words, like “populous part of the plage” and “petrified paroxysm.” There’s something very sensuous and intense about the harsh PUH sound, especially when in sequence. His use of “h” words like in “her hand, half-hidden in the sand” contrarily have a softer sound, quite befitting his softer, feminine subject matter.

9/14 The Inaugural Address

It amazed me how frighteningly different the experiences are of watching/listening to Clinton’s first inaugural address, and then reading it. Something about the tone of his voice and the atmosphere proves to be manipulating in this circumstance, especially since, while reading through it and exploring its syntax and “sense,” it becomes clear that he’s saying a whole lot of nothing at all. The speech’s tactics are reminiscent of what Lanham discusses in chapter 3, and makes decent use of a periodic structure. Pacing is a technique that comes through both sonically, when he speaks, and also when it’s flat on the page.

“Not change for change's sake, but change to preserve America's ideals—life, liberty, the pursuit of happiness. Though we march to the music of our time, our mission is timeless.”

As Lanham mentions on page 51 regarding the tangible ingredients for a periodic style, the above quote seems to contain suspension, parallelism, balance, and climax. The four combined make for a sentence that we know from first few words is going to reveal something climactic, but it will do so gradually. The climactic moments within these two sentences are the ones that reiterate clichés, or fulfill our expectations within the inaugural address’ context. He suspends the arrival of the cliché by stating what is not to happen (with a well-balanced cliché, nonetheless) and follows up with a paratactic list.

While playing the address video and reading it simultaneously, I can also see what Lanham means when he describes virtuoso display, indeed, the “so that the information reaching the eye coincides perfectly with the rhythms reaching the ear, you begin to wonder whether the diagrammatic layout might be more suitable than the conventional linear one to what is said and how.” (52). With that, he asserts that we’re often times more comfortable with or well adjusted to statements that read like a diagram, instead of those that read linearly or straightforwardly. Suspense matched with instant gratification is popular in all art forms, from television, to music (classical and pop styles alike) and, evidently, also in public speaking. Perhaps it’s because it offers a certain level of specificity, and a differentiation between what feels wrong from what feels right. A sentence’s suspension, just like “Not change for change’s sake, but…” feels wrong and dissonant until it is met with what is right and tonal: “life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.”

“Though our challenges are fearsome, so are our strengths. And Americans have ever been a restless, questing, hopeful people. We must bring to our task today the vision and will of those who came before us.”

This works even more simply and directly in the sentences above. Just as you think he’s going to dive into our fearsome challenges, he quite naturally counteracts them with prospect of “fearsome strengths” (whatever those may be). The second two sentences build off of each other, seeing as the first qualifies the second, and demands the fast, yet vague solution that follows.

Assignment #2: A Silver Dish

"There were Woody’s two sisters as well, unmarried, in their fifties, very Christian, very straight, still living with Mama in an entirely Christian bungalow. Woody, who took full responsibility for them all, occasionally had to put one of the girls (they had become sick girls) in a mental institution. Nothing severe. The sisters were wonderful women, both of them gorgeous once, but neither of the poor things was playing with a full deck. And all the factions had to be kept separate—Mama, the Christian convert; the fundamentalist sisters; Pop, who read the Yiddish paper as long as he could still see print; Halina, a good Catholic. Woody, the seminary forty years behind him, described himself as an agnostic. Pop had no more religion than you could find in the Yiddish paper, but he made Woody promise to bury him among Jews, and that was where he lay now, in the Hawaiian shirt Woody had bought for him at the tilers’ convention in Honolulu. Woody would allow no undertaker’s assistant to dress him but came to the parlor and buttoned the stiff into the shirt himself, and the old man went down looking like Ben-Gurion in a simple wooden coffin, sure to rot fast. That was how Woody wanted it all."

The most remarkable characteristic of Bellow's sentences (in the above paragraph and throughout the story) is his flair for making lists that don't necessarily feel like lists. Parallel to Lanham's notes, he is contributing to the asyndetic world, which is described as "a world where connections cannot be made." I find this definition curious in terms of Bellow's usage, if only because his listed items do seem to be connected despite the absence of conjunctions. Instead, his lack of "and" formats his list items in such a way where they don't stand completely alone, but they do exude a subtle vibe of isolation. In describing the two sisters, the tersely presented list serves as a method of simplifying the subject matter, making it seem matter-of-fact, casual, and quite common. Within his narrative, it seems like these details are expected and unsurprising to the reader.

Quite like with Lanham's explanation of Caesar's "I came; I saw; I conquered," Bellow is placing different essential character descriptions on the same syntactic level. Another representation of parataxis in this excerpt is his use of short phrases and clauses that embody very isolated, definitive thoughts. Like he says, these abrupt sentences feel emotionally charged and more potent in their ambiguity. For instance, "That was how Woody wanted it all" serves as a perfect understatement concluding a descriptive paragraph about a quirky situation. It also has a particular rhythmic value in sounding contrary to all that came immediately before it. This stylistic treatment works well with the story itself, which is an elaborate recollection of contradictory happenings and personalities.

"Bell-battered Woodrow’s soul was whirling this Sunday morning, indoors and out, to the past, back to his upper corner of the warehouse, laid out with such originality—the bells coming and going, metal on naked metal, until the bell circle expanded over the whole of steelmaking, oil-refining, power-producing mid-autumn South Chicago, and all its Croatians, Ukrainians, Greeks, Poles, and respectable blacks heading for their churches to hear Mass or to sing hymns."

Along the lines of Bellow's successful uses of form-follows-function, the listing in the above paragraph (or sentence, rather) has obvious musical qualities which reflect those of a bell's. The lone sentence functions as a single ring of a large bell, going back and forth, back and forth, over and over again, "coming and going, metal on naked metal," repeating similar word endings like "making," "refining," and "producing" all to create the kind of sentence that you can bop your head to. Its resonance is half charming and half excessive, and functions in Lanham's terms, as "a chorus-like ritualistic repetition combined with list-making," and further, that this kind of sentence has a "parallel construction"

Assignment #1: Noun and Verb Styles

I'm still having a tough time distinguishing the two styles in news writing, but I'll get the hang of it soon enough.

The following excerpt is from the New York Times online:

The closing of schools was one of the most contentious issues in the spring, as many parents criticized the city for keeping schools open even when large numbers of students were absent.

In New York and around the country, health officials have said they will be even more reluctant to shutter schools this fall because doing so caused disruptions to families and work schedules and did little to stop the spread of the virus.

But the mayor, who is running for re-election in November, took care to explain what steps the city would take in education settings. The city will provide free vaccinations, through nasal spray or shots, beginning in October at every public and private elementary school. The vaccinations will go to students whose parent gives permission, most likely in two vaccination sessions about four weeks apart.

I believe the above excerpt to be mostly verb-oriented in that writer is using verbs to highlight the actions involved in the paragraph instead of using nouns for rhythmic purposes. This may be a shot in the dark, but based on Lanham's verb style qualifications, it would seem that a sentence that expresses a complete thought without the use of prepositional phrases is more verbal. I get the feeling that a lot of newsy writing is on the verbal side because, as he points out, verb-style translations of a paragraph tend to cut the size in half, and news writing often strives for brevity.

It looks as though the first sentence of the second paragraph actually uses the noun-style, with its use of a preposition, and it's audibly drawn-out rhythmic qualities, and yet it kind of shifts back to verbal when it reads, "doing so caused disruptions to families and work schedules and did little to stop the spread of the virus." (Is it possible for individual paragraphs to read and feel as though they contain both styles? I'm not entirely sure.)

The final paragraph appears to be verbal, concisely stating what the city will do sequentially: it provides vaccinations, through a certain method, at this particular time, and the vaccinations will to go these people, at about this time. In examining the excerpt, its difficult to identify any particular tone or voice within, if only because this kind of neutral news is serving up facts. It is fairly concerned with rhythmic qualities, but not enough to concern itself with extra prepositions and lengthier sentences that might appear in a noun-style passage.

Second excerpt from the LA Times online:

In July, the House approved legislation that would give the Food and Drug Administration broad new powers and place new responsibilities on food producers. The bill would speed up the ability of health officials to track down the source of an outbreak and give the government the power to mandate a recall, rather than rely on food producers to voluntarily pull tainted products from the shelves.

The Senate is expected to take up its version in the fall, and the issue has become a high priority for the White House.

It is impossible to say whether new laws and tougher enforcement would have prevented the contamination of the Nestle cookie dough, which the company voluntarily pulled from stores hours after the government linked it to the outbreak.

The instant appearance of a preposition in the first paragraph later followed by "that would give" seems more reminiscent of noun style writing. The reoccurrence of "would" and "which" seem to lengthen the sentences, making it seem somewhat lengthier, especially when it takes on a "rather than" situation. The final paragraph flows nicely, and is marked by "contamination of" which, as Lanham suggests, makes the action disappear into the nouns. The prevention of contamination, being placed before the Nestle cookie dough, sounds like it's of lesser importance within that sentence alone.

An Extended Greeting

A few thoughts about this past summer in relation to this class:

I'd once figured that interning at a Random House Inc. (more specifically Knopf-Doubleday) would perhaps involve a few hours of tedium and terror (photocopying manuscripts, mailings books) each day, followed by however-many hours of reading already published books by their many fantastic authors. Sadly, internships are designed to pull our dreamy heads out of the clouds and put us on the right track.

With that, I spent half of my summer reading unimaginably bad writing. In the beginning, writing malicious reader's reports on manuscripts and consequently crushing the hopes and dreams of various unknown authors was all too fun. The novelty of critiquing poor writing wore off in a week's time, leaving me sad, guilt-ridden, and doubtful that I'd ever be dealt reading material that I'd actually like.

It occurred to me that, while an editor's job isn't entirely characterized by running books to the ground, that is apparently untrue of an editorial intern's job, which is marked by slush piles and unlikely candidates, all who deserve no less than the kindest rejection letter.

Thinking about what's good in writing is entirely more pleasant than thinking of what's awful. That is why I am especially happy to be taking this course.

As of now, my favorites in the realm of non-fiction/criticism are Pauline Kael (for her clever diction, sharp wit, and her arsenal of film facts ) and Roland Barthes (Mythologies is beyond brilliant).

In fiction, I'm interested in Nabokov's writing for obvious reasons (it is beautiful, for one). I'm interested in breaking it down much, much further, because when I'd read Lolita a few years ago, I felt too consumed by how musical and pretty the prose was to ever stop and fully realize what was going on inside of it.