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tediousness in his explanations, he realizes that he is tedious, but he asks, "How can I say what I have to say
without being tedious?" Tediousness means that what is said is not worth saying at all, or that it can be said in
fewer words. The best method of condensation is the use of some pregnant phrase or comparison which
rapidly suggests the meaning without actually stating it. The art of using suggestive phrases is the secret of
condensation.
But in the rapid telling of a story or description of a scene, perhaps no fault is so surely fatal as a momentary
lapse into meaningless fine phrases, or sentimentality. In writing a vivid description the author finds his pen
moving even after he has finished putting down every significant detail. He is not for the moment sure that he
has finished, and thinks that to complete the picture, to "round it up," a few general phrases are necessary. But
when he re-reads what he has written, he sees that it fails, for some unknown reason, of the power of effect on
which he had counted. His glowing description seems tawdry, or overwrought. He knows that it is not
possible that the whole is bad:
But where is the difficulty?
Almost invariably the trouble will be found to be in some false phrase, for one alone is enough to spoil a
whole production. It is as if a single flat or sharp note is introduced into a symphony, producing a discord
which rings through the mind during the whole performance.
To detect the fault, go over the work with the utmost care, weighing each item of the description, and asking
the question, Is that an absolutely necessary and true element of the picture I had in mind? Nine times out of
ten the writer will discover some sentence or phrase which may be called a "glittering generality," or that is a
weak repetition of what has already been well said, or that is simply "fine" language---sentimentality of some
sort. Let him ruthlessly cut away that paragraph, sentence, or phrase, and then re-read. It is almost startling to
observe how the removal or addition of a single phrase will change the effect of a description covering many
pages.
But often a long composition will lack harmony of structure, a fault very different from any we have
mentioned, Hitherto we have spoken of definite faults that must be cut out. It is as often necessary to make
additions.
In the first place, each paragraph must be balanced within itself. The language must be fluent and varied, and
each thought or suggestion must flow easily and smoothly into the next, unless abruptness is used for a
definite purpose. Likewise each successive stage of a description or dialogue must have its relative as well as
its intrinsic value. The writer must study carefully the proportions of the parts, and nicely adjust and
harmonize each to the other. Every paragraph, every sentence, every phrase and word, should have its own
distinct and clear meaning, and the writer should never allow himself to be in doubt as to the need or value of
this or that.
To secure harmony of style and structure is a matter of personal judgment and study. Though rules for it
cannot be given, it will be found to be a natural result of following all the principles of grammar, rhetoric, and
composition. But the hard work involved in securing this proportion and harmony of structure can never be
CHAPTER XII. 118
avoided or evaded without disastrous consequences. Toil, toil, toil! That should be every writer's motto if be
aspires to success, even in the simplest forms of writing.
The ambitious writer will not learn harmony of style from any single short selection, however perfect such a
composition may be in itself. It requires persistent reading, as well as very thoughtful reading, of the masters
of perfect style. Two such masters are especially to be recommended,---Irving and Hawthorne. And among
their works, the best for such study are "The Sketchbook," especially Rip Van Winkle and Legend of Sleepy
Hollow, by Irving, and "The Scarlet Letter" and such short stories as "The Great Stone Face," by Hawthorne.
To these may be added Thackeray's "Vanity Fair," Scott's "Ivanhoe," and Lamb's "Essays of Elia." These
books should be read and re-read many times; and whenever any composition is to be tested, it may
conveniently be compared as to style to some part of one or other of these books.
In conclusion we would say that the study of too many masterpieces is an error. It means that none of them are
fully absorbed or mastered. The selections here given,* together with the volumes recommended above, may
of course be judiciously supplemented if occasion requires; but as a rule, these will be found ample. Each type
should be studied and mastered, one type after another. It would be a mistake to omit any one, even if it is a
type that does not particularly interest the student, and is one he thinks he will never wish to use in its purity:
mastery of it will enrich any other style that may be chosen: If it is found useful for shaping no more than a
single sentence, it is to be remembered that that sentence may shape the destinies of a life.
*A fuller collection of the masterpieces of style than the present volume contains may be found in "The Best
English Essays," edited by Sherwin Cody.
CHAPTER XIII. 119
CHAPTER XIII.
IMAGINATION AND REALITY.---THE AUDIENCE.
So far we have given our attention to style, the effective use of words.
We will now consider some of those general principles of thought end expression which are essential to
distinctively literary composition; and first the relation between imagination and reality, or actuality.
In real life a thousand currents cross each other, and counter cross, and cross again. Life is a maze of endless
continuity, to which, nevertheless, we desire to find some key. Literature offers us a picture of life to which
there is a key, and by some analogy it suggests explanations of real life. It is of far more value to be true to the
principles of life than to the outer facts. The outer facts are fragmentary and uncertain, mere passing
suggestions, signs in the darkness. The principles of life are a clew of thread which may guide the human
judgment through many dark and difficult places. It is to these that the artistic writer must be true.
In the real incident the writer sees an idea which he thinks may illustrate a principle he knows of. The [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
zanotowane.pl doc.pisz.pl pdf.pisz.pl exclamation.htw.pl
tediousness in his explanations, he realizes that he is tedious, but he asks, "How can I say what I have to say
without being tedious?" Tediousness means that what is said is not worth saying at all, or that it can be said in
fewer words. The best method of condensation is the use of some pregnant phrase or comparison which
rapidly suggests the meaning without actually stating it. The art of using suggestive phrases is the secret of
condensation.
But in the rapid telling of a story or description of a scene, perhaps no fault is so surely fatal as a momentary
lapse into meaningless fine phrases, or sentimentality. In writing a vivid description the author finds his pen
moving even after he has finished putting down every significant detail. He is not for the moment sure that he
has finished, and thinks that to complete the picture, to "round it up," a few general phrases are necessary. But
when he re-reads what he has written, he sees that it fails, for some unknown reason, of the power of effect on
which he had counted. His glowing description seems tawdry, or overwrought. He knows that it is not
possible that the whole is bad:
But where is the difficulty?
Almost invariably the trouble will be found to be in some false phrase, for one alone is enough to spoil a
whole production. It is as if a single flat or sharp note is introduced into a symphony, producing a discord
which rings through the mind during the whole performance.
To detect the fault, go over the work with the utmost care, weighing each item of the description, and asking
the question, Is that an absolutely necessary and true element of the picture I had in mind? Nine times out of
ten the writer will discover some sentence or phrase which may be called a "glittering generality," or that is a
weak repetition of what has already been well said, or that is simply "fine" language---sentimentality of some
sort. Let him ruthlessly cut away that paragraph, sentence, or phrase, and then re-read. It is almost startling to
observe how the removal or addition of a single phrase will change the effect of a description covering many
pages.
But often a long composition will lack harmony of structure, a fault very different from any we have
mentioned, Hitherto we have spoken of definite faults that must be cut out. It is as often necessary to make
additions.
In the first place, each paragraph must be balanced within itself. The language must be fluent and varied, and
each thought or suggestion must flow easily and smoothly into the next, unless abruptness is used for a
definite purpose. Likewise each successive stage of a description or dialogue must have its relative as well as
its intrinsic value. The writer must study carefully the proportions of the parts, and nicely adjust and
harmonize each to the other. Every paragraph, every sentence, every phrase and word, should have its own
distinct and clear meaning, and the writer should never allow himself to be in doubt as to the need or value of
this or that.
To secure harmony of style and structure is a matter of personal judgment and study. Though rules for it
cannot be given, it will be found to be a natural result of following all the principles of grammar, rhetoric, and
composition. But the hard work involved in securing this proportion and harmony of structure can never be
CHAPTER XII. 118
avoided or evaded without disastrous consequences. Toil, toil, toil! That should be every writer's motto if be
aspires to success, even in the simplest forms of writing.
The ambitious writer will not learn harmony of style from any single short selection, however perfect such a
composition may be in itself. It requires persistent reading, as well as very thoughtful reading, of the masters
of perfect style. Two such masters are especially to be recommended,---Irving and Hawthorne. And among
their works, the best for such study are "The Sketchbook," especially Rip Van Winkle and Legend of Sleepy
Hollow, by Irving, and "The Scarlet Letter" and such short stories as "The Great Stone Face," by Hawthorne.
To these may be added Thackeray's "Vanity Fair," Scott's "Ivanhoe," and Lamb's "Essays of Elia." These
books should be read and re-read many times; and whenever any composition is to be tested, it may
conveniently be compared as to style to some part of one or other of these books.
In conclusion we would say that the study of too many masterpieces is an error. It means that none of them are
fully absorbed or mastered. The selections here given,* together with the volumes recommended above, may
of course be judiciously supplemented if occasion requires; but as a rule, these will be found ample. Each type
should be studied and mastered, one type after another. It would be a mistake to omit any one, even if it is a
type that does not particularly interest the student, and is one he thinks he will never wish to use in its purity:
mastery of it will enrich any other style that may be chosen: If it is found useful for shaping no more than a
single sentence, it is to be remembered that that sentence may shape the destinies of a life.
*A fuller collection of the masterpieces of style than the present volume contains may be found in "The Best
English Essays," edited by Sherwin Cody.
CHAPTER XIII. 119
CHAPTER XIII.
IMAGINATION AND REALITY.---THE AUDIENCE.
So far we have given our attention to style, the effective use of words.
We will now consider some of those general principles of thought end expression which are essential to
distinctively literary composition; and first the relation between imagination and reality, or actuality.
In real life a thousand currents cross each other, and counter cross, and cross again. Life is a maze of endless
continuity, to which, nevertheless, we desire to find some key. Literature offers us a picture of life to which
there is a key, and by some analogy it suggests explanations of real life. It is of far more value to be true to the
principles of life than to the outer facts. The outer facts are fragmentary and uncertain, mere passing
suggestions, signs in the darkness. The principles of life are a clew of thread which may guide the human
judgment through many dark and difficult places. It is to these that the artistic writer must be true.
In the real incident the writer sees an idea which he thinks may illustrate a principle he knows of. The [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]